“Well, son, I guess I’d better be getting along,” said Mr. Bingham. He glanced frowningly at his watch and then across the driveway at the dusty car awaiting him. He carefully avoided looking at the boy beside him, and for that the boy was very grateful. Now that the moment for saying good-by had come Clif’s spirits, which had been getting lower and lower during the past hour, had reached bottom, and he knew that his face revealed the fact. He was glad when his father went on, speaking with exaggerated cheerfulness which fooled neither of them, for there was a lump in Clif’s throat and he was horribly afraid that it would make his voice sound queer. Being only sixteen years of age, he was fa…
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