"Thank y', sir."

He heaved on his oars. The boat slid out. The man stood watching, hands
deep in his pockets. A displeased look replaced the amused smile as his
glance rested a second on the rich man's toy of polished mahogany and
shining brass. Then he turned to look again at the house up the slope
and found the girl at his elbow.

He did not know if she had overheard him, and he did not at the moment
care. He met her glance with one as impersonal as her own.

"I'm afraid I must apologize for my father," she said simply. "I hope
you aren't offended. It was awfully good of you to bring us ashore."

"That's quite all right," he answered casually. "Why should I be
offended? When a roughneck does something for you, it's proper to hand
him some of your loose change. Perfectly natural."

"But you aren't anything of the sort," she said frankly. "I feel sure
you resent being tipped for an act of courtesy. It was very thoughtless
of papa."

"Some people are so used to greasing their way with money that they'll
hand St. Peter a ten-dollar bill when they pass the heavenly gates," he
observed. "But it really doesn't matter. Tell me something. Whose house
is that, and how long has it been there?"

"Ours," she answered. "Two years. We stay here a good deal in the
summer."