"Where's Tony?" asked one of them, a boy of fourteen, but so small in
stature that his companions had nicknamed him "Little Paul," of whom we
shall have more to say by and by.

"They have gone home; we sent six of our fellows with them. They were
too wet and cold to stay here," replied Frank. "You can return in our
boat."

"The gentleman wants to see Tony very much."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Walker; it would do your heart good to hear him speak of
Tony."

"I dare say; but Tony is worthy of all the praise that can be bestowed
upon him. How is the lady?"

"She is nicely, and _she_ thinks Tony is an angel. She declares that a
dozen strong men could have done no more for them."

"She is right; you did all that could have been done by any persons. The
Butterfly's first laurel is a glorious one, and I can congratulate you
on the honors you have won."

"Thank you, Frank," said Little Paul, modestly. "I am sorry you were not
with us to share the honors."

"We should have been, if it hadn't been for Tim Bunker," said Charles
Hardy, a little sourly.