He had the child on his back presently and on hands and knees crawled a hundred yards down the beach, sniffing at whatever came into his path and growling fiercely. Etta’s shrieks reached them above the roar of the surf. She had a stick now and was belaboring her steed vigorously.
“No, no, Etta, no—no!” called her mother. Martin waved a reassuring hand and pretended to suffer death. “It’s wonderful the way Martin has with children,” commented Alice; “they seem to take to him naturally.”
Everyone did, thought his wife affectionately. He was truly exceptional; children,—boys and girls,—men and women,—everybody felt his irresistible attraction.
A shrill tooting announced the arrival of the launch. There was a mad scramble; no one was dressed. Roy went off to tell the boat to wait while the others hurried into their clothes, gathered plates, forks and other accessories of the lunch into baskets, and flung umbrella, canvas, grill and cushions back into their keeping-place. Everyone was laughing helplessly when Roy came springing back to tell them to take their time as the old captain had admitted he was half-an-hour early.
Fifteen minutes later they clambered aboard the puffing motor-boat, and Martin and Jeannette found themselves sitting side by side in the stern. His hand found hers as it lay upon the seat between them and their fingers linked themselves together; their eyes shone as they looked at one another.
“Wonderful day, Jan.”
“Ah, wonderful indeed,” she answered.
§ 3
It was late that night after they were in bed that Martin said to her:
“Jan, old girl, wouldn’t you like to have a baby? You looked so sweet to-day sitting there under the umbrella with little Ralph in your arms,—really you made a beautiful picture: mother and child, you know; I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since.... I think it would be a lot of fun to have a kid.”