“Telling what?” Bob wanted to know.
“Oh nothing, but—I say—it’s sort of queer, isn’t it? Dad and your mother, they’ll be kind of shot to pieces, won’t they?”
“They won’t know anything about it,” Bob answered quickly. “Not a word; that is, not for a while.” This was a startling announcement, then Jim decided that for some reason or other the news of the Flying Buddys’ disaster was to be kept from the family.
“I believe he still has a little fever,” Mrs. Gonzalas remarked softly and then someone came, a glass was pressed to Jim’s lips, and tender hands forced him to lie down on the couch. He closed his eyes again, intending to open them immediately, and he thought he did, but it was really hours later. This time he was in a real bed in a large comfortable room, and he saw someone bending over him.
“Oh, hello, Ynilea.”
“Hello yourself and many of them. How do you feel?”
“Top hole, but gosh—I say I’m not dead, am I!”
“Not so that you can notice it,” Ynilea answered. “You are very much alive, young man.”
“Yes. Funny.” Jim’s face was sober. “I dreamed I waked up on a place like the Don’s terraced gardens and Bob was there—my Buddy—” His lip quivered.
“Well, I was there, and I am here. I say—”