He took his pipe from his mouth, in order that his mind should not be distracted. Then he pushed his cap back, and dropped an oar.
“Freddie, is that you?” he asked. “Sure I thought you was comin’ up to the shack, and I’ve bin waitin’ for you.”
“We are on our way up there now. You are not going out, are you?” pleaded Freda.
“No, Freddie,” (he always called her Freddie), “I’ll come right in. I was only goin’ acrost to get a few little things; but they can wait.”
Cora now had a chance to see this quaint old fellow. He was Irish, with many fine humorous wrinkles about his eyes and mouth. He seemed to breathe through his pipe, so constantly did he inhale it, and just how he kept his sailor’s blouse so clean, and his worn clothes so neat, was a trick he had learned in his younger days in the navy.
“Isn’t this a fine day?” he commented, with a nod to Cora.
“Simply perfect,” she answered, seeing there was no need for a formal introduction. “I have been telling Freda how surprised I was at the beauty of this place.”
“Surprised, is it? Sure, there ain’t another spot this side of Cape Cod with as many fine points to it. I wouldn’t leave this little bay for a berth on any ocean liner.”
“My friend, Cora Kimball, is from Chelton, Uncle Denny. Do you know where that is?” asked Freda.
“Chelton? Chelton? Sure, I do. I went through there once in a parade wagon. We were out with the G. A. R. and I guess the parade got lost, for I remember at Chelton we had to put up for the night in an old church they were using for a fire house. But we had a fine time,” and he chuckled at the recollection. “And next day we finished up without the need of a wagon. It was like camp days to scatter ourselves about the big ramshackle place.”