"That you, Roger?" said Max. "Alone? Where are Win and the girls?"
"I don't know," replied Roger, flushing uncomfortably. "That is, I don't know where the girls are."
"Win's not ill, I hope?"
"No, he isn't." Roger rolled over to look at his visitor. The young face wore a pleasant smile and the gray eyes were friendly, but somehow Roger had a suspicion that Mr. Max wasn't the sort to approve outright truancy.
"Win's all right," he added evasively. "He's studying or something."
A queer little expression crossed Max's lips. "Then since you have a holiday,—well-deserved, no doubt,—come on exploring with me."
Roger was on his feet in a second, the arrow of reproof glancing off unnoted. "Where are you going?" he demanded.
"Oh, just down here a few rods. We may have to hold up for the tide. It won't be low water for some time yet."
The faint path presently ended in piles of red granite, still wet from the sea, in places slippery with vraic, as the Jerseymen call the seaweed used as fertilizer for their land.
"We shall have to stop a bit," said Max, after a short steep descent. As he spoke he sat down and began to crush a bit of vraic between his fingers.