“Six miles!” Poke whistled expressively. “What for?”
“Nothing; just to see if I could.”
“Weren’t you dead when you got through?”
“A little tired; not much. I swam out to the island first; that’s nearly a mile; and then I went to the breakwater, which is a good two miles, and then back the same way. It makes a good swim.”
“Oh, yes,” said Poke carelessly, “but a trifle short; what? Did you rest any?”
“No, not to speak of. I stayed in the water all the time, but I rested a couple of minutes at the island and about as long as that at the end of the breakwater. I didn’t stop at all coming back.”
“Where’s this place you live?” asked Gil. “Near here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, just over there.” Jim nodded in the general direction of the coast. “Only about thirty miles. Essexport, you know.”
“I’ve heard of it. Folks go there in summer, don’t they?”
“Some, but it isn’t a fashionable summer resort at all. A good many artists go there. You stumble over them all the time on the wharves and around the harbor. They sit under white umbrellas and paint any old thing they can find. They’re rather nice folks, artists.”