“What’s the matter with Billy To-morrow?”
“Why doesn’t the Gang come, mamma?” he asked, returning the kiss he knew was one ahead for his natal day.
“Suppose you go down to the creek,” she replied with a peculiar smile. “May Nell and the twins went there some time ago. Harold, too.”
Billy ran off full of vague expectation born of his mother’s smile. No one in all the country round, not even Harold Prettyman, whose father had the finest farm in Vine County, had such a splendid place to play as the Bennetts’ back lot that sloped down to Runa Creek. As Billy slammed the gate and bounded out on a huge boulder that hung over the creek, a sounding cheer greeted him from below.
“Hooray, Billy! Thirteen to-morrow! But this is the day we celebrate!”
There they all were; those who had come first to the house, and many others: Jean, Bess Carter, Charley Strong, Max Krieber, Jackson Carter, the little colored boy, standing aloof, and others, large and small. All in a line they stood, and shouted up at him:
“What’s the matter with Billy To-morrow? He’s thirteen! Three and ten! Most a man! He’s all right!”
For a minute Billy stood, dazed, his heart thumping hard. Then he threw his cap in the air, sang out, “Bully for the Gang! This time it’s Billy To-day!” and raced down the hill to join them.