A little while he lay upon the floor of the car, looking at the clear sky overhead and wondering what he was to do. Then he thought of his lost companion, and murmured feelingly:
“Poor old Fitz! Poor old Spasms!”
As if in answer to his pitying words, he heard a voice calling faintly but snappishly:
“Bob, you rascal! Don’t you dare to call me Spasms!”
Electrified, the boy sprang to his feet and looked all around.
“Fitz!” he ejaculated. “But where can he be?” Then in superstitious fear:
“He’s dead; it must be his ghost!”
“Ghost nothing!” came the voice again, a little louder, more vigorous. “Bob, you’re a fool!”
“Is—is that you, Fitz?” the boy faltered in reply.
“Of course, dunce!”