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"Say, you," called Tom, "if this is such an all-fired good spot it's a wonder you didn't take it yourself; you had lots of time to beat us to it, didn't you?" "Why don't you? The Sand-sharkers aren't above doin' it, are they?" "Certainly; it's young Billy Wilson. You know—the lad who is always roaming the woods.".
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"Walter Watland." "And what do dogs and children think of you?" he asked, abruptly. "Yes, it is," cried Greyquill. "For people like you who can't get on ought to get out." He stretched himself full length on the sand, and drank. When he arose, wiping his mouth, the cows had moved off lazily towards the Causeway. Billy did not follow at once. He did not want to miss the dance of the fire-flies above the darkening marsh along the Causeway, the twilight blush on the pine tips of Point Aux forest, the light-house gleam, nor the prayer-time hush of the mystery-filled rush-land. So he tarried beside the lake until the pines and cedars had melted into indistinct masses and the call of the whip-poor-will sounded faintly from far away. Then he turned homeward..
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