“I'm glad you're sorry,” said Regie, biting his lip to keep from smiling. He did not want to have the pleasure of telling them over quite yet. Then there was a lull in the conversation. It was going to be very lonely without Regie, and the bodyguard, particularly Nan, had little heart for conversation.
“How's your base-ball club getting on, Harry?” asked Reginald, feeling he must either keep matters going or tell right away. “It was great fun your beating those fellows up at the Branch.”
“It was quite a beat,” Harry replied, complacently, “but I guess our beating days are over.”
“Why?” asked Regie, astonished.
“Oh, our catcher, the best in the 'nine,' you know, is disabled.”
“That's too bad, but I suppose he'll get over it,” said Regie, cheerily.
“Well, I rather guess not,” Harry drily remarked; “he's dead,” and he held the little boat-hull at arm's length to get a better view of its shape. If Nan had been paying attention she would have taken Harry to task for speaking in such apparently heartless fashion of poor little Joe Moore's death. But instead of listening, she was wondering when would be the best time to give Regie a little rubber pencil-case her right hand was affectionately clasping, as it lay in the bottom of her pocket. There was another long pause, and Reginald could keep his secret no longer.
“Children,” he said, importantly, “where do you suppose I am going to when I leave here?”
“To New York, of course,” replied Nan, with a little sigh.
“No, sir'ree; to Captain Epher Murray's;” and Regie, glancing from one puzzled face to the other, fairly beamed with delight.