“It’s all right, No. 8! The whole matter is settled in great shape, an’ I’m beginnin’ to think Andrew Foster is a decent sort of an old fogy after all.”
“Am I to stay here?” Benny cried, trembling violently because of the prolonged suspense.
“That’s exactly what you are to do, my boy, and your uncle will pay two hundred dollars a year towards puttin’ you through school in proper shape.”
“I don’t want him to pay us anything so long as we can stay here,” Benny replied quickly, tears of joy and relief welling up in his eyes.
“But it’s right he should do it, No. 8, an’ it shows that he’s got a decent heart, even though it may be moss-grown. Now you are one of us, an’ it’ll be strange if seven able-bodied men can’t provide one little lad with food, lodgin’, an’ schoolin’, particularly since he earns a good deal more’n he costs.”
Then Sam ran to the door, shouting for the members of the crew at the full strength of his lungs, and in a few moments all were gathered, waiting to learn the reason for the sudden summons.
It was a difficult matter for the surfman to tell the story intelligibly; but after a time he succeeded in making his comrades understand that there was no longer any cause to fear that No. 8 might be taken from them, and then ensued such a merrymaking as, perhaps, no life-saving station has ever witnessed.
The men congratulated each other, then Benny, and, finally, Fluff, who had been sitting up begging for information—or sugar; and when this had been done, went through the same ceremony again and again, until Tom Downey declared that such “crazy antics must come to an end,” lest some visitor should suddenly appear and think the crew had gone mad.
Nor were they wholly quieted down when Mr. Bradford arrived early in the evening, and then the reading of Andrew Foster’s letter aroused them to yet more noisy hilarity.
Amid all the confusion Benny was strangely quiet. He held Fluff pressed tightly in his arms, and gazed first at one and then the other in such a serious fashion that Mr. Bradford finally asked: