One day when the radio boys had left Edna and Ruth Salper and were tramping through the woods alone, they spoke of the operator admiringly.
“He sure does know a lot about radio,” said Joe. “He must stay up all night studying.”
“Guess that’s what’s the matter with him,” remarked Bob, soberly. “He spends too much of his time indoors, boning. He should get out in the open more.”
“Looks as if a little fresh air might tone him up some,” Herb admitted. “He looks as if a breath of air might blow him away.”
“If I looked as thin as he does, I’d go see a doctor,” said Jimmy emphatically.
It was a fact that the operator at the station, while looking far from strong when the boys had first seen him, had grown thinner and thinner and paler and paler until now he seemed to be positively going into a decline.
Because they had a sincere regard for Bert Thompson, the boys had tried to lure him out into the open, but he had been proof against all their blandishments. And after a while the boys had given up trying.
“If he wants to kill himself,” Bob had grumbled, “I suppose we’ll have to let him have his own way about it.”
And now at this particular time when the boys were at peace with the world, something suddenly happened that gave them a rude jolt.
Talking happily of improvements they expected to apply to their new radio outfit, they came suddenly upon—Buck Looker and his crowd.