“Yes, I guess so. That is”—with elaborate concern—“unless you don’t want me to.” “I was going to say that if you’ll ask for me at the gate I’ll pass you in, Harold.” “Why, are they going to charge?” “Yes; twenty-five cents.” “Gee, they’ve got a crust! Who’d pay twenty-five cents to see a lot of wooden-heads play ball?” “Well, we’re hoping a lot will. Anyway, you won’t have to. Just ask for me at the gate. I guess it will be a pretty good game. Do you like baseball?” “I suppose so.” “Do you play?” “Sure! What do you think I am—a wooden Indian?” “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.” “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?”