At some unfamiliar timbre of the voice Daphne crept timidly to him.
"Oh, Old-Dad," she faltered, "you don't really suppose, do you, that he's been lost ever since he was—young?"
"God knows," said Jaffrey Bretton. "Only, next time you have a wonderful idea, Kiddie,—keep it muzzled for a day or two until you make sure it won't bite."
"Oh, but Old-Dad!" quivered Daphne, "I—I didn't mean to hurt him! Truly, I didn't! I——"
"You didn't hurt him," said her father. "Like all merciful executions, he never knew what hit him!" With a gesture frankly rompish he reached out and grabbed Daphne by her wrist. "Come on, Kiddie!" he challenged, "let's have a race up the beach!"
By the time the race was over there wasn't enough breath left in either of them to talk about anything. Merged in the sand again, 122 scorched by the sun, fanned by a great clattery clump of scrub palmetto, they curled up in half a shadow and fell asleep.
It was Jaffrey Bretton who woke first.
"Poor—devil," was the first phrase on his lips.
"Who?" yawned Daphne.
"I!" said her father quite quickly. "I was worrying about my dog."