"Lucky!" he cried, "I think it's the worst thing that ever happened to
me. My father's so hard-headed when he gets his mind set--he's making me
do it. He wants me to see the railroads and the country, so I've got to
go with the Duncans. I wanted to stay--" He checked himself, "I think
it's a blamed nuisance."

"So do I," said a voice behind him.

It was not the first time that Mr. Somers Duncan had spoken, but Bob
either had not heard him or pretended not to. Mr. Duncan's freckled face
smiled at them from the top of the railing, his eyes were on Cynthia's
face, and he had been listening eagerly. Mr. Duncan's chief
characteristic, beyond his freckles, was his eagerness--a quality
probably amounting to keenness.

"Hello," said Bob, turning impatiently, "I might have known you couldn't
keep away. You're the cause of all my troubles--you and your father's
private car."

Somers became apologetic.

"It isn't my fault," he said; "I'm sure I hate going as much as you do.
It's spoiled my summer, too."

Then he coughed and looked at Cynthia.

"Well," said Bob, "I suppose I'll have to introduce you. This," he added,
dragging his friend over the railing, "is Mr. Somers Duncan."