[CHAPTER IX—CHESTER KENT DECLINES A JOB]
Sundayman’s Creek Road, turning aside just before it gains the turnpike to the Eyrie Hotel to evade a stretch of marsh, travels on wooden stilts across a deep clear pool fed by a spring. Signs at each end of the crossing threaten financial penalties against any vehicle traversing the bridge faster than a walk. Now, the measure of a walk for an automobile is dubious; but the most rigorous constable could have found no basis for protest in the pace maintained by a light electric car, carrying a short, slender, elderly man, who peered out with weary eyes into the glory of the July sunshine. At the end of the bridge the car stopped to allow its occupant a better view of a figure prostrate on the brink of the pool. Presently the figure came to the posture of all fours. The face turned upward, and the motorist caught the glint of a monocle. Then the face turned again to its quest.
“Are you looking for something lost?” asked the man in the car.
“Yes,” was the reply. “Very much lost.”
“When did you lose it, if it’s not an impertinent question?”
“Not in the least,” answered the other cordially. “I didn’t lose it at all.”
“Ah!” The motorist smiled. “When was it lost, then?”
Across the monocled face passed a shadow of thoughtful consideration. “About four million years ago, I should judge.”
“And you are still looking? I perceive that you are an optimist,” said the elderly man.
“Just at present I’m a limnologist.”