“Here’s your crutch,” said Harold, “but just you wait where you are a minute.” He sped away down the slope of the rock, and Dick, with his head throbbing, for once could not but feel a qualm of envy. In a moment the younger boy was back. He had dipped his handkerchief in the water, and now he offered it a trifle shyly to Dick. “Put it on your head,” he said gruffly. “It’ll make it feel better.”
“Thanks, Harold.” Dick applied the wet compress to the bump. “It was stupid of me to keel over like that,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ve fallen down before.”
“I should think you’d have lots of falls,” replied Harold. “I think you get around mighty well, Lovering. How does it feel now?”
“Better, thanks. Just sort of give me a boost, will you?”
Harold assisting, Dick got to his feet, or, rather, his crutches, and, with the younger boy watching anxiously, went on down the ledge to the beach.
“You needn’t come unless you’re ready to,” said Dick. “I’ll be all right now, Harold.”
“I guess I’ll go, too,” replied Harold carelessly. “It’s most lunch time.”
They walked along in silence for a way, and then Dick asked: “Do you know who Caspar Billings has got to take Morris Brent’s place on Saturday?”
“Fellow named Jensen. Do you know him?”
“No, I think not. Pretty good, is he?”