Still a little languid from his experiences of the night, he strolled leisurely along the sandy path. The day was clear and pleasantly warm. On his left the sun glinted upon the now kindly sea, and on his right the seagulls shrieked and fought above the waters of the sound. And presently he would see Betty.
He entered the village. The few people he met greeted him with a stare of frank curiosity, a stare generally followed by a friendly nod.
As he had anticipated, he soon came upon a building bearing a sign:
BAZAAR. DRYGOODS AND GROCERIES.
POST-OFFICE.
In front of it a wooden bench extending along the sidewalk, and three or four lank loungers thereupon, furnished irrefutable proof that the centre of Kitty Hawk’s business activities was at hand.
He remembered that he had not had a sight of Betty for five hours, and he pushed open the door of the “Bazaar” eager to see again the roguish mouth.
To his disappointment, she was not in the shop. However, the proprietor, a sandy-haired native inclining to corpulency, was prompt to supply his needs, nor was he backward in answering Fessenden’s question as to whether or not he had seen a young woman in a white sailor-suit.
“You-all are off the sloop ’at come in jest aftah the big yacht, I reckon. Yes, suh, yoah wife’s jest been heah.”
“My wife!”