“Well, then, I don’t see why he didn’t tell both of them,” said Mr. Martin. “The Van Arlen boy had a close call from death while in company of this old man. From all I can gather Wes had a pretty narrow escape too--helping this old man. And this is the very same old man that Mr. Temple wants Wes to go off to the four corners of the earth with and risk his neck. It’s very easy for Mr. John Temple to arrange for other people’s sons’ fighting Indians and all such nonsense and breaking their necks into the bargain. Mr. John Temple has no son of his own. Why, I thought all this dime novel hocus-pocus was put on the shelf long ago. Now here is Mr. John Temple filling boys’ minds with all such nonsense and sending them off with some old fire-eater to the frontier of nowhere. The man’s philanthropy has gone to his head. Here you are all home again, not three hours in the house, and Wes talking about going to some cabin or other out West next summer when he ought to be thinking about school to-morrow morning. What boy is he going to take with him, I’d like to know?” “I made up my mind. It’s Artie,” said Westy timidly. “Oh, I’m so glad,” said Doris; “he deserves it, for his heroism.” “Well, that isn’t the way to reward him,” said Mr. Martin. “You might give him a lollypop,” said Doris, winking at Westy. “Well,” said Mrs. Martin, putting her arm about poor Westy and speaking in her gentle way, “we’re not going to quarrel about next summer the very first evening we’re all together and have so much to tell each other; we’re just going to forget all about it, dearie.” “I’ll tell you one thing,” exploded Mr. Martin, speaking to Westy, but _at_ his daughter. “If Archie Captroop had gone shooting buffaloes when he was sixteen and got his head filled up with all this wild-west business he wouldn’t be drawing forty dollars a week at Ketchem and Skinners in Wall Street now. There was none of this falderal when he was sixteen, and look at him now.” “Picture him hunting buffaloes,” Doris exploded mirthfully. “Do you mean I can’t go then?” said Westy. “I mean you should settle down to school now,” said his father not unkindly, “and forget everything else.” Mr. Martin was not as good a scout as his son. Westy was steeled then and there to hear the worst. But Mr. Martin had not the courage to tell him the worst. He would hem and haw and bluster all winter. But he had no intention of letting Westy go. He would talk about boys breaking their necks until the household would be weary of hearing him. By such talk he would take all the pleasure of going from Westy. Westy’s hope and spirit would be broken instead of his neck. That was the way Mr. Martin worked. CHAPTER VIII—WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN