Water dripped from his disheveled hair--his face--and ran down in rivulets over his bare, red chest, from which the open shirt-collar--the limp, soiled shirt-collar--fell back.
But still he crouched--bearing up the World!
Ho! All of a sudden, his bent frame stiffened, reacted to a lightning-like, cleaving thrill which made him conscious that it was growing numb.
Two bright eyes were looking audaciously--challengingly--into his. They were pretty eyes--brown eyes--each harboring a mocking firefly. And the lashes, half-veiling them, were unusual--dark brown, shading into amber at the tips, now borrowing the sunshine’s gold--mocking gold!
Atlas scowled now as he bore up shipping; his subconscious feeling of importance--his “it” feeling--was being derided, laughed at, by a girl.
Vaguely, for the blood was congesting in his head, he saw that there were, at least, a dozen other girlish forms behind her. Girlish faces, fresh as May-flowers, with a little tan on them, flocked before his swimming vision.
One swam into sight which he knew. It was lit by dark eyes, with stars in them.
But, somehow, at the moment, he did not welcome them--their starry sympathy. He felt, too, hotly provoked with the firefly ones which challenged him.
“Hul-hullo--Olive!... How d’you do?” he managed to get out, in response to his cousin’s quivering glance.
“Hullo! Atlas.... Atlas holding up the World!” came in laughing admiration, with swift intuition, from Blue Heron. Her hands were clasped--her whole slim girlish form a tribute. “My! but his wings have grown--war-service wings!” The silent homage tickled her throat.