Mr. Percival Jones was a thin, pale, æsthetic would-be poet who lived and thrived on the admiration of the elderly ladies of his boarding-house, and had done so for the past ten years. Once he had published a volume of poems at his own expense. He lived at the same boarding-house as the Browns, and had seen Ethel in the distance to meals. He had admired the red lights in her dark hair and the blue of her eyes, and had even gone so far as to wonder whether she possessed the solid and enduring qualities which he would require of one whom in his mind he referred to as his "future spouse."
He began to walk down the beach with her.
"I should like to speak to you—er—about your brother, Miss Brown," he began, "if you can spare me the time, of course. I trust I do not er—intrude or presume. He is a charming little man but—er—I fear—not veracious. May I accompany you a little on your way? I am—er—much attracted to your—er—family. I—er—should like to know you all better. I am—er—deeply attached to your—er—little brother, but grieved to find that he does not—er—adhere to the truth in his statements. I—er—"
Miss Brown's blue eyes were dancing with merriment.
"Oh, don't you worry about William," she said. "He's awful. It's much best just to leave him alone. Isn't the sea gorgeous to-day?"
They walked along the sands.
Meanwhile William had invited his small defender into his hut.
"You can look round," he said graciously. "You've seen my skin what I—he—killed, haven't you? This is my gun. You put a cork in there and it comes out hard when you shoot it. It would kill anyone," impressively, "if you did it near enough to them and at the right place. An' I've got a dormouse, an' a punchball, an' a box of things, an' a football, but they wouldn't let me bring them," bitterly.
"It's a lovely skin," said the little girl. "What's your name?"
"William. What's yours?"