"Good afternoon, Mr. Saxton. You see I'm bunkered. Is it safe to come out?"
"Is it you, Miss Porter?" said Saxton, jumping down into the sand. "Are you hurt?"
"No; but I'll not say that I'm not scared." She was still panting from her long run, and her cheeks were scarlet. She put up her hands to her hair, which had tumbled loose. "This is really the wild West, after all; and that was a very pretty throw you made."
"It seemed necessary to do something. But you couldn't have seen it?"
"Another case of woman's curiosity. Perhaps I ought to turn into a pillar of salt. I peeped! I suppose it was in the hope that I might play hide and seek with that wild beast as he came over after me, but you stopped his flight just in time." She had restored her hair as she talked. "Where is that caddy of mine?"
"Oh, the boys took to the fence to get a better view of the show. They're coming up now."
Evelyn stood up quickly, and shook her skirt free of sand.
"I need hardly say that I'm greatly obliged to you," she said, giving him her hand.
Saxton was relieved to find that she took the incident so coolly.
She was laughing; her color was very becoming, and John beamed upon her. His face was of that blond type which radiates light and flushes into a kind of sunburn with excitement. There was something very boyish about John Saxton. The curves of his face were still those of youth; he had never dared to encourage a mustache or beard, owing to a disinclination to produce more than was necessary of the soft, silky hair which covered his head abundantly. He had a straight nose, a firm chin and a brave showing of square, white teeth. His mouth was his best feature, for it expressed his good nature and a wish to be pleased,—a wish that shone also in his blue eyes. John Saxton was determined to like life and people; and he liked both just now.