"That's rather depressing, Kay—what you're whistling," said Evelyn
Erith.
He glanced up from his abstraction, nodded, and strode on humming the "Over There" of that good bard George of Broadway.
After a moment the girl said: "There seem to be some people by Isla
Water."
His quick glance appraised the distant group, their summer tourist automobile drawn up on the bank of Isla Water near the Bridge, the hampers on the grass.
"Trespassers," he said with a shrug. "But it's a pretty spot by Isla
Bridge and we never drive them away."
She looked at them again as they crossed the very old bridge of stone. Down by the water's edge stood their machine. Beside it on the grass were picnicking three people—a very good-looking girl, a very common-looking stout young man in flashy outing clothes, and a thin man of forty, well-dressed and of better appearance.
The short, stout, flashy young man was eating sandwiches with one hand while with the other he held a fishing-rod out over the water.
McKay noticed this bit of impudence with a shrug. "That won't do," he murmured; and pausing at the parapet of the bridge he said pleasantly: "I'm sorry to disturb you, but fishing isn't permitted in Isla Water."
At that the flashy young man jumped up with unexpected nimbleness—a powerful frame on two very vulgar but powerful legs.
"Say, sport," he called out, "if this is your fish-pond we're ready to pay what's right. What's the damage for a dozen fish?"