“Yes. Let’s go down after we finish tennis and see what they’ve got. Shall we?”
Gerald at once agreed, and for a while they talked canoeing and boating, Harry narrating some of the good times he had had at home on the river. Gerald, not wanting to be quite outdone, mentioned his ability to row a boat, and then, led on by Harry, described life on his father’s big steam yacht, which Harry had often seen lying at its moorings off Sound View.
Then the talk worked around to baseball, as it was almost certain to do sooner or later at this time of the year, and Gerald exhibited with pride the callousness of his hand and showed the little finger that had been “mighty near broken, I tell you!” Harry had tried for a place on the Merle Hall team, but had failed. However, he had been made official scorer, and that had brought consolation. It was evident that in Harry’s estimation that position qualified him as a critic, for he pretended to know just what was the matter with every member of his own team and the Varsity, and would tell you on the slightest provocation.
“I tell you, Gerald, Dan Vinton played a great game at third the other day. He’s going to make a fine player when he’s had more experience. I should think you’d be mighty proud to be rooming with him.”
It had never occurred to Gerald to be proud of the fact, and he considered it a moment before replying. Then:
“I’d rather room with him than any fellow I know,” he replied with conviction. “He—he’s been mighty good to me ever since I knew him. You know he—he saved my life last Fall.”
“Yes, we heard about it, but I never knew just how it was.”
So Gerald recounted the adventure of the burning playhouse, and Dan’s rescue, and Harry listened with round eyes.
“Say, though, you were a chump to go in after the dog,” he said, when Gerald had finished. “You might have been all burned up!”
“Well,” answered Gerald simply, “I couldn’t let Jack burn. He’s the best dog in the world, Jack is.”