“Good boys! good boys! good boys!” he muttered.

“Come on up in the consultery!” cried Kent excitedly.

“Yes, come on, Old Till; that’s the place!” Jot echoed.

The “consultery” was a platform up in the great horse-chestnut tree.  When there was time, it could be reached comfortably by a short ladder, but, in times of hurry, it was the custom to swing up to it by a low-hanging bough, with a long running jump as a starter.  To-day they all swung up.

“Oh, I say, won’t there be times!” cried Kent.  “Five apiece is fifteen, lumped.  You can celebrate like everything with fifteen dollars!”

“Sure—­but how?” Old Tilly asked in his gentle, moderate way.  “We don’t want any old, common celebration!”

“You better believe we don’t!”

“No, sir, we want to do something new!  Camping out’s old!”

“Camping’s no good!  Go on!” Jot said briefly.  It was always Old Tilly they looked to for suggestions.  If you waited long enough, they were sure to come.

“Well, that’s the trouble.  I can’t ’go on’—­yet.  You don’t give a chap time to wink!  What we want is to settle right down to it and think out a fine way to celebrate.  It’s got to take time.”

For the space of a minute it was still in the consultery, save for the soft swish of the leaves overhead and roundabout.  Then Jot broke out—­a minute was Jot’s utmost limit of silence.

“We could go up through the Notch and back, you know,” he reflected.  “That’s no end of fun.  Wouldn’t cost us all more’n a fiver for the round trip, and we’d have the other ten to—­to—­”

“Buy popcorn and ‘Twin Mountain Views’ with!” finished Kent in scorn.  “Well, if you want to dress up in your best fixin’s and stew all day in a railroad train—­”

“I don’t!” rejoined Jot, hastily.  “I was thinking of Old Till!”

Tilly’s other name was Nathan, but it had grown musty with disuse.  He was the oldest of the Eddy trio, and “ballasted” the other two, Father Eddy said.  Old Tilly was fourteen and the Eddy twins—­Jotham and Kennet—­were twelve.  All three were well-grown, lusty fellows who could work or celebrate their liberty, as the case might be, with a good will.  Just now it was the latter they wanted to do, in some untried way.

It was a beautiful thinking-place, up in the consultery.  The birds in the meshes of leaves that roofed it over twittered in whispers, as if they realized that a momentous question was under consultation down below and bird-courtesy demanded quiet.

Jot fretted impatiently under his breath,

“Shouldn’t think it need to take all day!” he muttered.  “You’re as slow as—­as—­”

“Old Tilly!” laughed Kent.  The spell of silence was broken, and the birds overhead broke into jubilant trills, as if they were laughing, too.

“I guess the name fits all right this time,” Old Tilly said ruefully.  “I can’t seem to think of anything at all!  My head clicks—­the mowing machine wheels have got into it, I guess!”