“You’re all right,” said he; “and see how nice and clean your hands and face are. Where do you live?”
“He lives right up the hill in that handsome mansion,” volunteered the boy’s friend, who lisped and panted out his words excitedly with chattering teeth. He wore a gorgeous silk outing shirt, a neckerchief with ends tied loosely and hanging in a way of studied nonchalance, and a silly little trinket in the way of a compass hung on a lanyard about his neck. He was the true amateur camper, put together in a sporting-goods store, and now presented a ridiculous appearance as he stood shivering and dripping. Even his jack-knife, which might easily have been carried in his pocket, was suspended on a little silver hook from his belt.
“His people are extremely well-to-do,” he explained in his rapid, lisping voice. “I am a guest there myself; I have not the slightest doubt they will reward you suitably for your bravery.”
Harry surveyed him curiously, but did not answer. “What’s your name, sport?” he asked the boy, who was gradually getting possession of his senses.
“His name is Danforth—Penfield Danforth,” spoke up the summer sportsman; “he’s a delicate boy, father thinks the world of him, youngest child and all that sort of thing. Poor little codger, he seems to be quite upset. I—”
“Oh, let up,” Harry broke out.
“Pardon me?”
“He was upset, all right,” laughed Atwell.
“Yes, indeed, in more ways than one,” said the young man, smiling.
“Well, I guess you’d better take him home,” said Harry. “There’s your canoe down there under that tree; you can get it later. Take him up and get him something hot to drink.”