"Yes, I did," said Davy, as they walked along the beach together; "but I got it very wet coming here."
"That was quite right," said the Hole-keeper. "There's nothing so tiresome as a dry letter. Well, I suppose Robinson is expecting me by this time, isn't he?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," said Davy. "He didn't say that he was expecting you."
"He must be," said the Hole-keeper, positively. "I never even mentioned it in my letter; so, of course, he'll know I'm coming. By the way," he added, hurriedly opening his book, and staring anxiously at one of the blank pages, "there isn't a word in here about Billyweazles. This place must be full of 'em."
"What are they?" said Davy.
"They're great pink birds, without any feathers on 'em," replied the Hole-keeper, solemnly. "And they're particularly fond of sugar. That's the worst thing about 'em."
"I don't think there's anything very wicked in that," said Davy.
"Oh! of course you don't," said the Hole-keeper, fretfully. "But you see I haven't any trowsers on, and I don't fancy having a lot of strange Billyweazles nibbling at my legs. In fact, if you don't mind, I'd like to run away from here."
"Very well," said Davy, who was himself beginning to feel rather nervous about the Billyweazles, and accordingly he and the Hole-keeper started off along the beach as fast as they could run.
Presently the Hole-keeper stopped short and said, faintly, "It strikes me the sun is very hot here."