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Timoteo, however, was acquainted with abalones, and made good use of his weapon. He clambered far out over the wet rocks for hours, finding abalones now and then, and waging war on these thick, rough ovals that clung so tightly to the rock, the beautiful colors of the abalone-shells entirely concealed. Timoteo saw nothing more of Herbert, during these hours of work.

Timoteo succeeded in getting three abalones, the last an especially large shell. He sat down on the rocks to rest, after the long struggle with this big abalone. The tide was rising. He would go home soon now.

While he sat there, it seemed to him that he heard the sound of outcries. At first he thought it was the gulls. Half in fun he shouted in reply. The distant cries seemed redoubled. Timoteo caught up his basket and long spike. He sprang to his feet.

“Where is it?” he thought, confused with the splash of waves and the toss of spray.

He listened. He sped, shouting, over the rocks in the direction from which the cries seemed to come. He stopped now and then to listen. Yes, it was a human voice that cried for help. It was not the gulls.

“Adonde?” (Where?) “Adonde?” shouted Timoteo, forgetting his English in his excitement.

The answering shouts grew more distinct. Timoteo climbed over the wet rocks till he found himself near a place where the sounds seemed to come from between two rocks. Timoteo saw a boy reach up part way between the two rocks. The boy could not crawl out. The hole between the rocks was not big enough.

“Timoteo!” screamed a voice, and Timoteo recognized Herbert.

“Say!” Herbert called, “run for help, won’t you? I was out here abalone-hunting, and I guess one of these big rocks must have been poised just right to topple over. Anyhow, in climbing down here I managed to topple it. It didn’t fall on me, but it fell against the other rocks so that there isn’t room for me to crawl out of here! I can’t make the rock budge, now. And the tide’s coming! I thought I’d drown, away out here, alone. You can’t do anything with that spike. It needs three or four men with levers. Run! The tide’s up to my waist, now! There isn’t room between these rocks to crawl out.”

For one moment Timoteo stood still and looked at Herbert. Then the Spanish boy turned and flew over the rocks. Leaping from one slippery foothold to another, he rushed toward the cliffs, up the cliff road, on to the clusters of Chinese huts that made a little fishing-village by itself on the edge of the bay. Whatever Spanish or English vocabulary Timoteo used, he aroused two or three Chinamen to forsake their frames of drying fish and cease tossing over the other small fish that lay drying on the ground.

Seizing the long, heavy iron rods with which the Chinese were wont to go abalone-hunting, the three Celestials followed in Timoteo’s wake toward the place where Herbert anxiously awaited rescue. There was much prying with the iron rods before the stone was finally tilted enough so that the drenched prisoner was released.

“My father pay you,” gratefully promised Herbert to the Chinamen, who nodded and plodded cheerfully back toward their tiny fishing-village.

Herbert looked at Timoteo.

“I’m much obliged to you,” said Herbert. “You were good to run for help.”

But now that Timoteo had seen the success of his helpers, an abashed silence seemed to have overtaken him. He did not answer. The silence lasted till the two boys reached the cliffs. Herbert grew uneasy. His conscience accused him somewhat.

“Come to my house, Timoteo, and my father will give you something for helping me,” promised Herbert uneasily, as the boys climbed the cliffs.

Timoteo shook his head, but he did not look up.

“See here, Timoteo,” burst out Herbert, stopping on top of the cliffs, “what’s the matter? Do you hate me?”

Timoteo glanced up slowly. His dark eyes were full of appeal.

“You no talk to teacher any more about me?” he besought. “You no tell her my father lazy, we no-‘count folks?”

Timoteo’s voice shook. He hurried on: “I like teacher. I try be clean. I wash my hands, my face, all time. I do ver’ good to the teacher. But my mother differ from your mother. Your mother give you nice clean shirt and clothes. My mother too poor. I try learn, read, spell. I grow like American boy.”

It was the appeal of a soul that looked from Timoteo’s eyes. Herbert flushed.

“Why, you poor fellow, of course you try!” he answered heartily. “I–I’m sorry if I’ve ever said anything to the teacher that made you feel badly, Timoteo. I won’t do it again, and the other boys sha’n’t, either! The teacher knows how hard you try. She said the other day that you were a good boy. Come on up to our house. Won’t you?”

But Timoteo smiled, and shook his head, and went away on the long road that led toward home. The heart of the Spanish boy was very happy. He had done good to his enemy, and that enemy was turned into a friend. And the teacher had said that Timoteo was a good boy! She knew how hard he tried!

Timoteo sang for joy as he ran.

“I will learn! I will learn! I shall be like los Americanos!” he sang, and then he remembered how he had been tempted for one instant not to help Herbert. Timoteo shivered at the remembered temptation. He sang again for very joy at having been helped to forgive his enemy.

In the pines Timoteo stopped, and looked upward through the swaying treetops.

“A Dios sea gloria por Jesu-Christo,” he murmured reverently. (“To God be glory through Jesus Christ.”)