"I think he will live," returned the little man, with an air of great satisfaction. "Anyway, he's alive and breathing now, and the doctors say there's every reason to expect a rapid recovery."
"Who is he?" they asked, crowding around him.
"A. Jones."
"A—what?" This from Patsy, in a doubtful tone.
"Jones. A. Jones."
"Why, he must have given you an assumed name!"
"He didn't give us any name. As soon as he recovered consciousness he fell asleep, and I left him slumbering as peacefully as a baby. But we went through his clothes, hoping to get a trace of his friends, so they could be notified. His bathing suit is his own, not rented, and the name 'A. Jones' is embroidered on tape and sewn to each piece. Also the key to bathhouse number twenty-six was tied to his wrist. The superintendent sent a man for his clothing and we examined that, too. The letters 'A.J.' were stamped in gold on his pocketbook, and in his cardcase were a number of cards engraved: 'A. Jones, Sangoa.' But there were no letters, or any other papers."
"Where is Sangoa?" inquired Beth.
"No one seems to know," confessed Uncle John. "There was plenty of money in his pocket-book and he has a valuable watch, but no other jewelry. His clothes were made by a Los Angeles tailor, but when they called him up by telephone he knew nothing about his customer except that he had ordered his suit and paid for it in advance. He called for it three days ago, and carried it away with him, so we have no clue to the boy's dwelling place."
"Isn't that a little strange—perhaps a little suspicious?" askedMrs. Montrose.
"I think not, ma'am," answered Mr. Merrick. "We made these investigations at the time we still feared he would die, so as to communicate with any friends or relatives he might have. But after he passed the crisis so well and fell asleep, the hospital people stopped worrying about him. He seems like any ordinary, well-to-do young fellow, and a couple of days in the hospital ought to put him upon his feet again."
"But Sangoa, Uncle; is that a town or a country?"
"Some out-of-the-way village, I suppose. People are here from every crack and corner of America, you know."
"It sounds a bit Spanish," commented Arthur. "Maybe he is from Mexico."
"Maybe," agreed Uncle John. "Anyhow, Maud has saved his life, and if it's worth anything to him he ought to be grateful."
"Never mind that," said Maud, flushing prettily with embarrassment as all eyes turned upon her, "I'm glad I noticed him in time; but now that he is all right he need never know who it was that rescued him. And, for that matter, sir, Patsy Doyle and Mr. Weldon did as much for him as I. Perhaps they saved us both, while your promptness in getting him to the hospital was the main factor in saving his life."
"Well, it's all marked down in the hospital books," remarked Uncle John. "I had to tell the whole story, you see, as a matter of record, and all our names are there, so none can escape the credit due her—or him."
"In truth," said Mrs. Montrose with a smile, "it really required four of you to save one slender boy."
"Yes, he needed a lot of saving," laughed Flo. "But," her pretty face growing more serious, "I believe it was all Fate, and nothing else. Had we not come to the beach this afternoon, the boy might have drowned; so, as I suggested the trip, I'm going to take a little credit myself."
"Looking at it in that light," said Patsy, "the moving picture man saved the boy's life by giving you a half-holiday."
This caused a laugh, for their spirits were now restored to normal. To celebrate the occasion, Mr. Merrick proposed to take them all into Los Angeles to dine at a "swell restaurant" before returning to Hollywood.
This little event, in conjunction with the afternoon's adventure, made them all more intimate, so that when they finally reached home and separated for the night they felt like old friends rather than recent acquaintances.
There was work for the Stanton girls at the "film factory," as they called it, next morning, so they had left the hotel before Mr. Merrick's party assembled at the breakfast table.
"I must telephone the Santa Monica hospital and find out how our patient is," remarked Uncle John, when the meal was over; but presently he returned from the telephone booth with a puzzled expression upon his face. "A. Jones has disappeared!" he announced.
"Disappeared! What do you mean, Uncle?" asked Beth.
"He woke early and declared he was himself again, paid his bill, said 'good morning' to the hospital superintendent and walked away. He wouldn't answer questions, but kept asking them. The nurse showed him the book with the record of how he was saved, but she couldn't induce him to say who he was, where he came from nor where he was going. Seems a little queer, doesn't it?"
They all confessed that it did.
"However," said Patsy Doyle, "I'm glad he recovered, and I'm sure Maud will be when she hears the news. The boy has a perfect right to keep his own counsel, but he might have had the grace to tell us what that initial 'A.' stands for, and where on earth Sangoa is."
"I've been inquiring about Sangoa," announced Arthur, just then joining the group, "and no one seems wiser than we are. There's no record of such a town or state in Mexico, or in the United States—so far as I can discover. The clerk has sent for a map of Alaska, and perhaps we'll find Sangoa there."
"What does it matter?" inquired Louise.
"Why, we don't like to be stumped," asserted Patsy, "that's all. Here is a young man from Sangoa, and—"
"Really," interrupted Beth, who was gazing through the window, "I believe hereisthe young man from Sangoa!"
"Where?" they all cried, crowding forward to look.
"Coming up the walk. See! Isn't that the same mysterious individual whose life Maud saved?"
"That's the identical mystery," declared Uncle John. "I suppose he has come here to look us up and thank us."
"Then, for heaven's sake, girls, pump him and find out where Sangoa is," said Arthur hastily, and the next moment a bell boy approached their party with a card.
They looked at the young fellow curiously as he came toward them. He seemed not more than eighteen years of age and his thin features wore a tired expression that was not the result of his recent experience but proved to be habitual. His manner was not languid, however, but rather composed; at the same time he held himself alert, as if constantly on his guard. His dress was simple but in good taste and he displayed no embarrassment as he greeted the party with a low bow.
"Ah," said Uncle John, heartily shaking his hand, "I am delighted to find you so perfectly recovered."
A slight smile, sad and deprecating, flickered for an instant over his lips. It gave the boyish face a patient and rather sweet expression as he slowly replied:
"I am quite myself to-day, sir, and I have come to assure you of my gratitude for your rescue of me yesterday. Perhaps it wasn't worth all your bother, but since you generously took the trouble to save me, the least I can do is to tender you my thanks." Here he looked from one to another of the three girls and continued: "Please tell me which young lady swam to my assistance."
"Oh, it was none of us," said Patsy. "Miss Stanton—Maud Stanton—swam out to you, when she noticed you were struggling, and kept you afloat until we—until help came."
"And Miss Stanton is not here?"
"Not at present, although she is staying at this hotel."
He gravely considered this information for a moment. As he stood there, swaying slightly, he appeared so frail and delicate that Uncle John seized his arm and made him sit down in a big easy chair. The boy sighed, took a memorandum from his pocket and glanced at it.
"Miss Doyle and Mr. Weldon pulled out in a boat and rescued both Miss Stanton and me, just as we were about to sink," he said. "Tell me, please, if either Miss Doyle or Mr. Weldon is present."
"I am Arthur Weldon," said that young gentleman; "but I was merely the boatman, under command of Miss Doyle, whom I beg to present to you."
A. Jones looked earnestly into Patsy's face. Holding out his hand he said with his odd smile: "Thank you." Then he turned to shake Arthur's hand, after which he continued: "I also am indebted to Mr. Merrick for carrying me to the hospital. The doctor told me that only this prompt action enabled them to resuscitate me at all. And now, I believe it would be courteous for me to tell you who I am and how I came to be in such dire peril."
He paused to look around him questioningly and the interest on every face was clearly evident. Arthur took this opportunity to introduce Jones to Louise and Beth and then they all sat down again. Said Uncle John to the stranger, in his frank and friendly way:
"Tell us as much or as little as you like, my boy. We are not unduly inquisitive, I assure you."
"Thank you, sir. I am an American, and my name is Jones. That is, I may claim American parentage, although I was born upon a scarcely known island in the Pacific which my father purchased from the government of Uruguay some thirty years ago."
"Sangoa?" asked Arthur.
He seemed surprised at the question but readily answered:
"Yes; Sangoa. My father was a grandnephew of John Paul Jones and very proud of the connection; but instead of being a sailor he was a scientist, and he chose to pass his life in retirement from the world."
"Your father is no longer living, then?" said Mr. Merrick.
"He passed away a year ago, on his beloved island. My mother died several years before him. I began to feel lonely at Sangoa and I was anxious to visit America, of which my mother had so often told me. So some months ago I reached San Francisco, since when I have been traveling over your country—my country, may I call it?—and studying your modern civilization. In New York I remained fully three months. It is only about ten days since I returned to this coast."
He stopped abruptly, as if he considered he had told enough. The brief recital had interested his auditors, but the ensuing pause was rather embarrassing.
"I suppose you have been visiting relatives of your parents," remarkedUncle John, to ease the situation.
"They—had no relatives that I know of," he returned. "I am quite alone in the world. You must not suppose I am unaccustomed to the water," he hastened to add, as if to retreat from an unpleasant subject. "At Sangoa I have bathed in the sea ever since I can remember anything; but—I am not in good health. I suffer from indigestion, a chronic condition, which is my incubus. Yesterday my strength suddenly deserted me and I became helpless."
"How fortunate it was that Maud noticed you!" exclaimed Patsy, with generous sympathy.
Again the half sad smile softened his face as he looked at her.
"I am not sure it was wholly fortunate for me," he said, "although I admit I have no wish to end my uninteresting life by drowning. I am not a misanthrope, in spite of my bad stomach. The world is more useful to me than I am to the world, but that is not my fault. Pardon me for talking so much about myself."
"Oh, we are intensely interested, I assure you," replied Patsy. "If some of us were indeed the instruments that saved you yesterday, it is a pleasure to us to know something of the—the man—we saved."
She had almost said "boy," he was such a youthful person, and he knew it as well as she did.
"I would like to meet Miss Stanton and thank her personally," he presently resumed. "So, if you have no objection, I think I shall register at this hotel and take a room. I—I am not very strong yet, but perhaps Miss Stanton will see me when I have rested a little."
"She won't return before five o'clock," explained Mr. Merrick. "Miss Stanton is—er—connected with a motion picture company, you know, and is busy during the day."
He seemed both surprised and perplexed, at first, but after a moment's thought he said:
"She is an actress, then?"
"Yes; she and her sister. They have with them an aunt, Mrs. Montrose, for companion."
"Thank you. Then I will try to meet them this evening."
As he spoke he rose with some difficulty and bade them adieu. Arthur went with him to the desk and proffered his assistance, but the young man said he needed nothing but rest.
"And just think of it," said Patsy, when he had gone. "We don't know yet what that 'A' stands for!"
"Arthur," suggested Louise.
"Albert," said Beth.
"Or Algernon," added Uncle John with a chuckle.
"But we haven't seen the last of him yet," declared Miss Doyle. "I've a romance all plotted, of which A. Jones is to be the hero. He will fall in love with Maud and carry her away to his island!"
"I'm not so sure of that result," observed Uncle John thoughtfully. "It wouldn't astonish me to have him fall in love with Maud Stanton; we've all done that, you know; but could Maud—could any girl—be attracted by a lean, dismal boy with a weak stomach, such as A. Jones?"
"Even with these drawbacks he is quite interesting," asserted Beth.
"He is sure to win her sympathy," said Louise.
"But, above all," declared Patsy, "he has an island, inherited from his royal daddy. That island would count for a lot, with any girl!"
The girls intercepted Maud Stanton when she returned to the hotel that evening, and told her all about A. Jones. The tale was finished long before that dyspeptic youth had wakened from his slumbers. Then they all dressed for dinner and afterward met in the lobby, where Uncle John told them he had arranged to have a big round table prepared for the entire party, including a seat for A. Jones, who might like to join them.
However, the young man did not make his appearance, and as they trooped into the dining room Patsy said resentfully:
"I believe A. Jones is in a trance and needs rolling on a barrel again."
"He probably found himself too weak to appear in public," replied Flo Stanton. "I'm sure if I had been all but drowned a few hours ago, I would prefer bed to society."
"I'm astonished that he summoned energy to visit us at all," declaredMrs. Montrose. "He may be weak and ill, but at least he is grateful."
"Jones seems a vary gentlemanly young fellow," said Mr. Merrick. "He is a bit shy and retiring, which is perhaps due to his lonely life on his island; but I think he has been well brought up."
As they came out from dinner they observed the porters wheeling several big trunks up the east corridor. The end of each trunk was lettered: "A. Jones."
"Well," said Beth, with an amused smile, "he intends to stay a while, anyhow. You'll have a chance to meet him yet, Maud."
"I'm glad of that," answered Maud, "for I am anxious to calculate the worth of the life I helped to save. Your reports are ambiguous, and I am undecided whether you are taking the boy seriously or as a joke. From your description of his personal appearance, I incline to the belief that under ordinary circumstances I would not look twice at Mr. Jones, but having been partly instrumental in preserving him to the world, I naturally feel a proprietary interest in him."
"Of course," said Flo. "He's worth one look, out of pure curiosity; but it would be dreadful to have him tagging you around, expressing his everlasting gratitude."
"I don't imagine he'll do that," observed Patsy Doyle. "A. Jones strikes me as having a fair intellect in a shipwrecked body, and I'll wager a hatpin against a glove-buttoner that he won't bore you. At the same time he may not interest you—or any of us—for long, unless he develops talents we have not discovered. I wonder why he doesn't use his whole name. That mystic 'A' puzzles me."
"It's an English notion, I suppose," said Mrs. Montrose.
"But he isn't English; he's American."
"Sangoese," corrected Beth.
"Perhaps he doesn't like his name, or is ashamed of it," suggestedUncle John.
"It may be 'Absalom,'" said Flo. "We once knew an actor named Absalom, and he always called himself 'A. Judson Keith.' He was a dignified chap, and when we girls one day called him 'Ab,' he nearly had hysterics."
"Mr. Werner had hysterics to-day," asserted Maud, gravely; "but I didn't blame him. He sent out a party to ride down a steep hill on horseback, as part of a film story, and a bad accident resulted. One of the horses stepped in a gopher hole and fell, and a dozen others piled up on him, including their riders."
"How dreadful!" was the general exclamation.
"Several of the horses broke their legs and had to be shot," continued Maud; "but none of the riders was seriously injured except little Sadie Martin, who was riding a bronco. The poor thing was caught under one of the animals and the doctor says she won't be able to work again for months."
"Goodness me! And all for the sake of a picture?" cried Patsy indignantly. "I hope you don't take such risks, Maud."
"No; Flo and I have graduated from what is called 'the bronco bunch,' and now do platform work entirely. To be sure we assume some minor risks in that, but nothing to compare with the other lines of business."
"I hope the little girl you mentioned will get well, and has enough money to tide her over this trouble," said Uncle John anxiously.
"The manager will look after her," returned Mrs. Montrose. "Our people are very good about that and probably Sadie Martin's salary will continue regularly until she is able to work again."
"Well," said Beth, drawing a long breath, "I suppose we shall read all about it in the morning papers."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Maud and added: "These accidents never get into the papers. They happen quite often, around Los Angeles, where ten thousand or more people make their living from motion pictures; but the public is protected from all knowledge of such disasters, which would detract from their pleasure in pictures and perhaps render all films unpopular."
"I thought the dear public loved the dare-devil acts," remarkedArthur Weldon.
"Oh, it does," agreed Mrs. Montrose; "yet those who attend the picture theatres seem not to consider the action taking place before their eyes to be real. Here are pictures only—a sort of amplified story book—and the spectators like them exciting; but if they stopped to reflect that men and women in the flesh were required to do these dangerous feats for their entertainment, many would be too horrified to enjoy the scenes. Of course the makers of the pictures guard their actors in all possible ways; yet, even so, casualties are bound to occur."
They had retired to a cosy corner of the public drawing room and were conversing on this interesting topic when they espied A. Jones walking toward them. The youth was attired in immaculate evening dress, but his step was slow and dragging and his face pallid.
Arthur and Uncle John drew up an easy chair for him while Patsy performed the introductions to Mrs. Montrose and her nieces. Very earnestly the boy grasped the hand of the young girl who had been chiefly responsible for his rescue, thanking her more by his manner than in his few carefully chosen words.
As for Maud, she smilingly belittled her effort, saying lightly: "I know I must not claim that it didn't amount to anything, for your life is valuable, Mr. Jones, I'm sure. But I had almost nothing to do beyond calling Patsy Doyle's attention to you and then swimming out to keep you afloat until help came. I'm a good swimmer, so it was not at all difficult."
"Moreover," he added, "you would have done the same thing for anyone in distress."
"Certainly."
"I realize that. I am quite a stranger to you. Nevertheless, my gratitude is your due and I hope you will accept it as the least tribute I can pay you. Of all that throng of bathers, only you noticed my peril and came to my assistance."
"Fate!" whispered Flo impressively.
"Nonsense," retorted her sister. "I happened to be the only one looking out to sea. I think, Mr. Jones, you owe us apologies more than gratitude, for your folly was responsible for the incident. You were altogether too venturesome. Such action on this coast, where the surf rolls high and creates an undertow, is nothing less than foolhardy."
"I'm sure you are right," he admitted. "I did not know this coast, and foolishly imagined the old Pacific, in which I have sported and played since babyhood, was my friend wherever I found it."
"I hope you are feeling better and stronger this evening," said Mr.Merrick. "We expected you to join us at dinner."
"I—I seldom dine in public," he explained, flushing slightly. "My bill-of-fare is very limited, you know, owing to my—my condition; and so I carry my food-tablets around with me, wherever I go, and eat them in my own room."
"Food-tablets!" cried Patsy, horrified.
"Yes. They are really wafers—very harmless—and I am permitted to eat nothing else."
"No wonder your stomach is bad and you're a living skeleton!" asserted the girl, with scorn.
"My dear," said Uncle John, gently chiding her, "we must give Mr. Jones the credit for knowing what is best for him."
"Not me, sir!" protested the boy, in haste. "I'm very ignorant about—about health, and medicine and the like. But in New York I consulted a famous doctor, and he told me what to do."
"That's right," nodded the old gentleman, who had never been ill in his life. "Always take the advice of a doctor, listen to the advice of a lawyer, and refuse the advise of a banker. That's worldly wisdom."
"Were you ill when you left your home?" inquired Mrs. Montrose, looking at the young man with motherly sympathy.
"Not when I left the island," he said. "I was pretty well up to that time. But during the long ocean voyage I was terribly sick, and by the time we got to San Francisco my stomach was a wreck. Then I tried to eat the rich food at your restaurants and hotels—we live very plainly in Sangoa, you know—and by the time I got to New York I was a confirmed dyspeptic and suffering tortures. Everything I ate disagreed with me. So I went to a great specialist, who has invented these food tablets for cases just like mine, and he ordered me to eat nothing else."
"And are you better?" asked Maud.
He hesitated.
"Sometimes I imagine I am. I do not suffer so much pain, but I—I seem to grow weaker all the time."
"No wonder!" cried Patsy. "If you starve yourself you can't grow strong."
He looked at her with an expression of surprise. Then he asked abruptly:
"What would you advise me to do, Miss Doyle?"
A chorus of laughter greeted this question. Patsy flushed a trifle but covered her confusion by demanding: "Would you follow my advice?"
He made a little grimace. There was humor in the boy, despite his dyspepsia.
"I understand there is a law forbidding suicide," he replied. "But I asked your advice in an attempt to discover what you thought of my absurd condition. Now that you call my attention to it, I believe Iamstarving myself. I need stronger and more nourishing food; and yet the best specialist in your progressive country has regulated my diet."
"I don't believe much in specialists," asserted Patsy. "Ifyoudo, go ahead and kill yourself, in defiance of the law. According to common sense you ought to eat plenty of good, wholesome food, but you may be so disordered—in your interior—that even that would prove fatal. So I won't recommend it."
"I'm doomed, either way," he said quietly. "I know that."
"Howdo you know it?" demanded Maud in a tone of resentment.
He was silent a moment. Then he replied:
"I cannot remember how we drifted into this very personal argument. It seems wrong for me to be talking about myself to those who are practically strangers, and you will realize how unused I am to the society of ladies by considering my rudeness in this interview."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Uncle John; "we are merely considering you as a friend. You must believe that we are really interested in you," he continued, laying a kindly hand on the young fellow's shoulder. "You seem in a bad way, it's true, but your condition is far from desperate. Patsy's frankness—it's her one fault and her chief virtue—led you to talk about yourself, and I'm surprised to find you so despondent and—and—what do you call it, Beth?"
"Pessimistic?"
"That's it—pessimistic."
"But you're wrong, sir!" said the boy with a smile; "I may not be elated over my fatal disease, but neither am I despondent. I force myself to keep going when I wonder how the miserable machine responds to my urging, and I shall keep it going, after a fashion, until the final breakdown. Fate weaves the thread of our lives, I truly believe, and she didn't use very good material when she started mine. But that doesn't matter," he added quickly. "I'm trying to do a little good as I go along and not waste my opportunities. I'm obeying my doctor's orders and facing the future with all the philosophy I can summon. So now, if you—who have given me a new lease of life—think I can use it to any better advantage, I am willing to follow your counsel."
His tone was more pathetic than his words. Maud, as she looked at the boy and tried to realize that his days were numbered, felt her eyes fill with tears. Patsy sniffed scornfully, but said nothing. It was Beth who remarked with an air of unconcern that surprised those who knew her unsympathetic nature:
"It would be presumptuous for us to interfere, either with Fate or with Nature. You're probably dead wrong about your condition, for a sick person has no judgment whatever, but I've noticed the mind has a good deal to do with one's health. If you firmly believe you're going to die, why, what can you expect?"
No one cared to contradict this and a pause followed that was growing awkward when they were all aroused by the sound of hasty footsteps approaching their corner.
The newcomer proved to be Goldstein, the manager of the Continental.His face was frowning and severe as he rudely marched up to the groupand, without the formality of a greeting, pointedly addressed theStanton girls.
"What does it mean?" he demanded in evident excitement, for his voice shook and the accusing finger he held out trembled. "How does it happen that my people, under contract to work for the Continental, are working for other firms?"
Maud paled and her eyes glistened with resentment as she rose and faced her manager. Florence pulled her sister's sleeve and said with a forced laugh: "Sit down, Maud; the man has probably been drinking."
He turned on the young girl fiercely, but now it was Arthur Weldon who seized the manager's arm and whirled him around.
"Sir, you are intruding," he said sternly. "If you have business with these ladies, choose the proper time and place to address them."
"I have!" cried Goldstein, blusteringly. "They have treated me shamefully—unprofessionally! They have played me a trick, and I've the right to demand why they are working for a rival firm while in my pay."
Mrs. Montrose now arose and said with quiet dignity:
"Mr. Goldstein, you are intruding, as Mr. Weldon says. But you have said so much to defame my nieces in the eyes of our friends, here assembled, that you must explain yourself more fully."
The manager seemed astonished by his reception. He looked from one to another and said more mildly:
"It is easy enough formeto explain, but how can the Stantons explain their conduct? They are under contract to act exclusively for the Continental Film Company and I pay them a liberal salary. Yet only yesterday, when I was kind enough to give them a holiday, they went down to the beach and posed for a picture for our rivals, the Corona Company!"
"You are mistaken, sir!" retorted Arthur. "The young ladies were in our company the entire afternoon and they did not pose for any picture whatever."
"Don't tell me!" cried Goldstein. "I've just seen the picture down town. I was going by one of the theatres when I noticed a placard that read: 'Sensational Film by Maud Stanton, the Queen of Motion Picture Actresses, entitled "A Gallant Rescue!" First run to-night.' I went in and saw the picture—with my own eyes!—and I saw Maud Stanton in a sea scene, rescuing a man who was drowning. Don't deny it, Miss," he added, turning upon Maud fiercely. "I saw it with my own eyes—not an hour ago!"
After a moment's amazed silence his hearers broke into a chorus of laughter, led by Flo, who was almost hysterical. Even A. Jones smiled indulgently upon the irate manager, who was now fairly bristling with indignation.
"The Corona people," remarked Arthur Weldon, "are quite enterprising. I did not know they had a camera-man at the beach yesterday, but he must have secured a very interesting picture. It was not posed, Mr. Goldstein, but taken from life."
"It was Maud Stanton!" asserted, the manager.
"Yes; she and some others. A man was really drowning and the brave girl swam to his rescue, without a thought of posing."
"I don't believe it!" cried the man rudely.
Here A. Jones struggled to his feet.
"It is true," he said. "I was the drowning man whom Miss Stanton saved."
Goldstein eyed him shrewdly.
"Perhaps you were," he admitted, "for the man in the picture was about your style of make-up. But how can you prove it was not a put-up job with the Corona people? How do I know you are not all in the employ of the Corona people?"
"I give you my word."
"Pah! I don't know you."
"I see you don't," returned the youth stiffly.
"Here is my card. Perhaps you will recognize the name."
He fumbled in his pocket, took out a card and handed it to the manager. Goldstein looked at it, started, turned red and then white and began bobbing his head with absurd deference to the youth.
"Pardon, Mr. Jones—pardon!" he gasped. "I—I heard you were in our neighborhood, but I—I did not recognize you. I—I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Jones! I was angry at what I supposed was the treachery of an employee. You will—will—understand that, I am sure. It is my duty to protect the interests of the Continental, you know, sir. But it's all right now, of course! Isn't it all right now, Mr. Jones?"
"You'd better go, Goldstein," said the boy in a weary tone, and sat down again.
The manager hesitated. Then he bowed to Maud Stanton and to the others, murmuring:
"All a mistake, you see; all a mistake. I—I beg everybody's pardon."
With this he backed away, still bowing, and finally turned and beat a hasty retreat. But no one was noticing him especially. All eyes were regarding the boy with a new curiosity.
"That Goldstein is an ill-bred boor!" remarked Uncle John in an annoyed tone.
"I suppose," said Maud, slowly, "he thought he was right in demanding an explanation. There is great rivalry between the various film manufacturers and it was rather mean of the Corona to put my name on that placard."
"It's wonderful!" exclaimed Patsy. "How did they get the picture, do you suppose?"
"They have camera-men everywhere, looking for some picture worth while." explained Mrs. Montrose. "If there's a fire, the chances are a camera-man is on the spot before the firemen arrive. If there's an accident, it is often caught by the camera before the victim realizes what has happened. Perhaps a camera-man has been at the beach for weeks, waiting patiently for some tragedy to occur. Anyway, he was on hand yesterday and quietly ran his film during the excitement of the rescue. He was in rare luck to get Maud, because she is a favorite with the public; but it was not fair to connect her name with the picture, when they know she is employed by the Continental."
Young Jones rose from his chair with a gesture of weariness.
"If you will excuse me," he said, "I will go to my room. Our little conversation has given me much pleasure; I'm so alone in the world. Perhaps you will allow me to join you again—some other time?"
They hastened to assure him his presence would always be welcome. Patsy even added, with her cheery smile, that they felt a certain proprietorship in him since they had dragged him from a watery grave. The boy showed, as he walked away, that he was not yet very steady on his feet, but whether the weakness was the result of his malady or his recent trying experience they could not determine.
"What staggers me," said Maud, looking after him, "is the effect his name had on Goldstein, who has little respect or consideration for anyone. Who do you suppose A. Jones is?"
"Why, he has told us," replied Louise. "He is an islander, on his first visit to this country."
"He must be rather more than that," declared Arthur. "Do you remember what the manager said to him?"
"Yes," said Beth. "He had heard that A. Jones was in this neighborhood, but had never met him. A. Jones was a person of sufficient importance to make the general manager of the Continental Film Company tremble in his boots."
"He really did tremble," asserted Patsy, "and he was abject in his apologies."
"Showing," added Flo Stanton, "that Goldstein is afraid of him."
"I wonder why," said Maud.
"It is all very easy of solution," remarked Arthur. "Goldstein believes that Jones is in the market to buy films. Perhaps he's going to open a motion picture theatre on his island. So the manager didn't want to antagonize a good customer."
"That's it," said Uncle John, nodding approval. "There's no great mystery about young Jones, I'm sure."
Next morning Uncle John and the Weldons—including the precious baby—went for a ride into the mountains, while Beth and Patsy took their embroidery into a sunny corner of the hotel lobby.
It was nearly ten o'clock when A. Jones discovered the two girls and came tottering toward them. Tottering is the right word; he fairly swayed as he made his way to the secluded corner.
"I wish he'd use a cane," muttered Beth in an undertone. "I have the feeling that he's liable to bump his nose any minute."
Patsy drew up a chair for him, although he endeavored to prevent her.
"Are you feeling better this morning?" she inquired.
"I—I think so," he answered doubtfully. "I don't seem to get back my strength, you see."
"Were you stronger before your accident?" asked Beth.
"Yes, indeed. I went swimming, you remember. But perhaps I was not strong enough to do that. I—I'm very careful of myself, yet I seem to grow weaker all the time."
There was a brief silence, during which the girls plied their needles.
"Are you going to stay in this hotel?" demanded Patsy, in her blunt way.
"For a time, I think. It is very pleasant here," he said.
"Have you had breakfast?"
"I took a food-tablet at daybreak."
"Huh!" A scornful exclamation. Then she glanced at the open door of the dining-hall and laying aside her work she rose with a determined air and said:
"Come with me!"
"Where?"
For answer she assisted him to rise. Then she took his hand and marched him across the lobby to the dining room.
He seemed astonished at this proceeding but made no resistance. Seated at a small table she called a waitress and said:
"Bring a cup of chocolate, a soft-boiled egg and some toast."
"Pardon me, Miss Doyle," he said; "I thought you had breakfasted."
"So I have," she replied. "The breakfast I've ordered is for you, and you're going to eat it if I have to ram it down your throat."
"But—Miss Doyle!"
"You've told us you are doomed. Well, you're going to die with a full stomach."
"But the doctor—"
"Bother the doctor! I'm your doctor, now, and I won't send in a bill, thank your stars."
He looked at her with his sad little smile.
"Isn't this a rather high-handed proceeding, Miss Doyle?"
"Perhaps."
"I haven't employed you as my physician, you know."
"True. But you've deliberately put yourself in my power."
"How?"
"In the first place, you tagged us here to this hotel."
"You don't mind, do you?"
"Not in the least. It's a public hostelry. In the second place, you confided to us your disease and your treatment of it—which was really none of our business."
"I—I was wrong to do that. But you led me on and—I'm so lonely—and you all seemed so generous and sympathetic—that I—I—"
"That you unwittingly posted us concerning your real trouble. Do you realize what it is? You're a hypo—hypo—what do they call it?—hypochondriac!"
"I am not!"
"And your doctor—your famous specialist—is a fool."
"Oh, Miss Doyle!"
"Also you are a—a chump, to follow his fool advice. You don't need sympathy, Mr. A. Jones. What you need is a slapstick."
"A—a—"
"A slapstick. And that's what you're going to get if you don't obey orders."
Here the maid set down the breakfast, ranging the dishes invitingly before the invalid. His face had expressed all the emotions from amazement to terror during Patsy's tirade and now he gazed from her firm, determined features to the eggs and toast, in an uncertain, helpless way that caused the girl a severe effort to curb a burst of laughter.
"Now, then," she said, "get busy. I'll fix your egg. Do you want more sugar in your chocolate? Taste it and see. And if you don't butter that toast before it gets cold it won't be fit to eat."
He looked at her steadily now, again smiling.
"You're not joking, Miss Doyle?"
"I'm in dead earnest."
"Of course you realize this is the—the end?"
"Of your foolishness? I hope so. You used to eat like a sensible boy, didn't you?"
"When I was well."
"You're well now. Your only need is sustaining, strengthening food. I came near ordering you a beefsteak, but I'll reserve that for lunch."
He sipped the chocolate.
"Yes; it needs more sugar," he said quietly. "Will you please butter my toast? It seems to me such a breakfast is worth months of suffering. How delicious this egg is! It was the fragrance of the egg and toast that conquered me. That, and—"
"And one sensible, determined girl. Don't look at me as if I were a murderess! I'm your best friend—a friend in need. And don't choke down your food. Eat slowly. Fletcherize—chew your food, you know. I know you're nearly famished, but you must gradually accustom yourself to a proper diet."
He obeyed meekly. Patsy's face was calm, but her heart beat fast, with a thrill of fear she could not repress. Acting on impulse, as she had, the girl now began to consider that she was personally responsible for whatever result might follow this radical treatment for dyspepsia. Had she been positive itwasdyspepsia, she would never have dared interfere with a doctor's orders; but she felt that the boy needed food and would die unless he had it. He might die from the effect of this unusual repast, in which case she would never forgive herself.
Meantime, the boy had cast aside all fear. He had protested, indeed, but his protests being overruled he accepted his food and its possible consequences with philosophic resignation and a growing satisfaction.
Patsy balked on the third slice of toast and took it away from him. She also denied him a second cup of chocolate. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh of content and said:
"Bless the hen that laid that egg! No dainty was ever more delicious. And now," he added, rising, "let us go and inquire the address of a good undertaker. I have made my will, and I'd like to be cremated—it's so much nicer than the old-fashioned burial, don't you think?"
"I'll attend to all that, if you wish," she replied, trying to repress a shudder as she followed him from the room. "Do you smoke?"
"I used to, but the doctor forbade it; so I gave it up entirely."
"Go over to that stand and buy a cigar. Then you may sit beside Beth and me and smoke it."
The girl did not wholly approve of smoking and had often chided Uncle John and her father and Arthur Weldon for indulging in the habit; but this advice to young Jones was given in desperation, because all the men of her family stoutly affirmed that a cigar after a meal assisted digestion. She resumed her former seat beside Beth, and her cousin quickly read the anxiety on her face.
"What did you do, Patricia?"
"I fed him."
"Did he really eat?"
"Like a starved cat."
"Hm-m-m," said Beth. "What next, I wonder?"
Patsy wondered, too, the cold shivers chasing one another up and down her back. The boy was coming toward them, coolly puffing a cigar. He did not seem to totter quite so much as before, but he was glad to sink into an easy chair.
"How do you feel?" asked Beth, regarding him curiously.
"Like one of those criminals who are pampered with all the good things of life before being led to the scaffold."
"Any pains?"
He shook his head.
"Not yet. I've asked the clerk, whenever I signal him, to send someone to carry me to my room. If I'm not able to say good-bye to you, please accept now my thanks for all your kindness to a stranger. You see, I'm not sure whether I'll have a sudden seizure or the pains will come on gradually."
"What pains?" demanded Patsy.
"I can't explain them. Don't you believe something is bound to happen?" he inquired, nervously removing the ash from his cigar.
"To be sure. You're going to get well."
He made no reply, but sat watching Beth's nimble fingers. Patsy was too excited to resume her embroidery.
"I wonder if you are old enough to smoke?" remarked Beth.
"I'm over twenty-one."
"Indeed! We decided you were about eighteen."
"I suppose I look younger than my age. At home, in Sangoa, I am still regarded as a mere child. That is because I had no brothers and sisters, and my father never could realize that I was growing up. The people still call me—"
He paused, in an embarrassed way, till Patsy asked:
"Call you what?"
"By my old childish name."
Both the girls were distinctly disappointed. But bluff Patsy Doyle would not be denied the satisfaction of her curiosity. Within the last hour she had felt as if she had adopted this friendless boy, and some information concerning him was her due.
"Your name is A. Jones?" she aid.
"Yes."
"What does the 'A' stand for?"
There! The question was out, at last. He hesitated, flushing read. Then he replied slowly:
"It stands for one of my father's peculiarities. I think I have told you how proud he was that we are direct descendants of John Paul Jones. 'John Paul,'" he would often say, 'has ennobled the name of Jones, so that to be a Jones is to bear the proudest name known to mankind.' When I was born they were undecided what to name me. 'There is no hurry about it,' said my father; 'whatever we call him, he is a Jones.' My mother must have been something of a humorist. She kept referring to her baby as 'a Jones' until father caught the absurd idea of letting it go at that, and had me christened merely 'A. Jones.'"
"How delightful?" cried Patsy, clapping her hands gleefully. "Then 'A' doesn't stand for anything at all?"
"Oh, yes; it stands foraJones," said the boy, making a wry face. "I think it is dreadful."
"But what did they call you, afterward? What was the childish name you referred to?"
"Another of my mother's humorous fancies. She called me 'Ajo,' and others quickly caught up the horrid nickname. It is merely a contraction of A. Jones, and in Sangoa I am called nothing else."
"Ajo," repeated Beth, her sweet voice giving the title a pleasant sound."In Spanish it would be pronounced 'Ah-ho.'"
"But we are not Spanish in Sangoa."
"What are your people?"
"Formerly all Americans. The younger generation are, like myself I suppose, Sangoans by birth. But there isn't a black or yellow or brown man on our island."
"How many inhabitants has Sangoa?"
"About six hundred, all told."
There was silence for a while.
"Any pains yet?" inquired Beth.
"Not yet. But I'm feeling drowsy. With your permission I'll lie down and take a nap. I slept very little last night."
He threw away his cigar, which he had smoked nearly to the end, and rising without assistance, bowed and walked away.
"Will he ever waken, I wonder?" said Beth softly.
"Of course," declared Patsy. "He has crossed the Rubicon and is going to get well. I feel it in my bones!"
"Let us hope," responded Beth, "that Ajo also feels it in his bones, rather than in his stomach."
The day advanced to luncheon time and Uncle John and the Weldons came back from their mountain trip. Hollywood is in the foothills and over the passes are superb automobile roads into the fruitful valleys of San Fernando and La Canada.
"Seen anything of the boy—A. Jones?" inquired Arthur.
"Yes; and perhaps we've seen the last of him," answered Beth.
"Oh. Has he gone?"
"No one knows. Patsy fed him and he went to sleep. What has happened since we cannot tell."
The girls then related the experiences of the morning, at which both Uncle John and Arthur looked solemn and uncomfortable. But Louise said calmly:
"I think Patsy was quite right. I wouldn't have dared such a thing myself, but I'm sure that boy needed a square meal more than anything. If he dies, that breakfast has merely hastened his end; but if he doesn't die it will do him good."
"There's another possibility," remarked Uncle John. "He may be suffering agonies with no one to help him."
Patsy's face was white as chalk. The last hour or two had brought her considerable anxiety and her uncle's horrible suggestion quite unnerved her. She stole away to the office and inquired the number of Mr. Jones' room. It was on the ground floor and easily reached by a passage. The girl tiptoed up to the door and putting her ear to the panel listened intently. A moment later a smile broke over her face; she chuckled delightedly and then turned and ran buck to her friends.
"He's snoring like a walrus!" she cried triumphantly.
"Are you sure they are not groans?" asked Arthur.
"Pah! Can't I recognize a snore when I hear it? And I'll bet it's the first sound sleep he's had in a month."
Mr. Merrick and Arthur went to the door of the boy's room to satisfy themselves that Patsy was not mistaken, and the regularity of the sounds quickly convinced them the girl was right. So they had a merry party at luncheon, calling Patsy "Doctor" with grave deference and telling her she had probably saved the life of A. Jones for a second time.
"And now," proposed Uncle John, when the repast was over, "let us drive down to the sea and have a look at that beautiful launch that came in yesterday. Everyone is talking about it and they say it belongs to some foreign prince."
So they motored to Santa Monica and spent the afternoon on the sands, watching the bathers and admiring the graceful outlines of the big yacht lying at anchor a half mile from the shore. The boat was something of a mystery to everybody. It was named the "Arabella" and had come from Hawaii via San Francisco; but what it was doing here and who the owner might be were questions no one seemed able to answer. Rumor had it that a Japanese prince had come in it to inspect the coast line, but newspaper reporters were forbidden to scale the side and no satisfaction was given their eager questioning by the bluff old captain who commanded the craft. So the girls snapped a few kodak pictures of the handsome yacht and then lost interest in it.
That evening they met Mrs. Montrose and the Stanton girls at dinner and told them about the boy, who still remained invisible. Uncle John had listened at his door again, but the snores had ceased and a deathlike silence seemed to pervade the apartment. This rendered them all a trifle uneasy and when they left the dining room Arthur went to the hotel clerk and asked:
"Have you seen Mr. Jones this evening?"
"No," was the reply. "Do you know him?"
"Very slightly."
"Well, he's the queerest guest we've ever had. The first day he ate nothing at all. This morning I hear he had a late breakfast. Wasn't around to lunch, but a little while ago we sent a meal to his room that would surprise you."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. A strange order it was! Broiled mushrooms, pancakes with maple syrup and ice cream. How is that for a mix-up—and at dinner time, too!" said the clerk, disgustedly.
Arthur went back and reported.
"All right," said Patsy, much relieved. "We've got him started and now he can take care of himself. Come, Uncle; let's all go down town and see the picture that drove Mr. Goldstein crazy."
"He was very decent to us to-day," asserted Flo Stanton.
"Did he ask any explanation about Maud's appearing in the picture of a rival company?" inquired Arthur.
"No, not a word."
"Did he mention Mr. Jones, who conquered him so mysteriously?" asked Beth.
"Not at all. Goldstein confined himself strictly to business; but he treated us with unusual courtesy," explained Maud.
They were curious to see the films of the rescue, and the entire party rode to the down-town theatre where the Corona picture was being run. Outside the entrance they found the audacious placard, worded just as Goldstein had reported, and they all agreed it was a mean trick to claim another firm's star as their own.
"I do not think the Corona Company is responsible for this announcement," said Uncle John. "It is probably an idea of the theatre proprietor, who hoped to attract big business in that way."
"He has succeeded," grumbled Arthur, as he took his place at the end of a long line of ticket buyers.
The picture, as it flashed on the screen, positively thrilled them. First was shown the crowd of merry bathers, with Patsy and Maud standing in the water a little apart from the others. Then the boy—far out beyond the rest—threw up his arms, struggling desperately. Maud swam swiftly toward him, Patsy making for the shore. The launching of the boat, the race to rescue, Maud's effort to keep the drowning one afloat, and the return to the shore, where an excited crowd surrounded them—all was clearly shown in the picture. Now they had the advantage of observing the expressions on the faces of the bathers when they discovered a tragedy was being enacted in their midst. The photographs were so full of action that the participants now looked upon their adventure in a new light and regarded it far more seriously than before.
The picture concluded with the scene where Uncle John lifted the body into the automobile and dashed away with it to the hospital.
Maud Stanton, used as she was to seeing herself in motion pictures, was even more impressed than the others when observing her own actions at a time when she was wholly unconscious that a camera-man had his lens focused upon her.
"It's a great picture!" whispered Flo, as they made their way out of the crowded theatre. "Why can't all our films be as natural and absorbing as this one?"
"Because," said her sister, "in this case there is no acting. The picture carries conviction with a force that no carefully rehearsed scene could ever accomplish."
"That is true," agreed her Aunt Jane. "The nature scenes are the best, after all."
"The most unsatisfactory pictures I have ever seen," remarked Uncle John, "were those of prominent men, and foreign kings, and the like, who stop before the camera and bow as awkwardly as a camel. They know they are posing, and in spite of their public experience they're as bashful as schoolboys or as arrogant as policemen, according to their personal characteristics."
"Did you notice the mob of children in that theatre?" asked Patsy, as they proceeded homeward. "I wish there were more pictures made that are suitable to their understandings."
"They enjoy anything in the way of a picture," said Arthur. "It isn't necessary to cater to children; they'll go anyhow, whatever is shown."
"That may be, to an extent, true," said Beth. "Children are fascinated by any sort of motion pictures, but a lot of them must be wholly incomprehensible to the child mind. I agree with Patsy that the little ones ought to have their own theatres and their own pictures."
"That will come, in time," prophesied Aunt Jane. "Already the film makers are recognizing the value of the children's patronage and are trying to find subjects that especially appeal to them."
They reached the hotel soon after ten o'clock and found "Ajo" seated in the lobby. He appeared much brighter and stronger than the day before and rose to greet Patsy with a smile that had lost much of its former sad expression.
"Congratulate me, Dr. Doyle," said he. "I'm still alive, and—thanks to your prescription—going as well as could be expected."
"I'm glad I did the right thing," she replied; "but we were all a little worried for fear I'd make a mistake."
"I have just thrown away about a thousand of those food-tablets," he informed her with an air of pride. "I am positive there is no substitute for real food, whatever the specialists may say. In fact," he continued more soberly, "I believe you have rescued me a second time from certain death, for now I have acquired a new hope and have made up my mind to get well."
"Be careful not to overdo it," cautioned Uncle John. "You ordered a queer supper, we hear."
"But it seemed to agree with me. I've had a delightful sleep—the first sound sleep in a month—and already I feel like a new man. I waited up to tell you this, hoping you would be interested."
"We are!" exclaimed Patsy, who felt both pride and pleasure. "This evening we have been to see the motion picture of your rescue from drowning."
"Oh. How did you like it?"
"It's a splendid picture. I'm not sure it will interest others as much as ourselves, yet the people present seemed to like it."
"Well it was their last chance to observe my desperate peril and my heroic rescue," said the boy. "The picture will not be shown after to-night."
"Why not?" they asked, in surprise.
"I bought the thing this afternoon. It didn't seem to me quite modest to exploit our little adventure in public."
This was a new phase of the strange boy's character and the girls did not know whether to approve it or not.
"It must have cost you something!" remarked Flo, the irrepressible."Besides, how could you do it while you were asleep?"
"Why, I wakened long enough to use the telephone," he replied with a smile. "There are more wonderful inventions in the world than motion pictures, you know."
"But you like motion pictures, don't you?" asked Maud, wondering why he had suppressed the film in question.
"Very much. In fact, I am more interested in them than in anything else, not excepting the telephone—which makes Aladdin's lamp look like a firefly in the sunshine."
"I suppose," said Flo, staring into his face with curious interest, "that you will introduce motion pictures into your island of Sangoa, when you return?"
"I suppose so," he answered, a little absently. "I had not considered that seriously, as yet, but my people would appreciate such a treat, I'm sure."
This speech seemed to destroy, in a manner, their shrewd conjecture that he was in America to purchase large quantities of films. Why, then, should Goldstein have paid such abject deference to this unknown islander?
In his own room, after the party had separated for the night, Mr. Merrick remarked to Arthur Weldon as they sat smoking their cigars:
"Young Jones is evidently possessed of some means."
"So it seems," replied Arthur. "Perhaps his father, the scientific recluse, had accumulated some money, and the boy came to America to get rid of it. He will be extravagant and wasteful for awhile, and then go back to his island with the idea that he has seen the world."
Uncle John nodded.
"He is a rather clean-cut young fellow," said he, "and the chances are he won't become dissipated, even though he loses his money through lack of worldly knowledge or business experience. A boy brought up and educated on an island can't be expected to prove very shrewd, and whatever the extent of his fortune it is liable to melt like snow in the sunshine."
"After all," returned Arthur, "this experience won't hurt him. He will still have his island to return to."
They smoked for a time in silence.
"Has it ever occurred to you, sir," said Arthur, "that the story Jones has related to us, meager though it is, bears somewhat the stamp of a fairy tale?"
Uncle John removed his cigar and looked reflectively at the ash.
"You mean that the boy is not what he seems?"
"Scarcely that, sir. He seems like a good boy, in the main. But his story is—such as one might invent if he were loath to tell the truth."
Uncle John struck a match and relit his cigar.
"I believe in A. Jones, and I see no reason to doubt his story," he asserted. "If real life was not full of romance and surprises, the novelists would be unable to interest us in their books."