Other figures went crunching downward through the dark, till the footsteps glimmered with phosphorus on the distant seaweed. A newcomer joined the group. "Here's Blue Peter," said the Yankee.
"I was puttin' another bow on my dip-net," explained the deep voice of Archer's young friend. The net, on its long pole, stood high above his head, like some drooping standard obscure in the starlight. "Beaky's b'ot's off a'ready," he added, "an' Joe's, an' Benny's."
The men started down the beach.
"Can I go out with you, Peter?" asked Archer, on the impulse.
The reply came in an odd tone of surprise mingled with something else.
"Oh, that you, sir? Yes, sure, if you'd like." As Archer slipped his money into his shirt, and threw his coat on the beach, he wondered at the touch of respect.
They trooped down together. Under the heavy boots, glow-worm drops of phosphorus filled the wet seaweed with spreading blots of brightness. To the "chock-chock" of oars on thole-pins, some half-dozen boats
