There wasn’t a pair of feet on the paved sidewalks of Bridgeboro that
night that stepped any lighter than Westy’s. He seemed to be nearing
Artie’s house on air and there were a thousand tiny voices all singing
inside him at once.
The night felt frosty and damp after the rather warm afternoon, but as
far as Westy was concerned summer dwelt within his heart eternal.
Ringing the bell he waited, excitement and joy kindling his cheeks with
radiance. Mr. Van Arlen opened the door.
“Where’s Art?” he asked, stepping inside quickly.
“How is your father?” Mrs. Van Arlen called, hearing Westy’s voice.
“Getting on fine,” Westy answered with gladness in his voice. “Where’s
Art?”
“You’re a fine boy, Westy,” Mr. Van Arlen now remarked, as though he
hadn’t heard Westy’s question. “I hear the bus company are going to
reward you for your bravery and no doubt you’ll get a medal from your
troop for such heroism.”
“Yeh? Has Art gone to bed?” he queried, indifferent as to what rewards
or medals he might get and intent only on bearing the glad tidings to
his friend.
“Here I am, Wes,” Artie shouted from the living-room. “What’s all the
excitement?”
“Gee whiz, Art, gee whiz! Bet you can’t guess?”
“Quit keeping me suspended!” Artie laughed. “What is it?”
“We’re going!”
“Where?”
“Why, you dumb-bell! Where would we be going?”
“Wes! You don’t mean----”
“Sure.”
“Honest and truly?”
“Cross my heart’n hope to die if we’re not. Father just gave his
consent.”
“Oh, boy, but we’re two lucky guys!”
“I should say you are,” Mr. Van Arlen interposed, as glad as the boys
themselves.
“And say, Wes,” Artie broke in again, “the doctor told me to-night I’d
get to school in two weeks. Good news comes in bunches, eh?”
“Righto! I’ll go home now and write to Uncle Jeb right away.”
“Sure thing.”
“Well I’ll be going along, Art. S’long!”
“G’night!”
The winter came and dragged along interminably for the two boys. They
counted the months and talked of little else in their moments of
recreation.
The months finally became counted in weeks and the weeks into days,
until one morning Westy received a letter from Uncle Jeb telling them to
leave Bridgeboro the following week and meet him at the Grand Central
Station in New York.
The eventful day was glorious with sunshine and fragrant with the
perfume of budding trees and flowers, as Westy and Artie said their
final good-bys.
Mr. Martin soberly commanded Westy what to do and what not to do, but
the chirping of the birds in the neighboring trees seemed to tell Westy
that he could afford to listen, for there ahead of him was the thrilling
promise of real adventure.
Their trip to New York was uneventful and when they arrived at the Grand
Central Station, the picturesque figure of Uncle Jeb stood out
individually amidst the hustling throng. His very presence seemed to
breathe clean, fresh air into that artificial atmosphere.
He caught sight of the boys almost at the same time they saw him. With
his familiar smile of welcome he joined them.
“Howdy, boys! I reckon now we’re jest about on time. Are yuh both ready
to leave?” he asked, laughing heartily.
“I’ll say so!” they answered unanimously.
When the “all aboard” was called and they felt the tug of the engine
making ready to pull out, Artie and Westy looked into one another’s
faces beamingly.
I’ve always thought since, it would be rather a difficult thing to
decide, as to which one of the boys looked the happiest.