It was stifling in the loft, and Betty felt almost giddy. She sat at the top of the ladder, her feet hanging over the edge of the floor and regarded Bob anxiously.
"Well, perhaps you had better go early next week," she said judiciously. "It would be dreadful if he did return you to the poorhouse."
"Therefore, I'm going to-night," announced Bob coolly. "There's an eleven-thirty train from Glenside that will make some sort of connection with the southern local at the Junction. Wish me luck, Betty!"
"To-night!" gasped Betty in dismay. "Oh, Bob! don't go to-night. Wait just one night more, ah, please do!"
Betty had the truly feminine horror of quick decisions, and she was frankly upset by this determination of Bob's. Even as she pleaded she knew he had made up his mind and that it was useless to ask him to change it.
"I don't see how you can go—you're not ready," she argued feverishly. "Your shirts are on the line; I saw them. You're dead tired after all this work, and it's a long walk to Glenside. Wait just till to-morrow, Bob, and I won't say a word."
"No, I'm going to-night," said Bob firmly. "I haven't so much packing to do that it will take me over fifteen minutes. I'll help myself to the
