Aunt Jane's Nieces out West Part 12

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 embarra.s.sed 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 enn.o.bled 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 for _a_ Jones," 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 t.i.tle a pleasant sound.

"In Spanish it would be p.r.o.nounced '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 a.s.sistance, 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."

CHAPTER X

STILL A MYSTERY

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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sage. 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.