es."

The boardwalk was all but deserted, not more than the heroic health
seekers who walk in all kinds of weather, having courage enough to
promenade.

Under the shelter of the pavilion the girls stopped to see if any one
they knew might be about, when a figure under an umbrella, far over in a
corner protected from the blanket of fog, caught their attention.

"The boy!" said Grace. "Let's go over and speak to him."

"He might get stage fright and again jump overboard," laughingly
returned Louise.

"Any port in a storm," quoted Grace. "If I don't talk to some one I'll
just have to ring myself up on the telephone. I'm dark blue."

"Nice compliment to your chum," remarked Louise, smiling good-naturedly.

"You know I didn't mean it that way, Weasie. But honestly, why is
everything so horrid?"

"Guess because we are used to so much excitement we don't know how to
slow down. At least that's what mother is always preaching."

"See, he looks! He sees!" gasped Grace, her voice not so blue or drab in
tone as might have been expected.

The boy had lowered his umbrella, and touched his cap to the girls. He
even smiled.

"Is it possible? At last!" Grace continued to elocute. "Now just watch
me bring him to my feet."

She seized the arm of Louise and led her to the corner where the boy, as
ever, was trying to devour his book. At their approach he quickly closed
the covers, jammed papers in his pockets, and then waited to speak to
the girls who had dragged him out of Round River a month before.

"Hello," he greeted them, and both were glad he was boyish enough to be
frank, and not stiff.

"Wonderful day," Grace chirped in with banality.

"If you don't care what you say," he replied brightly.

"But we do, so we'll tell the truth. It's an awful day," declared
Louise.

"Don't try to sit here," the boy said. He had risen, of course. "The
benches are wet enough to float me as the river did. Come over to the
other end. The wind doesn't drive the fog in there."

Louise and Grace followed him, glad of the prospect of a little chat to
break the storm's monotony.

"I've been wanting to thank you," began the boy. "My name is Bentley
Arnold."

"And this Louise Hart and I am Grace Philow," cut in Grace politely.

The boy did not bow or scrape foolishly, but accepted the introduction
as any boy should.

In the West corner of the pavilion they found seats, and quickly
exhausting the weather topic, drifted to more intere