Part 40 (1/2)

Judy's cry did not wake Tommy, and still in a half-dream she went down to the edge of the water and stood ghost-like in the moonlight, waiting. There was another figure in the boat, half-hidden by the shadowy sails, but it was Launcelot who, when the shallow water was reached, jumped out and waded to sh.o.r.e.

”Judy, Judy,” he said, as he came up to her, ”I knew I should find you.”

She looked at him with wide eyes. ”Where--where did you come from,”

she whispered, while her white hands fluttered across his coat sleeve as if to see that he was real.

There was sympathy and tenderness in his boyish face, but seeing her condition, he spoke cheerfully. ”I came down to The Breakers after Tommy. His mother was ill, and his father had to stay with her, so they sent me. And when I got there I found Anne and--and--” he checked himself hurriedly, ”I found Anne almost frantic because you had gone, and then when she found your note I started out, for I knew I should find you, Judy. I knew I should sail straight to you.”

For one little moment as they stood together in the moonlight, he looked down at her with the eyes of the lover he was to be, but as yet they were only boy and girl and the moment pa.s.sed.

”Where's Tommy?” asked Launcelot, coming out of his dream.

He was answered by a shout as Tommy came plunging over the sand.

”Why didn't you wake me, Judy?” he complained, bitterly, ”when you first saw the boat.”

”Stop that,” commanded Launcelot. ”Why weren't you keeping watch?

What kind of sailor do you call yourself, Tommy?”

”Oh, well,” Tommy excused, ”I was sleepy.”

”And so you let a girl watch,” was Launcelot's hard way of putting it, and Tommy's eyes s.h.i.+fted.

”Oh, well,” he began again.

”I made him let me watch, Launcelot,” Judy interrupted, feeling sorry for the small boy, ”and I told him to go to sleep.”

”Oh, of course you did,” said Launcelot, shortly, ”and of course he went, he's a nice sort of sailor.”

”I'm not going to be a sailor,” Tommy announced, sulkily. ”I'm going home--”

”Right-o,” agreed Lancelot, ”and the quicker the better.”

”Miss Judy,” came a sepulchral voice from the boat, ”Miss Judy, we thought you were drownded.”

”Oh, Perkins,” cried Judy, ”is that you, Perkins?”

”What's left of me, Miss,” and Perkins' bald head came into view as he stood up in the boat.

Judy and Tommy climbed in, amid excited questions and explanations, which presently settled into a continuous monotone of complaint from Tommy. ”I'm half-starved. Haven't you anything to eat, Perkins?”

Now Tommy grated on Perkins' nerves. The old butler had always been treated by the Jamesons with the gentle consideration due his age and long and faithful service, in the light of which Tommy's dictation seemed nothing less than impertinent.

And so it came about that Judy was served with good things first, while Tommy was made to wait.

”Oh, Perkins, can't you hurry,” growled the small rude boy.

And then Judy turned on him. ”You may be hungry, Tommy,” she blazed, ”but don't speak to Perkins that way again.”