And to their certain knowledge, there had been none. Each day, at some hour when there was least likelihood of any one being near, they had examined the place, only to find the buried bag still in its hiding-place, untouched. At night they had taken turns keeping watch, all the night through; but no stealthy visitor had come to Curlew’s Nest, nor had there been any during the day—of that they were absolutely certain. The beach had never seemed so free of visitors before.
And thus matters stood on the second afternoon, and they were beginning to be impatient at inaction and delay. Then Phyllis had an idea.
“I know what’s the matter!” she cried. “We’re keeping too close a watch. We don’t give anybody a chance to come within gunshot of that place, unobserved, so how can we expect that anything is going to happen? If it’s Ted, don’t you suppose he sees us hanging about here all the time? He’d be a goose to try anything right in front of our eyes. No doubt he’s seen one or the other of us at the window all night, too. And if it’s Eileen or any one else, it’s the same thing. Let’s go off somewhere and give them a chance. Not too far though, for we want to be where we can get back with reasonable speed ourselves.”
So they went for a stroll along the beach, accompanied by Rags, who was only too delighted at the prospect of an expedition that promised some change. It was a mild, hazy October afternoon. An opalescent mist lay along the horizon and the waves rolled in lazily, too lazily to break with their accustomed crash. Every little while there would be a flight of wild geese, in V-shaped flying line, far overhead, and their honking would float down faintly as they pushed on in their southward course. It was a golden afternoon, and Leslie almost resented the fact that they had any worries or problems on their minds.
“Why, who in the world is that?” exclaimed Phyllis, suddenly, as they rounded a slight curve in the beach and came in sight of a figure standing at the water’s edge, a rod and long line in his hand, and a camp-stool and fishing-kit beside him. “There hasn’t been a stranger fishing in this region in an age! People generally go down by the big bungalow colony three miles farther along for that. We almost never see any one here. I wonder what it means!”
As they came nearer, they could see more plainly what sort of person he appeared to be. He was tall and stalwart and gray-haired. A slouch hat was pulled down to shade his eyes, but still they could see that his face was alert and kindly and placid, with twinkling gray eyes and a whimsical mouth. He was obviously an adept fisherman, as Phyllis remarked, when they had witnessed the clever way in which he managed a catch. They were very near him by that time, and watching breathlessly. Once his prey almost eluded him, but with a skilful manipulation of his tackle, he presently brought the big fellow, lashing wildly, to land, well out of reach of the water.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed, winding up his line, “but that fellow gave me a warm ten minutes!”
The girls had by this time reached the spot and were admiring the catch.
“Congratulations!” laughed Phyllis, with the informal interest of the born fisherman. “I couldn’t have done it myself, not after he had almost escaped. He must weigh five pounds!”
The stranger looked at them with interest. “So you fish? Well, it’s the best sport in the world. This bouncer has been dodging me all the afternoon, and I vowed I’d get him before I left. Almost had him once before, but he got away with the bait. Wouldn’t let me alone, though, even after that. I warned him he was flirting with his fate!” And he laughed a big, booming, pleasant laugh.