And, fresh and rosy from his long rest, Freddy Neville bounded out gleefully to Dan’s side.
A low cry burst from the stranger’s lips, and he stood staring at the boys as if turned into stone.
VIII.—A New Friend.
“Jing, you gave me a scare, Dan!” said Freddy, drawing a long breath of relief. “I thought you had dropped overboard.”
“Overboard!” scoffed Dan. “You must think I’m a ninny. And you have been sleeping sure! Got to keep this sort of thing up all summer?”
“Oh, no, no!” said Freddy; “only for a few days,—until I get real well and strong; though Brother Bart will keep fussing over me, I know. Golly, I wish we had Uncle Tom along with us!”
“All right, is he?” asked Dan.
“Great!” replied Freddy, emphatically. “Doesn’t baby you a bit; lets you row and swim and dive when you go off with him. Most as good as a real father.”
“Just as good, I guess,” amended Dan.
“No,” said Freddy, shaking his head. “You see, he has other work—preaching and saying Mass and giving missions—where I don’t come in. He has to leave me at Saint Andrew’s because he hasn’t any home. It must be just fine to have a home that isn’t a school,—a sort of cosy little place, with cushioned chairs, and curtains, and a fire that you can see, and a kitchen where you can roast nuts and apples and smell gingerbread baking, and a big dog that would be your very own. But you can’t have a home like that when you have a priest uncle like mine.”