“Not me!” cried Tim. “I’ll never cease to be grateful to you for carrying me as you did, but, remember, I am not unconscious now and my leg has been set. I’m afraid you’ll jiggle it out of place. I bid for Breck and Jack to do the carrying this time.”
“We certainly will,” said Breck heartily, while Jack gave Tim a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “I think, Mr. Reynolds,” continued Breck, “you had better send for a surgeon as soon as you get your son home. I am little more than an amateur and think an expert should pass on my manner of setting bones.”
“Certainly, young man, although I am sure you made a good job of it. What my boy would have done without your skill I tremble to contemplate. Tell me—I think Mr. Wing said your name was Allen Breckenridge—are you related to Preston Breckenridge of California?”
“My father, sir!” and Breck’s face flushed.
“Well now, isn’t that too bad? Not that you are related to Preston Breckenridge, but that you have come into port just too late to see your father. His yacht has been anchored here for several days, but they set sail only this morning. I’ve no idea where they were going. Didn’t know they were going at all. Meant to see them again. Quite a party. You perhaps know where they are going?”
“No, sir, I do not know,” answered Breck, the flush deepening on his countenance. “I thought they were still on the Pacific coast.”
“Well, well! California people don’t think a thing of stepping across the continent,” declared Mr. Reynolds, suddenly realizing that he had rather put his foot in it and the good looking young man who had been so nice about setting his son’s leg was evidently not on very good terms with his family.
While the general bustle was in process incident to going ashore and getting the broken-boned Tim ready to be carried off, Breck had time to whisper to Jane:
“You heard what Mr. Reynolds said about my father’s being in these waters?”