The bustle aroused lanky Bill Stebbins, who was sleeping outside in the sand. He hurried in to offer aid and counsel:
"Dad burn it, I was onst sheriff o' Dade County, Brainard, an' I reckon I got a right smart pull yit. If you git pinched foh diso'derly conduct, raise a yell, an' I'll come a-runnin'."
When Brainard announced that he had no intention of dressing in the station the disappointment was so evident that he yielded to the clamor, and consented to array himself for what Fritz Wagenhals called "a little drill, to see if you are all-ship-shape-put together, mit your standin' riggin' taut."
These embarrassments delayed the departure until late in the afternoon.
In his one decent suit of blue serge, which had been lovingly pressed by the station cook, Brainard swung his luggage as if it were as light as his heart. He turned once to look at the red-roofed station nestling close to the sand-dunes, and for a moment felt as if he were playing the traitor to those loyal big-hearted comrades of his. Every one of them had fought with adverse fortune, and, beaten back, met the odds with smiling faces. He was the youngest of the crew and the pineapple plantation would yet release him from his chosen bondage. On this "day off" he ought to be back in the clearing by the lagoon, "bossing" his one laborer, but he looked ahead, and his young blood thrilled at the thought of glimpsing his own world again.
Northward from the station the coast swept seaward in a bold curve which ended in a low point over which the breakers played in spring-tides. Just beyond the Point, Brainard came to the Inlet and crossed, dry-shod, the passage between ocean and lagoon which had carried a ten-foot channel three months before. Now he could see, three miles to the northward, the long pier and the clustered roofs of the great hotel buildings. He had often come thus far on patrol, but had always gazed at the glittering resort as forbidden ground until he should regain his rightful place among these pleasure-seekers.
Soon he passed through a noble avenue arched with palms, and came to lawns that almost lipped the sea. After the smarting dazzle of sand and ocean, this lush, green vista was like cold water to a thirsty man. Parties of golfers were drifting across the background; white and fluffy gowns gleamed in the shrubbery. But when the wayfarer advanced to the long hotel piazza the smartly voluble groups of men and women made him unexpectedly timorous. Obtaining a room, he slipped through the crowded and colorful corridor to the nearest elevator, oblivious that more than one woman turned to look after the stalwart youth whose handsome face was so darkly burned and whose wholesome vigor was no veneer laid on after a wearing season in club-land.
Brainard felt more like himself when he was dressed and had tenderly absorbed the cocktail whose perfections had haunted his long walk. He swung into the dining-room as if he owned it, and chose a table facing the doors where he could view the grand entrance of the actors in this extravaganza. Three young women near him were chattering of spring flittings to Lenox and Westchester, and of summer pilgrimages to Newport and abroad. He heard familiar names of people he had once known. Soon a hand fell upon his shoulder and he looked up to see the chubby face of his classmate "Toodles" Brown, who fairly roared:
"By all the gods! It is Ashley Brainard. You dear old fool! Have you been dead or in jail or did you just float in with the tide? Of course I'll sit down. I haven't seen you since we sailed my schooner for the Atlantic Cup three summers ago. Explain yourself."