After Mr. Pennimore’s departure Dan roamed around the big room, looking at the backs of the books and admiring without understanding the old tapestries. Presently he skirted the monstrous table—quite the largest table in the world, he was sure—and went to one of the half-dozen French windows that opened onto the broad red-tiled veranda with its massive stone balustrade and its bay-trees in big terra-cotta tubs. Beyond lay the green lawn and the flower-beds, the seawall and the blue, blue ocean. The sun was shining brightly and against an almost cloudless sky a flock of gulls dipped and wheeled. Dan’s heart responded to the glamour of the morning. It was a fine old world, he thought, and after all, a fellow didn’t have to be on a football team to be happy! At that moment there was a voice behind him and Dan turned from the window to Gerald Pennimore.
[CHAPTER XIII]
A RICH MAN’S SON
Gerald Pennimore was fourteen years of age, slight of build and very fair as to complexion, having hair that was almost corn-color, light blue eyes and a clear pink and white skin of the kind that doesn’t readily tan. He was good looking, but seemed far from robust. When he smiled his face was eminently attractive, but in repose it very often held an expression of discontent. As he greeted Dan he exhibited some embarrassment.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” answered Dan. “How are you feeling after it?”
“Pretty good, thank you.” He hesitated and seemed trying to get rid of a lump in his throat. Then, “They say you pulled me out of that place yesterday and saved my life—and Jack’s,” he said in low tones. “And—and I’m much obliged!”
Dan had to laugh a little, the thanks sounded so perfunctory. But he sympathized with Gerald’s embarrassment and answered in an off-hand way:
“Pshaw, I guess I didn’t do much. You’re welcome, though, of course. I’m glad you didn’t get burned or—or anything. How’s the dog?”