“So was I,” replied Alf soberly.
When they opened the door of Number 28, Gerald, attired in his dressing-gown, was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking ruefully at a pair of water-soaked white buckskin shoes. He dropped them when he saw Dan and Alf, and cried anxiously:
“How is he now?” Then he saw Dan’s white face, faltered, and sank down heavily on the bed. “He’s not—not dead?” he whispered.
“No, the doctor says he will be all right,” answered Dan hurriedly.
“Oh! You looked so—so white that I was afraid—”
“Why shouldn’t he look white?” demanded Alf gruffly. “We heard you were both drowned, you and Merrow. Some silly fool came over to the gym and told us.”
“Me? Oh, I—I’m sorry,” answered Gerald troubledly. “I didn’t know—”
“Well, you needn’t look so sad about it,” said Dan, with a little laugh as he sat down. “All’s well that ends well, but you certainly had us pretty well scared. Look here, Gerald, how about your father? Do you suppose he’s heard the yarn?”
“No.” Gerald reached over to the table and looked at his watch. “He isn’t home yet. I was going over there, but the doctor says I must go to bed. I am kind of played out. We had to paddle pretty fast coming back.”