“Yes,” replied Carol, her first apprehensions relieved by what Ned said. “I have one up on my bureau. I’ll run up and get it.”
She flew upstairs, and a moment later returned with the photograph. It had evidently been taken some years before, but the likeness was undeniable.
“That’s the man,” declared Tom, after a moment’s inspection. Ned, who was looking over his shoulder, nodded in agreement.
“No doubt about it. Same eyes, same nose, same shaped head.”
“Tell us all about it,” cried Mr. Goby and Carol in the same breath, feverish with impatience.
In as few words as possible, Tom narrated the happenings of that memorable afternoon when the young aviator had fallen into the woods with his blazing plane.
“Broken leg! Broken ribs! My poor brother!” cried Carol, and, for a moment, her tears flowed, while Mr. Goby only by the greatest effort kept himself from following her example.
“But he’s gotten all over those troubles,” Tom assured them consolingly. “The last time I saw the head physician of the hospital he told me that both leg and ribs had healed perfectly.”
“I can’t thank you two young men enough for what you have done for my poor boy,” said Mr. Goby, and Carol’s eyes were bright with unspoken thanks through her tears. “But if he has got well again, why hasn’t he left the hospital and come home? And why hasn’t he written?”
This was a poser for Tom, who had carefully avoided saying anything about Hitt Goby’s mental condition. That, he felt, would be almost equivalent to a death blow. He almost began to regret that the matter had been mentioned at all.