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.”

CHAPTER IX

DOCTOR PATSY

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.”