“I want to go so much,” Westy said half-aloud, as he was mounting the steps of the house. “Gee whiz, I’d do almost anything to go.” “What were you saying?” asked Mr. Martin who had previously come home from business and was divesting himself of his topcoat and hat in the front hall. “Were you speaking to me, son?” “No, Father,” Westy respectfully answered. “I was just thinking of something.” “Well, my boy,” he said firmly, “you must always do your thinking in the proper places. I noticed as I came along in the bus from the station that you barely escaped being run over. One of those foolhardy speeders came rushing along without any regard to the privacy of your thoughts. There isn’t any room in the world for dreamers, especially the business world. You must quit dreaming if you ever expect to make a mark for yourself in business when you get there.” “Well, I don’t expect to get there,” Westy whispered to himself. “What was that you said?” Mr. Martin asked. “Oh, I said I don’t suppose I get enough air,” Westy replied, feeling absolved from his white lie immediately, when his mother came forward to greet him. She smiled knowingly at her son, thankful that he had evaded any unnecessary argument. “Well, if you have been in school studying all afternoon it won’t hurt you any. The more you study the quicker you’ll get through and get to business like Mr. Captroop,” Mr. Martin reminded him. “Come now,” Mrs. Martin interposed, “dinner is about ready.” Westy looked upon his mother at that moment as one might look on an angel of mercy, for she had saved him from listening to a prolonged discourse on the safe and sane business career for all young men and the many admirable qualities of the Hon. Archie Captroop. But to Westy’s dismay, the estimable Mr. Martin took up the conversation at the dinner table, where he had left off. “As I was going to say before dinner,” he began, “I think it would be a very wise plan for Westy to make the most of his next summer’s vacation.” “How?” Westy hopefully asked. “By getting something to do like most energetic boys would do, instead of running around wild the whole summer with some unknown Wild Westerner.” “But, Father,” Westy, crestfallen, despairingly pleaded, “I was speaking to Art to-day and it seems that he was planning on me asking him to go. His mother and father had already given their consent.” “Really, my boy, that was quite a presumptuous thing for him to do considering that he had not yet been asked. Perhaps though, you had given him encouragement!” “No, that’s just it. I knew I wouldn’t be able to go and that’s why I didn’t ask him.”