CHAPTER XIII
THE CONSULTING COACH
Clif's father was to have visited him Sunday,
but the morning brought a telegram stating
that a sudden journey to Boston necessitated
a postponement of the Freeburg trip to the following
Sunday. Clif's disappointment was not lasting. In
the afternoon he and Tom and Loring went for a walk.
That is, he and Tom walked and took turns pushing
Loring's chair, long since mended by the local carpenter.
Wattles was left behind, delighted by the
prospect of two hours of browsing in the school library
but uneasy at intrusting his charge to the two boys.
The day was fair and, for the latter part of October in that region, quite warm. Along Oak Street many of the residents were on their porches, and the sight of the boy in the wheel chair created much interest and curiosity. Clif was conscious of the craning necks and low-voiced comments, but Loring seemed not to be aware of them. Perhaps, Clif thought, you got used to that sort of thing after a while. They went through the village and then westward and came to a halt at last beside the little river where the end of the old covered bridge offered a sheltered, sunny nook. Clif and Tom climbed to the top of a fence. Loring, sup-
