“He’s a rather nice one, though,” said Tom. “Here he comes. Bet you he will ask about track work before he’s been here two minutes.”
Footsteps sounded along the hall, and then there came a modest knock on the door.
“Come in, Gerald,” called Tom.
The boy who entered was not large for his fifteen years, and seemed at first glance a bit too slender and delicate to hope to distinguish himself on the cinders. But his slenderness held a litheness that spoke well for his muscles, and the apparent delicacy was largely a matter of coloring, for Gerald Pennimore had the fairest of pink and white skins, the bluest of blue eyes, and hair that only barely escaped being yellow. He was a nice-looking youngster, though, with an eager, expressive face, and an easy grace of carriage that was good to see. He greeted his hosts, closed the door behind him, and went over to the grate, where a little coal fire glowed ruddily.
“Yes,” said Alf, “I should think you’d want to dry your shoes, Gerald. You walked into every puddle in the Yard.”
“They’re not very wet,” responded Gerald, amiably.
“They’re soaking! It’s a mighty good thing for you that Dan isn’t here.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” laughed Gerald.
“You’d better be,” said Tom. “He will tan your hide for you, son, if he catches you doing stunts like that. Where is he to-day?”