Poor Mans Rock | Page 6

momentarily in the eyes of the boatman.
But it passed. He did not speak, but made for the dinghy, followed by
the hand from the yacht. They turned the boat over, slid it down and
afloat. The sailor got in and began to ship his oars.
The man and the girl stood by till this was done. Then the girl turned
away. The man extended his hand.
"Thanks," he said curtly.
The other's hand had involuntarily moved. The short, stout man
dropped a silver dollar in it, swung on his heel and followed his
daughter,--passed her, in fact, for she had only taken a step or two and
halted.
The young fellow eyed the silver coin in his hand with an expression
that passed from astonishment to anger and broke at last into a smile of
sheer amusement. He jiggled the coin, staring at it thoughtfully. Then
he faced about on the jerseyed youth about to dip his blades.
"Smith," he said, "I suppose if I heaved this silver dollar out into the

chuck you'd think I was crazy."
The youth only stared at him.
"You don't object to tips, do you, Smith?" the man in the mackinaw
inquired.
"Gee, no," the boy observed. "Ain't you got no use for money?"
"Not this kind. You take it and buy smokes."
He flipped the dollar into the dinghy. It fell clinking on the slatted floor
and the youth salvaged it, looked it over, put it in his pocket.
"Gee," he said. "Any time a guy hands me money, I keep it, believe
me."
His gaze rested curiously on the man with the patch over his eye. His
familiar grin faded. He touched his cap.
"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."
"Ours, I daresay, means Horace A. Gower," he remarked. "Pardon my
curiosity, but you see I used to know this place rather well. I've been
away for some time. Things seem to have changed a bit."
"You're just back from overseas?" she asked quickly.
He nodded. She looked at him with livelier interest.
"I'm no wounded hero," he forestalled the inevitable question. "I merely
happened to get a splinter of wood in one eye, so I have leave until it
gets well."
"If you are merely on leave, why are you not in uniform?" she asked
quickly, in a puzzled tone.
"I am," he replied shortly. "Only it is covered up with overalls and
mackinaw. Well, I must be off. Good-by, Miss Gower."
He pushed his boat off the beach, rowed to the opposite side of the bay,
and hauled the small craft up over a log. Then he took his bag in hand
and climbed the rise that lifted to the backbone of Point Old. Halfway
up he turned to look briefly backward over beach and yacht and house,
up the veranda steps of which the girl in the blue sweater was now
climbing.
"It's queer," he muttered.
He went on. In another minute he was on the ridge. The Gulf opened

out, a dead dull gray. The skies were hidden behind drab clouds. The
air was clammy, cold, hushed, as if the god of storms were gathering
his breath for a great effort.
And Jack MacRae himself, when he topped the height which gave clear
vision for many miles of shore and sea, drew a deep breath and halted
for a long look at many familiar things.
He had been gone