She wore an orange-colored smock, and there was flour on the hand she held out in greeting.
“I’m making cookies,” she confided.
“Sounds great!” Johnny grinned.
She led him to a broad, screened porch where a bearded giant unwound himself from a deep, comfortable chair to meet him.
“This is grandfather.” Real pride shone in the girl’s eyes. “He’s been a beach-comber for thirty years. That’s a record!”
“Now, child,” the old man drawled, “don’t you go bragging on me.
“Have a chair,” he directed Johnny.
“My cookies will burn. I’ll have to hurry,” said the girl. “Grandfather—you tell him about those spies.”
“Spies? Oh, yes. Those European fellows.” The old man’s face darkened. “I’ve been preaching against ’em for mighty nigh twenty years. Mebbe longer than that, I reckon. You see, Mr. Thompson—”
“Please call me Johnny,” said the boy. “I’m not used to the ‘Mister’.”