“That’s good. They have a pretty good team at Rifle Point. Maybe you’ll make it some day.”
“There isn’t any maybe about it. I’m going to.”
“I hope so. Well, I must be getting back. You coming along? It must be very nearly lunch time.”
“No, I’m not,” growled Harold. “I’ll come when I’m ready.”
“All right. By the way, we won’t have any lessons to-morrow. Nothing doing until Monday. Meanwhile you see if you can’t get the better of that algebra, like a good fellow. So-long!”
“Long!” muttered Harold.
Dick pulled himself up and fixed his crutches and began the laborious task of climbing back up the rock and across to the beach. Fortunately his rubber tips held well, and he was soon at the top of the ledge. But there misfortune overtook him. Just what happened he couldn’t have told, but the result he was very certain about. For one crutch flew out from under him, he spun half around on the other and fell backward, his head coming into violent contact with the granite ledge. For an instant he was too dazed to move. His head rang and buzzed like a bee-hive. In falling he must have cried out involuntarily, for almost before he had gathered his faculties together and made a move to get up he heard footsteps pattering on the rocks, and then the anxious voice of Harold Townsend:
“Are you hurt, Lovering? What happened?”
Harold ran to him, and bent over him with very genuine concern.
“I—I’m all right, thanks,” replied Dick, a trifle vaguely. “I fell. That rock is some hard, Harold!” He rubbed his head ruefully and grimaced as his hand came in contact with the swelling bruise. “Just give me a hand, will you? And kick that crutch this way, please.”