“Oh, Mr. Speranza!” it said. “Is it you? I'm so glad!”
Albert turned, but the moment he did so the dog made a dash at his legs, so he was obliged to turn back again and kick violently.
“Oh, I am so glad it is you,” said the voice again. “I was sure it was a dreadful tramp. Googoo loathes tramps.”
As an article of diet that meant, probably. Googoo—if that was the dog's name—was passionately fond of poets, that was self-evident, and intended to make a meal of this one, forthwith. He flew at the Speranza ankles. Albert performed a most undignified war dance, and dashed his handful of sand into Googoo's open countenance. For a minute or so there was a lively shindy on top of that knoll. At the end of the minute the dog, held tightly in a pair of feminine arms, was emitting growls and coughs and sand, while Madeline Fosdick and Albert Speranza were kneeling in more sand and looking at each other.
“Oh, did he bite you?” begged Miss Fosdick.
“No . . . no, I guess not,” was the reply. “I—I scarcely know yet. . . . Why, when did you come? I didn't know you were in town.”
“We came yesterday. Motored from home, you know. I—be still, Goo, you bad thing! It was such a lovely day that I couldn't resist going for a walk along the beach. I took Googoo because he does love it so, and—Goo, be still, I tell you! I am sure he thinks you are a tramp, out here all alone in the—in the wilderness. And what were you doing here?”
Albert drew a long breath. “I was half asleep, I guess,” he said, “when he broke loose at my heels. I woke up quick enough then, as you may imagine. And so you are here for the summer? Your new house isn't finished, is it?”
“No, not quite. Mother and Goo and I are at the hotel for a month. But you haven't answered my question. What were you doing off here all alone? Have you been for a walk, too?”
“Not exactly. I—well, I come here pretty often. It is one of my favorite hiding places. You see, I . . . don't laugh if I tell you, will you?”