"'Oh no; his wife will keep it open,' replied the girl. 'Look! you can see papa now. He's digging.'
"'Where?' I blurted out.
"I remembered Professor Holroyd as a prim, spectacled gentleman, with close-cut, snowy beard and a clerical allure. The man I saw digging wore green goggles, a jersey, a battered sou'wester, and hip-boots of rubber. He was delving in the muck of the salt meadow, his face streaming with perspiration, his boots and jersey splashed with unpleasant-looking mud. He glanced up as we approached, shading his eyes with a sunburned hand.
"'Papa, dear,' said Miss Holroyd, 'here is Jack's friend, whom you bailed out of Mazas.'
"The introduction was startling. I turned crimson with mortification. The professor was very decent about it; he called me by name at once. Then he looked at his spade. It was clear he considered me a nuisance and wished to go on with his digging.
"'I suppose,' he said, 'you are still writing?'
"'A little,' I replied, trying not to speak sarcastically. My output had rivalled that of 'The Duchess'—in quantity, I mean.
"'I seldom read—fiction,' he said, looking restlessly at the hole in the ground.
"Miss Holroyd came to my rescue.
"'That was a charming story you wrote last,' she said. 'Papa should read it—you should, papa; it's all about a fossil.'