Westy grasped his father’s hand and impetuously stooped and kissed him. Rushing out of the room and down the stairs he flung his coat and hat on in the hall and hurried to tell the news to Artie! CHAPTER XVI—THEY’RE OFF 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.