“Oh, you needn’t tell me,” retorted Hattie May. “I guess I know all about boys.”
When at last Michael’s tall figure came sauntering down the beach, Hattie May greeted him with a chilly nod. “We thought probably it was milking time and you wouldn’t be able to get away,” she said casually.
Michael grinned. Apparently he had decided that Hattie May was not to be taken seriously. “Oh, no,” he said, “we don’t milk till seven. Guess you’ve never lived on a farm.”
“No,” said Hattie May, “I must admit I’ve never had that pleasure. None of my family are farmers!”
This did not seem to be a very auspicious beginning for our picnic. Eve threw herself into the breach. “Do let’s get into the water,” she urged, “before it gets any later.”
Michael, as one might have guessed, proved to be by far the best swimmer of us all, though Eve was a good second. Hattie May’s efforts were punctuated by blood curdling screams and calls for somebody to “save her”; but as no one paid the slightest attention, she soon gave up and returned to land. Hamish, too, after paddling about rather blindly without his spectacles, sat down on the sand where, replacing his glasses on his dripping countenance, he began making entries in a notebook.
“What is it, Hamish?” I inquired. “Your diary or memoirs or something?”
He shook his head absently. “No, just bringin’ my notes on the Craven case up to date.”
I raised myself on my elbow and looked at him. Was he just a rather overgrown little boy playing at being detective? Or had he really found out something of importance? Suddenly he fixed me with his thick lenses. “I know what you think,” he said astutely. “You think I’m one of those playboy detecitifs like in the books!”
“Oh, no, indeed,” I assured him hastily. “Of course I don’t think anything of the kind!”