“I’ll tell you all about it, Ben, as soon as I can. I’ve been searching for you everywhere, but I was afraid I’d never, never find you.”
“Stone,” said Roger, “take him into the car.”
Jerry shrank against his older brother. “Who—who is it, Ben?” he whispered.
“A friend—the best friend—besides you, Jerry—that I’ve ever known. We’ve been playing football, and we’re going back to Oakdale now—going back in a big, fine automobile. This is Roger Eliot, Jerry.”
Roger stepped forward and took one of the little lad’s soiled hands. “I’m very glad to meet Ben’s brother,” he declared with such sincerity that Jerry’s alarm was instantly dispelled and his sympathy won. “My father’s auto is waiting, and there’s room to spare.”
“You never rode in an automobile, Jerry,” said Ben. “It’s corking.”
Through the dusk Roger saw the smaller lad’s sightless eyes turned upon him.
“But—but my little dog, Pilot?” said Jerry questioningly. “I must take him. I know he’s tired, the same as I am, and I wouldn’t leave him for——”
“Certainly we’ll take him,” assured Roger. “Come on.”
To the sightless wayfarer it was a marvel beyond words, almost beyond comprehension. He heard them speak of Roger’s father and felt the reassuring touch of Urian Eliot’s strong but gentle hands, while the voice of the man sounded in his ears. He was lifted into the tonneau of the car, the dog whining nervously at the end of the line until bidden follow, upon which, with a single sharp yap of thankfulness, he sprang up. He heard also the voice of a child, who spoke softly and seemed glad to welcome him. It was not strange that his head swam with the wonderment of it.