“And I’ll tell you something else,” said Tom. “You didn’t know—when you saved my life you didn’t know, did you, that I’m the miracle man? You didn’t think about me—listen—you didn’t think about me being a little old boy scout, did you? Something for a service—good turns. Oh, I’m the little Santa Claus all right. I’ve got your grandfather down at Temple Camp—waiting to be called for. All you have to do is to go and claim him. He’s having the time of his life, thank you.” He was smiling all over, his eyes brimming. “You—you think you know so much about me—you think you’re smart—you old grouch—you didn’t know that, did you? Go on, say something sarcastic now. All I wanted was to stay here long enough to put it all over you. Go ahead, say something sarcastic—you—” He could say no more, he was all but hysterical with joy. “I could—gee, I could never get you to sit down and talk with me—I—I’m all right, sit down and I’ll tell you the whole thing—Ganley—he came back, he was dead on a boat in the river, he wrote out everything.” “Poor Joey,” said Whalen. “Sit down,” said Tom, “and I’ll tell you the whole thing. I won’t tell you unless you sit down. I bet you don’t believe me, do you? Knew I wouldn’t tell. You took awful chances, let me tell you that.” “So, Tommy?” Whalen sat down on the log, seeming bewildered, skeptical, keenly curious. Tom’s first shot had missed. But the other two had struck the lonely, taciturn man. His eyes were pathetic with suspense. He seemed even still to harbor a kindly doubt about crediting this exuberant boy. “Tell me everything you know, Tommy,” he pled earnestly. “What do you suppose I got up for at five o’clock?” said Tom. CHAPTER XXXVIII T. S.—A. F. In half an hour the sensational news was all over the little community on the mountain. Ferris was astonished, but he had always been too discreet to inquire too closely into the antecedents of his crew and was not likely to be shocked by dramatic revelations. Billy the sailor seemed so unperturbed that Tom thought he must have known something all along; but that was unlikely. Probably his own sprightly career had fortified him to bear up under startling disclosures of a dubious character. Mr. Fairgreaves said he had known that “our silent comrade was carrying a burden.” Meanwhile the taciturn man who was the subject of all this excitement went to work as usual. And Tom sought out Audry Ferris. She was sitting on the lowest step leading to the vast, bleak veranda of the hotel; she was reading a book and had an air of advertising her loneliness and exclusion from the general stir. Perhaps it was only the vastness of the unfrequented veranda which gave this appearance of conspicuous isolation. “Audry,” said Tom, “I guess you’ve heard the big news.” “I’m sure I’m very glad,” she said; “my brother told me.”