"So the men just suit themselves, eh?"
"Suit themselves! You bet they don't," laughed Walter. "The government defines their hours when their license is issued. The class they are put in decides it."
"That's news to me," said Dick. "And the shore stations?"
"The shore stations are a chapter in themselves," Walter replied. "There are several different kinds and each kind has its own rules."
"You don't propose to tell me about them, then," retorted the New Yorker mischievously.
"It's too long a yarn," answered the other. "Besides, I might not get it straight. Sometime, though, if you want me to, I'll pass on what I know. But to-day I guess we ought to be hiking back. It is close onto the time the pack is fed and I may have them yelping at my throat if I don't hurry."
Quickening their pace the boys whistled to the dogs who came dashing through the clumps of bayberry that dotted the field. They were panting with thirst and only too ready to turn homeward. Across the sandy hillocks, through pine-shaded stretches of woods, along the road walled in with June roses they raced and chased, stopping now and again to look back and make certain that their masters were following. When the spit of sand narrowed to a ribbon and the entrance to Surfside was reached they halted, lying down to cool off in the fresh sea breeze until they should be overtaken. At the gate Dick and Walter parted.
It was amusing to see the Airedales waver, then lured by hunger, desert their owner and pursue Walter and Achilles.
They came up with lolling tongues at the kennels just as His Highness was unlocking the door.
While he fumbled with the latch he noticed they sniffed excitedly about and that Achilles barked.