A PLAGUE OF MICE 157

of the summer evening. Gossip and witticisms floated up to us at intervals—~even comments about ourselves. At times we longed to hurl a plant down on their unconsciously offending heads. At other times we thought seriously of a pail of cold water. Then, they said something that made us laugh, and we forgave them . . . for a while.

“ D’y’see the two girls?”

“ with the bikes?”

“Yeah . . . Cycling around the Island, they said.”

“They must be nuts!”

“Yeah . . . And if they’ve got a tent, Why

were they looking for a house for the night?”

“Well, it looks like rain, y’know. ”

“Yeah, but I still think they’re nuts.”

“ Hand me the flower-pot, ” whispered Jean.

“The girl with curly hair asked me about legends . . .”

“Yeah? Say, she’s real cute—that curly—headed one.”

I handed Jean the flower-pot.

Jean wavered uncertainly. Jean has curly hair.

“Sure is. Told her I didn’t know any, of course . . .”

“You knew all about Tom the Smuggler, and the time he met the ghost out at the entrance to the

Bay . . . and the wreck of that foreign ship years ago . . . and the Indian’s revenge on old Sandy . . . Yeah ! ”

“Those are only stories. They’d never be inter- ested in those.” “ Let’s go down, ” said Jean excitedly. “Look at the