CHET SEDLEY’S STYLE
“Well, wouldn’t that frazzle you!” exclaimed Andy.
“It certainly is queer,” agreed his brother.
They stood looking down the beach after the figure of the strange man
who had seemed to know the lad whom they had rescued from the sea, but
who, on learning of his location, had shown a desire to get away without
calling on the unfortunate youth.
Andy set out on a run.
“Here, where you going?” his brother demanded quickly.
“I’m going after that man, and make him tell what he knows!” declared
the impulsive youth. “It’s a shame to let him get away in this fashion,
just when we were on the verge of learning something,” Andy called back
over his shoulder.
“You come right back here!” exclaimed the older lad, sprinting after his
brother and catching him by the arm.
“But he’ll get away, and we’ll never solve the mystery!”
“That may be, but we can’t take this means of finding out. We don’t know
who that man is. He may be a dangerous chap, who would make trouble if
you interfered with him. You stay here.”
“But how are we ever going to find out, Frank?”
“If this boy is the one whom that man wants he’ll show his hand sooner
or later. He was taken by surprise when he found that we had him, and he
didn’t know what to say. But he won’t disappear altogether—not while the
lad is with us. He’ll come around again. Now you stay with me.”
“All right,” assented Andy, but with no very good grace. “I’m going to
holler after him, anyhow.”
Then, before Frank could stop him, had he been minded to do so, Andy
raised his voice in a shout:
“Hey, where are you going? Don’t you want to send some word to that boy
we rescued?”
The man turned half around, and for a moment Andy and Frank hoped he
would come back. Instead he shouted something that sounded like:
“Important business—see—later—don’t bother me.”
“Humph!” exclaimed Andy, as the man resumed his rapid walk. “We’re not
going to bother you. But we’ll solve that mystery, whether you want us
to or not,” he added firmly. “Won’t we, Frank?”
“If it’s possible. I’m almost ready to go out now and have a search for
the motor boat, but I think we’d better go back and tell him what
happened.”
“Tell who, the doctor?”
“No, this lad—the one who’s at our house. He may know the man when we
describe him.”
“That’s so. Paul, the man said his name was. Wonder what the other half
was?”
“Guess you’ll have to take it out in wondering. Come on back to the
house.”
It was a great disappointment to Frank and Andy when, after detailing
their adventure with the queer man, and describing him minutely, to have
the rescued lad say:
“I’m sorry, boys, but I can’t recall any such man.”
“Try hard,” suggested Frank.
“I am trying,” and the youth frowned and endeavored hard to concentrate
his thoughts. “No, it’s useless,” he added with a sigh. “My memory on
that point, if I ever had any, has gone with the rest of the past. It’s
too bad. I wish I _could_ remember.”
“Well, don’t try any more now,” said Frank quickly, as he saw that the
youth was much distressed. “We’ll do our best to help you out. And the
first thing we’ll do will be to look for that motor boat—that is, if
she’s still floating.”
“Does the name Paul mean anything to you?” asked Andy. “That’s what the
man called you before he thought.”
“Paul—Paul,” mused the lad. “No, it doesn’t seem to be my name. Did he
mention any other?”
“No, he cut himself off short. But what’s the matter with us calling you
Paul, until we find out your right name? It’s a bit awkward to refer to
you as ‘he’ or ‘him’ all the while. How does Paul suit you?”
“Fine! I like it.”
“But what about his other name?” asked Frank.
“Gale!” suddenly shouted Andy.
“Gale?” repeated his brother wonderingly.
“Yes, don’t you see,” and Andy laughed. “We picked him up in a gale. His
first name’s Paul, I’m sure, and Paul Gale would be a good name. How
about it, Paul?”
“It will do first rate until I can find my real one. Paul Gale—Paul
Gale—it sounds good.”
“Then Paul Gale it shall be,” declared Andy, and when he suggested it to
his father and mother that night they agreed with him. So the rescued
lad became Paul Gale.
As the days passed he gained in health and strength until he was able to
walk out. Then the wonderful sea air of Harbor View practically
completed the recovery, until Dr. Martin declared that there was no
further use for medicine, and only nourishing food was needed.
“But about his mind,” the physician went on, “time alone can heal that.
We must be patient. Take him out with you, Andy and Frank, when he is
able to go, and let him have a good time. That will help as much as
anything.”
In the meanwhile, pending the gaining of complete strength on the part
of Paul Gale, as he was now called, the two Racer boys made many trips
around the Shark’s Teeth in their sailboat, looking for the wrecked
motor craft. But they could not locate it. Nor were their inquiries any
more successful. Sailors and fishermen who went far out to sea were
questioned but could give no trace of the wreck.
“Guess we’ll have to give it up,” said Andy with a sigh one day.
“It’s like the mysterious man,” added his brother.
Mr. Racer was much interested in the efforts his sons were making to
solve the mystery of Paul Gale. He even advertised in a number of
papers, giving details of the rescue, and asking any persons who might
possibly know the history of such a youth as he described, to call on
him at his New York office. But none came.
Paul had not yet ventured far from the house, for he was still rather
weak. His arm, too, was very painful, and he could not yet accompany his
two friends on any of their rowing or sailing trips.
“But I’ll go soon,” he said one day, when Frank and Andy started off for
the beach, with the intention of interviewing some lobstermen who were
due to arrive from a long cruise out to sea. “Some time I’ll surprise
you by coming along.”
“Glad of it,” called Frank, linking his arm in that of his brother.
Together they strolled down on the sands, to await the arrival of the
lobstermen. They found Bob Trent there, loading up his wagon with soft
clams, which he had just dug.
As Bob tossed in shovelful after shovelful of the bivalves, the two
Racer boys saw approaching the vehicle a youth of about their own age
but of entirely different appearance. For, whereas the Racer boys
dressed well they made no pretense of style, especially when they were
away on their vacation. But the lad approaching the wagon was “dressed
to kill clams,” as Andy laughingly expressed it.
“Look at Chet Sedley!” exclaimed the younger lad to his brother. “Talk
about style!”
“I should boil a lobster; yes!” agreed Frank, laughing.
And well he might, for Chet, who was a native of Harbor View, had donned
his “best” that afternoon. He wore an extremely light suit, with new tan
ties of a light shade, and his purple and green striped hose could be
seen a long distance off.
“You can hear those socks as far as you can get a glimpse of them,”
remarked Andy.
“And look at his hat,” observed Frank. It was a straw affair, of rough
braid, and the brim was in three thicknesses or “layers” so that it
looked not unlike one of those cocoanut custard cakes with the cocoanut
put in extremely thick. In addition to this Chet’s tie was of vivid blue
with yellowish dots in it, and he carried a little cane, which he swung
jauntily.
As Chet passed the clam wagon, manned by Bob, who was dressed in his
oldest garments, as befitted his occupation, one of the bivalves slipped
from the shovel, and hit on the immaculate tan ties of the Harbor View
dude. It left a salt water mark.
“Look here, Bob Trent! What do you mean by that?” demanded Chet
indignantly as he took out a handkerchief covered with large green
checks and wiped off his shoe. “How dare you do such a thing?”
“What did I do?” asked the clammer innocently, for he had not seen the
accident.
“What did you do? I’ll show you! I’ll teach you to spoil a pair of new
shoes that cost me two dollars and thirty-five cents! I’ll have you
arrested if that spot doesn’t come out, and you’ll have to pay for
having them cleaned, too.”
“I—I—” began Bob, who was a lad never looking for trouble, “I’m
sorry—I—”
“Say, it’s you who ought to be arrested, Chet!” broke in Andy, coming to
the relief of his chum.
“Me? What for, I’d like to know?” asked the dude, as he finished
polishing the tan ties with the brilliant handkerchief.
“Why you’re dressed so ‘loud’ that you’re disturbing the peace,” was the
laughing reply. “You’d better look out.”
“Such—er—jokes are in very bad taste,” sneered Chet, whose parents were
in humble circumstances, not at all in keeping with his dress. In fact,
though Chet thought himself very stylish, it was a “style” affected only
by the very vain, and was several years behind the season at that.
“You’re a joke yourself,” murmured Frank. “It wasn’t Bob’s fault that
the clam fell on you, Chet,” he added in louder tones.
“Why not, I’d like to know?”
“Because you are so brilliant in those togs that you blinded his eyes,
and he couldn’t see to shovel straight; eh, Bob?”
“I—I guess that’s it. I didn’t mean to,” murmured Bob.
“Well, you’ll pay for having my shoes shined just the same,” snapped
Chet, as he restored his handkerchief to his pocket with a grand
flourish.
“Whew! What’s that smell?” cried Andy, pretending to be horrified. “I
didn’t know you could smell the fish fertilizer factory when the wind
was in this direction.”
“Me either,” added Frank, entering into the joke. “It sure is an awful
smell. Whew!”
“I—I don’t smell anything,” said Chet, blankly.
“Maybe it’s your handkerchief,” went on Andy. “Give us a whiff,” and
before the dude could stop him the younger Racer boy had snatched it
from his pocket. “Whew! Yes, this is it!” he cried, holding his nose as
he handed the gaudy linen back. “How did it happen, Chet? Did you drop
it somewhere? It’s awful!” and he pretended to stagger back. “Better
have it disinfected.”
“That smell! On my handkerchief!” fairly roared Chet. “That’s the best
perfumery they have at Davidson’s Emporium. I paid fifteen cents a
bottle for it. Give me my handkerchief.”
“Fifteen cents a bottle?” cried Andy. “Say, you got badly stuck all
right! Fifteen cents! Whew! Get on the other side, where the wind
doesn’t blow, please, Chet.”
“Oh, you fellows think you are mighty funny,” sneered the dude. “I’ll
get even with you yet. Are you going to pay for shining my shoes, Bob?”
“I—er—” began the captain’s son.
“Sit down and let’s talk it over,” suggested Andy, as he flopped down on
the sand. “Have a chair, Chet. You must be tired standing,” he went on.
“What? Sit there with—with my good clothes on?” demanded the dude in
accents of horror. “Never!”
“A clam might bite you, of course. I forgot that,” continued the
fun-loving Andy. Then, as Chet continued to face Bob, and make demands
on him for the price of having his tan shoes polished, the younger Racer
lad conceived another scheme.
In accordance with what he thought were the dictates of “fashion,” Chet
wore his trousers very much turned up at the bottoms. They formed a sort
of “pockets,” and these pockets Andy industriously proceeded to fill
with sand. Soon both trouser legs bulged with the white particles.
“Well, are you going to pay me?” demanded Chet of Bob finally.
“I—I didn’t mean to do it, and I haven’t any change to pay you now,”
said the captain’s son.
“Pay him in clams,” suggested Frank.
“No, I want the money,” insisted the dude. He took a step after Bob, who
walked around to get on the seat of the wagon. At his first movement
Chet was made aware of the sand in the bottoms of his trousers.
The dude looked down, half frightened. Then he made a leap forward. The
sand was scattered all about, a good portion of it going into the low
shoes Chet wore. This filled them so that they were hard to walk in, and
the next moment the stylishly dressed youth lurched, stepped into a
hollow, and fell flat on the sand, his slender cane breaking off short
at the handle as it caught between his legs.
“Come here and I’ll pick you up!” shouted Andy, who had scrambled away
as he saw Chet start out.
“You—you—who did this? Who pushed me?” stammered Chet, as he got up
spluttering, for some sand had gotten in his mouth. “I’ll have revenge
for this—on some one! Who knocked me down?”
“It was the strong perfumery on your handkerchief,” suggested Andy. “It
went to your head, Chet.”
“It was you, Bob Trent; you did it!” yelled the dude, making a rush for
the captain’s son. “I’ll give you a thrashing for this!”