“The owner?”
“Yes, he is taking a nap on a bench, on the other side of the point.”
In another moment Pats was beside her, both walking rapidly through the wood. Approaching 91the western edge of the point, they saw, between the trees, a figure sitting upon a bench, overlooking the water, his back toward them. With one elbow upon an arm of the rustic seat, his cheek resting on his hand and his knees crossed, he seemed in full enjoyment of a nap.
Pats took a position in front of the sleeper, at a respectful distance, then said, in a voice not too loud:
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
There was no responsive movement. When it became clear that he had not been heard, Pats stepped a very little nearer and repeated, in a louder tone:
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
Still the sleeper slept.
Pats glanced at Elinor Marshall, who smiled, involuntarily. Pats also smiled, as he realized that this ceremonious and somewhat labored greeting had a distinctly comic side, especially when so completely thrown away. However, he was about to repeat the salutation and in a louder voice, when he was struck by the color of the hand against the cheek. He went nearer and, stooping down, looked up into the sleeper’s face. A glance was enough.
92Slowly he straightened up, then reverently removed his hat.