I’ll write and tell your mother about it. She said that you took her up several times and now she wants her husband to get a plane.”

“Right you are,” Jim laughed heartily. “Mom’s a good sport and so are you. We’ll bind you hand and foot, and put weights on you, but I’ll bet you will like it as much as Mom did.”

“No doubt I shall,” and Mrs. Fenton didn’t smile over the prospect.

“Well, don’t come down and ask me to buy you an air-plane, that is, unless the turkeys take a jump and we have a grand flock of them this fall, but it doesn’t look now as if there is much chance,” Mr. Fenton said. The last part of his statement was made soberly.

“Wonder how the boy’s draining plan is working after that rain,” Jim remarked as he recalled the work of the strange boy on the bog.

“When we finish supper, we’ll go and have a look, but I expect the place is flooded way above the foot of the alfalfa bed,” Mr. Fenton said.

“Now, how do you expect to eat your meal if you talk so much? Norman, you are not paying a bit of attention to those boys’ plates and they are both empty.”

“My plate may be empty, Aunt Belle, but my tummy is beginning to feel mighty content. I could purr,” Bob told them.

“Well don’t. It isn’t polite at the table. You may roll over on the floor and kick your feet up if you like,” Jim suggested.

“Don’t you do anything of the kind,” Aunt Belle said hastily. “The very idea. Is that what you do when you have a good meal at home?”

“No, Mom wouldn’t stand that,” Bob answered.

“We tried it once at school and it didn’t go so well there either,” Jim added gravely, and Mr. Fenton laughed heartily.

“How many demerits did they give you?” he asked.

“Ten apiece,” Jim answered.

“And we had to average ninety-five on four subjects to shake them off,” Bob added. “It’s a cruel world.”

“The world is a great little old place. It’s only the people in it, I mean some of them, who make it unpleasant,” Jim declared. “I can’t eat another mouthful.”

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