But, as it turned out, it did not make the least difference whether he had decided to tell or not, for as soon as Mrs. Bouncer's eye rested upon him and his colorless face, she gave a little shriek and pounced upon him, gathering him up in her arms and making him tell the whole story. Then Bob, much to his disgust, was packed off between blankets and dosed with hot lemonade, although he protested that it was all nonsense and he did not need a thing.
"There's one good thing about it all, anyway," said Sammy later on, as he and Frank sprawled out on the hot sand. "Mr. Bouncer will be so scared over Bob's accident that he'll be only too glad to get him away from the water by letting him go to the ranch."
"That's so," agreed Frank. "I wish this had happened before you sent your letter, Sammy. You could have told your folks about it and that would have been a clincher."
"It sure would," admitted Sammy. "But I guess maybe they'll let me go without that. I'll be mighty glad when I get that telegram. It doesn't seem as if I could wait till to-morrow."
"Well, half of this day is nearly gone anyway," observed Frank. "There's that much to the good. I think—ouch! What was that?"
He had suddenly felt a sharp, stinging pain in the back of his neck.
He put his hand to the spot and rubbed it vigorously.
"It must have been a sand fly," said Sammy. "Those little green ones bite like the mischief sometimes. Just rub the spot a minute and the smart will go away."
The next minute, he, too, sat up with a convulsive jerk.
"Jiminy!" he cried. "I got it myself that time. But it felt more like a bee than a sand fly."