There was no boy at Rockley Cove more popular than Tom Barnes. His father had farmed it, as the saying goes, at the edge of the little village for over a quarter of a century. While Mr. Barnes was not exactly a wealthy man he made a good living, and Tom dressed pretty well, and was kept at school right along. Now it was vacation time, and outside of a few chores about the house morning and evening Tom’s time was his own.
The result was that usually Tom had abundant leisure for sports. The welcome with which his advent was hailed therefore, was quite natural.
“I say, Tom,” suddenly spoke Ben, seizing the arm of his companion in some excitement, “there’s Mart Walters.”
“Ah, he’s here, is he?” exclaimed Tom, and started rapidly across the meadow to where a crowd of boys were grouped about a diving plank running out over the stream. “I’m bothered about that missing coil, but I guess I can take time to attend to Walters.”
The boy he alluded to was talking to several companions as Tom and Ben came up. His back was to the newcomers and he did not see them approach. Mart Walters was a fop and a braggart. Tom noticed that he was arrayed in his best, and his first overheard words announced that he was bragging as usual.
Mart was explaining to a credulous audience some of the wonderful feats in diving and swimming he had engaged in during a recent stay in Boston. With a good deal of boastful pride he alluded to a friend, Bert Aldrich, whose father was a part owner of a big city natatorium. Tom interrupted his bombast unceremoniously by suddenly appearing directly in front of the boaster.
“Hello, Mart Walters,” he hailed in a sort of aggressive way.
“Hello yourself,” retorted Mart, with a slight uneasiness of manner.
“I’ve been looking for you,” said Tom bluntly.
“Have?”