“The scraggy ones do,” replied the other, speaking in a far away and contented manner.
At about half past eleven Jones left the beach, tired of the glare and the bathers, and the sand digging children. He called at the book shop, and for a shilling obtained a bicycle map of the coast, and sitting on a seat outside the shop scanned it.
There were three roads out of Sandbourne-on-Sea; the London road; a road across the cliffs to the west; and a road across the cliffs to the east. The easterly road led to Northbourne, a sea-side town some six or seven miles away, the westerly road to Southbourne, some fifteen miles off. London lay sixty miles to the north. The railway touched the London road at Houghton Admiral, a station some nine miles up the line.
That was the position. Should he take the London road and board a train at Houghton Admiral, or take the road to Northbourne and get a train from there?
The three ways lay before him like the three Fates, and he determined on the London road.
However, Man proposes and God disposes.
He folded up the map, put it in his pocket and started for home—or at least Mrs. Henshaw’s.
Just at the commencement of the street he paused before a photographer’s to inspect the pictures exposed for view. Groups, family parties, children, and girls with undecided features. He turned from the contemplation of these things and found himself face to face with Hoover.
Hoover must have turned into the street from a bye way, for only sixty seconds before the street had been Hooverless. He was dressed in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, and his calves showed huge.
“Hello!” said Jones.