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