yap, Eb was. I kept on rollin' the wheel.

So about three P. M., as we was workin' our way along the shore, Eb
looks up and remarks, "Here's the Hollister place, Roarin' Rocks."

Sure enough there it was, almost like the postcard picture, only not
colored quite so vivid.

"Folks are out airin' themselves too," he goes on.

They were. I could see three or four people movin' about on the
veranda; for we wa'n't more'n half a block away. First off I spots
Aunty. She's paradin' up and down, stiff and stately, and along with
her waddles a wide, dumpy female in pink. And next, all in white, and
lookin' as slim and graceful as an Easter lily, I makes out Vee; also a
young gent in white flannels and a striped tennis blazer. He's smokin'
a cigarette and swingin' a racket jaunty. I could even hear Vee's
laugh ripple out across the water. You remember how she put it too,
"nice, but awfully stupid." Seems she was makin' the best of it,
though.

And here I was, in Ira's baggy oilskins, my feet in six inches of oily
brine, squattin' on the edge of a smelly fish box tryin' to hold down a
piece of custard pie! No, that wa'n't exactly the rosy picture I threw
on the screen back in the Corrugated gen'ral offices only yesterday.
Nothing like that! I don't do any hoo-hooin', or wave any private
signals. I pulls the sticky sou'wester further down over my eyes and
squats lower in the boat.

"Look kind o' gay and festive, don't they?" says Eb, straightenin' up