got to say a word to nobody out yer. Wonder
'f I'll ebber git back from de 'cad'my an' kitch fish in dis yer bay?
Sho! Course I will. But goin' away's awful!"

Dab Kinzer thought he had never known Jenny Walters to appear so well as
she looked that evening; and he must have been right, for good Mrs.
Foster said to Annie:

"What a pleasant, kindly face your new friend has! You must ask her to
come and see us. She seems quite a favorite with the Kinzers."

"Have you known Dabney long?" Annie had asked of Jenny a little before
that.

"Ever since I was a little bit of a girl, and a big boy seven or eight
years old pushed me into the snow."

"Was it Dabney?"

"No, but Dabney was the boy that pushed him in for doing it, and then
helped me up. Dab rubbed his face for him with snow till he cried."

"Just like him!" exclaimed Annie with emphasis. "I should think his
friends here will miss him."

"Indeed they will," replied Jenny, and then she seemed disposed to be
quiet for a while.

The party could not last forever, pleasant as it was, and by the time
his duties as "host" were met, Dabney was tired enough to go to bed and
sleep soundly. His arms were lame and sore from the strain the ponies
had given them, and that may have been the reason why he dreamed half
the night that he was driving runaway teams and crashing over rickety
old bridges.

But why was it that every one of his dream-wagons, no matter who else
was in it, seemed to have Jenny Walters and Annie Foster smiling at him
from the back seat?

He rose later than usual next morning, and the house was all in its
customary order by the time he got down-stairs.

Breakfast was ready also, and, by the time that was over, Dab's great
new trunk was brought down-stairs by a couple of the farm-hands.

"It's an hour yet to train-time," said Ham Morris; "but we might as well
get ready. We must be on hand in time."

What a long hour that was, and not even a chance given for Dab to run
down and take a good-bye look at the "Swallow!"

His mother and Ham and Miranda and the girls seemed to be all made up of
"good-bye" that morning.

"Mother," said Dab.

"What is it, my dear boy?"

"That's it exactly. If you say 'dear boy' again, Ham Morris 'll have to
carry me to the cars. I'm all kind o' wilted now."

Then they all laughed, and before they got through laughing, they all
cried except Ham.

He put his hands in his pockets and drew a long whistle.

The ponies