“That isn't a kennel, Buck.”
“It ain't? Well, what is it?”
“It's a Swiss chalet.”
“What does Ed Keller know about Swiss chalets?”
“Nothing,—absolutely nothing, Buck,” admitted Percival forcibly.
A tall, perfectly straight flagpole graced the extensive “front-yard,” and from its peak floated the flag of Trigger Island,—a great white pennon with a red heart in the centre, symbolic of love, courage, fidelity. But on the tip of Split Mountain the Stars and Stripes still waves from sunrise to sunset.
The new cabins are farther up the slope of the mountains, overlooking what is now called the “old” town. There is something fairy-like in the picture one sees at night from the Green below. Dozens of lighted windows gleam softly through the foliage, for all the world like witches' lamps. The day reveals thin, blue plumes of smoke stealing out of the tops of the trees to be wafted off into nothingness; they come from invisible chimneys far down in the leafy fastnesses. Up here are the huts of the newly married. Almost without exception, they are tiny affairs, scarcely larger than the metaphorical bandbox. Each contains two rooms.
During the very hot weather in January and February, the long, curving beach is alive with oddly dressed bathers and idlers. This is at midday only, when the sun is so hot and fierce that all work ceases for two hours or more. Though the sun is hot, the water is never warm. A dip in the surf is all that any one save the hardiest cares to take. They loll on the cool white sands, under improvised shelters made of boughs, or indulge in spirited games on the long level stretches. This is the play-hour of the people throughout the hot months of summer. They “knock off” work of all sorts, and seek relief from the stifling heat of the woodland in the cool wet sands along the shore.
The costumes are strange and varied; some are pretty, others almost ludicrous. Small children appear in a scant breech-cloth; women of all ages and proportions wear a sort of one-piece “jumper,” arms bare and legs uncovered up to the knees. The men affect nothing except trunks made from coffee sacks. The few real bathing-suits belong to such experienced travellers as Nicklestick, Shine and the Blocks,—regular and persistent patrons of the hotels at Atlantic City, Palm Beach and Rockaway. They never travel without a full and complete equipment. Mr. Nicklestick, very superior in his red two piece “costume,” goes so far as to contend that a man never should be without a bathing-suit, because, says he, “it takes up no room in your trunk, and if you leave it at home some one else is sure to stretch it so's you can't use it yourself again.”
Olga Obosky and her three dancing-girls, Careni-Amori, and several of the Brazilian ladies possess Ostend costumes in which they disport themselves with complacent disregard for public opinion, favourable or otherwise.