The apparition of any human being was exciting to one responsible for the comfort of others in this Arcadia, where modern conveniences could only be obtained by effort both spasmodic and continuous.
"Oh, it's Marley Hughes from the post-office."
A youngster of fourteen came wheeling nonchalantly over the bumps of the field, and finally jumped off his machine and came leisurely up the rise among the trees.
"I hoped you might be Matt Blake," said Miss Priscilla. "He's got as far as to have the shingles here."
"Well, I ain't," remarked Marley in the pleasant, drawling, leisurely, island voice.
"What you got for me?" inquired Miss Burridge.
"Telegram." The boy brought the store envelope from his pocket.
"Oh, I hate 'em," said Miss Burridge apprehensively.
Marley held it aggravatingly away from Philip's extended hand. "Take it back if you want me ter," he said with a grin. "It's ten cents anyway, whether you take it or not."
"Oh, yes, I've got the money right here." Miss Priscilla turned to a shelf over the sink and took a dime from a purse which lay there.