"Who is he?" asked Grace frankly.
"Oh, a chap that lives at the Point—don't know his name. He's awful quiet and queer—just reads his eyes out—no wonder he wears goggles," finished the clerk, turning to pop a soda for a waiting customer.
The girls breathed easier. Somehow they were each conscious of a dread, and the boy's report had dispelled it as if by magic.
"Oh, say!" he called after them as they were moving away. "Are you the girls who rescued him? Well, he especially warned me to get your names?" This was in question.
"But we shouldn't like to have him bother thanking us," returned Cleo, as spokesman. "We only did a scout duty."
"Oh yes, that's so. You're scouts. Aren't you? I'm a scout too, but we haven't any girls' troop around here. Wish you would start one."
"We may," assented Margaret. "But did you talk to the boy after he revived? Was he perfectly all right?" she questioned pointedly.
"Guess so, but he's a queer chap. Can't tell whether he's all right or all wrong, he's such a stick. Excuse me, here's where I sell a real order," and he hurried over to an old lady who was vainly trying to shut an obstinate parasol.
Again the girls turned away, and the clerk had not fulfilled his promise to get their names; neither had they obtained the name of the stricken boy.
"But I feel a lot better," admitted Cleo. "Somehow, it isn't nice to see a boy as still as he was."