“Yea—nay!” Lon chuckled. “Gettin’ too proud of your Latin to recognize your old French friends when you meet ’em? Or mebbe you’re used to callin’ that special old crony ‘knee.’”
Sam laughed. “I’m afraid to say just what I might call it. But I didn’t know, Lon, that you were such a linguist.”
“Oh, I’m like old Peter Hunker, buyin’ a new slate for his boy. ‘Give me the best ten-cent slate you got in the store,’ says Peter to the clerk. ‘I believe in a liberal eddication.’ And that’s jest my case, Sam. And believin’ in bein’ liberal with it, I spend my French same’s my English—get the idee?”
“Yes,” said Sam, “I grasp it.”
Lon picked up his wrench, and began to busy himself with the motor.
“Think you’ll take a dose o’ Dr. Shanksmare’s medicine?” he inquired.
Sam meditated briefly. A long walk with his chums would give opportunity to discuss the case of the Trojan, his own predicament, and the plight of the club. And even a nominal purpose in a tramp was better than aimless wandering. He felt no burning curiosity about the improvements at Crescent lake, but was willing enough to look them over. Still, the lake was seven or eight miles from town. He mentioned the circumstance, and Lon responded promptly:
“That’s all right—jest distance enough. And I’ll see that you don’t have to walk back. How’s that? Simple enough. I’ve got to take a package for your Ma out to Mis’ Haskins at the Ridge, and comin’ back, I’ll swing round by the foot o’ the lake and pick you up. That’ll be ’long about half-past five. The car’s big enough to load all your crowd, and I’ll have the lot o’ you home in time for supper. What say?”
Sam reached decision. “I say yes. I’ll telephone to the fellows, and if they’ll join in, we’ll make the hike.”
“Now you’re talkin’ sense,” quoth Lon heartily.