"Trolley!" says he. "Why, Son, there ain't any 'lectric cars nearer'n
Bath."

"Gee, what a jay burg!" says I. "How about a ferry, then?"

Ira shakes his head. Seems Roarin' Rocks is a private joint, the
summer place of this Mr. Hollister who's described by Ira as "richer'n
Croesus"--whatever that might mean. Anyway, they're exclusive parties
that don't encourage callers; for the only way of gettin' there is over
a private road around the head of the bay, or by hirin' a launch to
take you up.

"Generally," says Ira, "they send one of their boats down to meet
company. Now, if they was expectin' you----"

"That's just it," I breaks in, "they ain't. Fact is, Ira, there's a
young lady visitin' there with her aunt, and--and--well, Aunty and me
ain't so chummy as we might be."

"Just so," says Ira, noddin' wise.

"Now my plan was to go up there and kind of stick around, you know,"
says I, "sort of in the shade, until the young lady strolled out."

Ira shakes his head discouragin'. "They're mighty uppish folks," says
he. "Got 'No Trespass' signs all over the place--dogs too."

"Hellup!" says I. "What am I up against? Why don't Aunty travel with
a bunch of gumshoe guards and be done with it?"