them and one poor youngster was trying to conceal his tears from the rest. The doctor had found a spot in his throat and he had a high temperature. He was not to be allowed to go this week; his turn would have to come later. They were all a bit impatient by this time. Most of them had been up since half-past five, counting every minute.
If you enjoy a shrill treble uproar, and find it amusing to watch a busload of small boys enjoying themselves at the top of their versatile powers, I recommend a trip on the Paradise Special. Throughout the week the bus is busy taking children and mothers to the various farms and camps run by the Association, but Tuesday morning is boys' day. Not the least amusing feature of the trip is to watch the expressions of those the bus passes on the road. It creates a broad grin wherever it goes. That shouting caravan of juvenile glee is indeed an entertaining sight.
There were nineteen boys on board when we left Cherry street—an unusually small load for the Paradise Special. Others were going out by train. But nineteen boys, aged from seven to thirteen, comprise a considerable amount of energy. Three or four of them had been to Paradise Farm before, and immediately took the lead in commenting on all that befell. Mickey Coyle was one of these, lamenting that as he would be thirteen in September this would probably be his last visit. "But I'm lucky I ain't dead," he said philosophically.
