“Average!” repeated Sam, with a sudden thought. “I suppose he means an average of ninety-five or over, same as we generally get at school.”
“And my artistic status has at last been established,” laughed Dave.
The boys stared hard into each other’s faces for a moment, then the last angry expression vanished, and roars of merriment again thundered through the passageway.
“My name isn’t on the list,” murmured Tim. “Can’t make out whether he let me down easy, or handed over a dreadful slur—ignored me entirely, you know.”
They followed Bob Somers back into the cellar, and then up-stairs, breathing the sweet-scented air which came in through an open window with sighs of relief.
“I’m bothered!” howled Cranny. “Where could the boy have gone?”
“Not out on the prairie alone,” declared Tom.
“He’ll be back at grub time,” predicted Dick.
“Nervy little scamp, after all,” mused Cranny, his face now wearing a terrible frown. “I wonder if he really did write to dad. He could have given the letter to one of the cowboys.”
“I’ll bet he has,” said Tom, cheerfully.