“Oh, how odd and beautiful!” cried Grace. “Oh, Tom, can I have it for my collection? I haven’t one like it.”
“You certainly can,” answered Tom gladly. “We call that the peach blow, and it’s pretty rare. I didn’t know you were interested in shells.”
“I dote on them,” declared Grace. “Oh, Tom!”
From his pocket he had taken a handful of exquisite specimens of star pebbles and shells he had gathered up within a week, and tendered them for a choice to his pretty companion.
They strolled on for nearly half a mile. Tom explained that he must get back to the wireless station, but he could not resist lingering when Grace sat down to rest on an upturned boat on the beach. She occupied the time between admiring the pretty shells he had given her and inquiring into the details of his work at the wireless tower. Tom was in the midst of a description of some of the methods employed in sending wireless messages, when he paused and glanced seawards.
“There is your friend, Grace,” said Tom.
A natty gasoline launch was approaching the pier up-shore. Tom made out two passengers, both of whom he recognized. One was Mart Walters. The other boatman was at the wheel. Tom had seen him twice on the street of Rockley Cove and knew who he was—young Aldrich, the friend about whom Mart was so continually boasting.
Grace Morgan glanced in the direction of the pier. Then, as if totally uninterested in what was going on there, she turned her back upon it and led an animated conversation with her companion. Tom kept facing the pier. From the launch Aldrich finally leaped ashore, evidently made them out, and leaving Mart in charge of the launch walked rapidly up the beach.
“I think I had better be getting back to the tower,” said Tom, as the newcomer neared them,
“Don’t be in a hurry, Tom,” advised Grace, with a slightly malicious twinkle in her eye. “Oh, you, Mr. Aldrich?” she added, arising with a formal bow to the young man, who, arrayed in fancy yachting costume, was quite a “swell” sight, indeed.