“Well, perhaps so,” replied George Warren. And, turning to his companion, asked, “What do you say, Henry?”
“Why, I’m not invited,” replied Henry Burns.
“Oh, yes, you are, isn’t he, fellows? Ed said bring anybody we wanted. Well, we want you.”
The brothers chimed in, heartily.
“Why, I’d like to go, first rate, if I can,” said Henry Burns.
“Then we’ll do it,” said George Warren—“that is, if the folks will let us. You’ll like Ed. He’s older than we are—about twenty; but he likes fun as much as we do. It’s a big old farm house, with open fire-places and things. We’ll make the place hum. Come on, let’s go home.”
There was little peace in the Warren household that night until the matter had been duly discussed in all its phases, and the coveted permission granted; whereupon, there was a departure in force for the home of Miss Matilda Burns. There, however, the resistance was stronger.
Henry Burns’s aunt did not yield consent without reluctance nor without a struggle. There was Jack Harvey, she said, who went to Baltimore and never came back. Goodness knew where he might be. She didn’t believe in boys going off without someone to look after them.
There was, in reply, positive assurance from all hands that Jack Harvey was all right and having the finest time of his life, travelling about Europe.
It was an unequal contest, and the opposition was finally overcome.