“And we got through ahead of the storm,” Weary sweetly reminded Happy Jack.

Happy looked moodily up at the muttering black mass nearly over their heads and said nothing; Happy never did have anything to say when his gloomy predictions were brought to naught.

“I’m going to get on the bed-ground without any red tape or argument, if yuh ask me,” volunteered Cal Emmett, rubbing his aching arms.  “We want to get an early start in the morning.”

“Meaning sun-up, I suppose,” fleered Pink, who had no especial, feminine reason for looking forward with longing.  With Pink, it was pleasure in the aggregate that lured him; there would be horse racing after dinner, and a dance in the school-house at night, and a season of general hilarity over a collection of rockets and Roman candles.  These things appealed more directly to the heart of Pink than did the feminine element; for he had yet to see the girl who could disturb the normal serenity of his mind or fill his dreams with visions beautiful.  Also, there was one thing about these girls that did not please him; they were prone to regard him as a sweet, amusing little boy whose dimples they might kiss with perfect composure (though of course they never did).  They seemed to be forever taking the “Isn’t he cunning!” attitude, and refused to regard him seriously, or treat him with the respect they accorded to the rest of the Happy Family.  Weary’s schoolma’am had offended him deeply, at a dance the winter before, by patting him indulgently on the shoulder and telling him to “Run along and find you a partner.”  Such things rankled, and he knew that the girls knew it, and that it amused them very much.  Worse, the Happy Family knew it, and it amused them even more than it amused the girls.  For this reason Pink would much prefer to sleep luxuriously late and ride over to the picnic barely in time for dinner and the races afterward.  He did not want too long a time with the girls.

“Sure, we’ll start at sun-up,” Cal answered gravely.  “We’ve got to be there by ten o’clock, so as to help the girls cut the cake and round up all the ham sandwiches; haven’t we, Weary?”

“I should smile to remark,” Weary assented emphatically.  “Sun-up sure sees us on the road, Cadwolloper—­and yuh want to be sure and wear that new pink silk handkerchief, that matches the roses in your cheeks so nice.  My schoolma’am’s got a friend visiting her, and she’s been hearing a lot about yuh.  She’s plumb wild to meet yuh.  Chip drawed your picture and I sent it over in my last letter, and the little friend has gone plumb batty over your dimples (Chip drawed yuh with a sweet smile drifting, like a rose-leaf with the dew on it, across your countenance, and your hat pushed back so the curls would show) and it sure done the business for Little Friend.  Schoolma’am says she’s a good-looker, herself, and that Joe Meeker has took to parting his hair on the dead center and wearing a four-inch, celluloid collar week days.  But he’s all to the bad—­she just looks at your picture and smiles sad and longing.”