ile he did so Walter, and even Mr. Crowninshield himself, fidgeted.
His Highness would not have hesitated a moment; and that any one
should do so appeared to him incomprehensible. As for the master of
Surfside who was accustomed to having his business offers snapped up
the instant they were made, the younger man's deliberation piqued his
interest and respect as almost nothing else could have done. He had
thought the terms suggested very generous and had expected them to be
seized with avidity. It was something new to have a penniless youth
waver as to whether to accept or reject them.

In the meantime while the days passed no tidings came from the New
York detectives and the dwellers at Surfside were compelled to settle
down to their customary routine and put Lola's disappearance out of
their minds. Gardeners toiled, flowers blossomed, Jerry mugged about
with his misty blue eyes following every seed that was planted, every
turn the lawn mower made; they followed, too, what Walter was doing
and saw to it that the dogs were well cared for and that his young
protege neglected nothing.

Walter saw little of Dick now, for the house was filled with guests
and the place humming with laughter and the rush of unending sports
and picnics. There were tennis tournaments, golf matches, swimming
races, regattas when small fleets of knockabouts maneuvered in the
bay. In the midst of such a whirl of merriment it taxed all one's
forbearance to be nothing more than the boy who cared for the dogs.

On one particularly fine, bracing June morning after the lad had
returned from a solitary cross-country tramp with Achilles and the
rest of the pack, his lot seemed to him especially unenviable. There
was evidently to be a ball game. College boys with crimson H's on
their shirts; men with a blue Y; together with a group of
short-sleeved players not yet honored with insignia from their
universities were hurrying out to the lawn with bats, balls, and
catcher's mitts.

"You must pitch for the Blues, Dabney," called one fellow to another.

"Who's going to catch for the Crimson team?" piped another.

"I choose to play for Yale," came shrilly from another man who was
lounging across the grass in immaculate white flannels.

"Come on and help Harvard along, Cheever," put in a strident voice.

"Not on your sweet life!" bawled Cheever, with a vehemence that made
everybody laugh. "Goodness knows she needs help; but I'm not going to
be the one to