Young Joe interrupted with a squeal of approval. “Let’s go, George,” he exclaimed.
“Shut up! Joe, and let George go on,” admonished his brother, Arthur. George Warren continued:
“We’ve got plenty of room for you and Arthur, and if Joe should come, why he could sleep out in the stable with the cattle—”
A howl of indignation from Young Joe.
“Let’s see,” he cried, reaching for the letter. “He doesn’t say any such thing, I’ll bet.”
“Well, perhaps not,” admitted George Warren. “Here’s what it is.” He began again:
“There’s plenty of room in the old house for you three, and anybody else you’ve a mind to bring. I’ll be glad to see any friend of yours. We’ll shoot some rabbits and have a high old Christmas. Make Uncle George let you chaps all come for the winter vacation. I’ll look out for you. I’m going back home from the city to-morrow.
“Affectionately your cousin,
“Edward Warren,
“Address, Millstone Landing,
“St. Mary County, Maryland.”
“Whee!” yelled Young Joe. “I’m going to put for home, and ask father. Say, I wonder what kind of syrup they have on those corn fritters.”
“Tobacco syrup,” replied George Warren, solemnly. “That’s what they raise on all the farms down there. It’s awful bitter, too, at first, but you get used to it, so they say.”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” said Joe. “It’s corn syrup; that’s what it is. I want to go, don’t you?”