Then Luther looked up. "Is it too much for you?" he asked. "I was taking it for granted that you were a good sailor."
"But it is such a little boat," said Gwen weakly, "and it is rougher than I imagined."
"We're all ready to go in," he told her. "That will do, Ned."
The sight and smell of the slippery mass of fish in the bottom of the boat did not add to her enjoyment of the situation, but she lifted her eyes, looked steadily landward, and was presently borne inside the reefs to the haven where she would be.
The tin bucketful of tinkers was the reward of heroism, she told Luther Williams, as he rallied her upon being so poor a sailor. She left him to dispose of his afternoon's haul, and carrying her prize, she took the short cut around the little harbor to the cliffs beyond. As she emerged from a clump of trees which crested the first rise, she met a man whose costume was carefully studied. His arms were bared to the shoulders, while his negligé shirt, open at the neck, displayed a vast expanse of throat. He wore knickerbockers, highly colored golf stockings, and tennis shoes. His hair, instead of being close-cropped, was allowed to grow in two locks above his forehead, and these locks waved in the breeze at each step. His whole air was one of wild abandon as he sprang from hummock to hummock.
At sight of Gwen he poised himself upon a hillock as if about to take flight and called out cheerily "Good afternoon, Miss Whitridge, I'd take off my hat to you, but you see I don't wear one. Isn't this glorious? Let me carry your pail for you. Been Ashing, I see."
Gwen surrendered her tin bucket. "Well, not exactly, Mr. Mitchell," she said, "but at least I accompanied the expedition, and the reward I received for lopping around in a ticklish little boat for an hour or more, is this hoard of tinkers. Do you know enough of the vernacular to recognize the variety of fish?"
Mr. Mitchell peered curiously into the bucket. "They look like mackerel," he remarked.
"You have guessed the first time. That is exactly what they are: kindergarteners caught in a school of mackerel."
Mr. Mitchell smiled faintly and fell into step, while Gwen realized that conventional speech was best suited to her companion. "Delightful weather, isn't it, Mr. Mitchell?" she began. "I hope you are enjoying the island."