He cut a queer figure as he sat there with the red-bordered gray blanket over his head. One corner of the blanket had been dragging for the last ten minutes and was covered with mud. Here and there a wet leaf was pasted upon it. His shoes, the white canvas, rubber-soled “sneakers” worn on the launch, were sights to behold, and within them his feet were very wet and very cold. But what bothered him most of all was his stomach. That felt dreadfully empty, and now and then little “shooty” pains made themselves felt. Probably he had mistaken the direction of the house belonging to the field, he told himself dispiritedly. He should have walked across the rows instead of along them. And the grass in front of him only meant a meadow with silly cows, and, maybe, a bull! He wondered what a bull would think of him if he saw him; nothing flattering, probably. On the whole, he decided that he would a little rather not run across a bull this morning. Then suddenly he heard, far away and indistinct, the _Vagabond’s_ whistle. He knew it too well to mistake it. “Go on and blow it,” he muttered. “Hope your arm gets tired. You won’t see me until I’ve had some breakfast, I can tell you that. That’s right, blow, blow! Who the dickens cares?” From the direction of the sound it was evident to him that he had left the river almost directly behind him. But what bothered him at the present moment more than the location of the river and the _Vagabond_ was the location of the house and something to satisfy the craving of his empty stomach. He strove to remember what he knew about farms. Usually, he thought, the vegetable fields were near the buildings and the meadows at a distance, although he didn’t suppose there was any hard and fast rule about it. Then it dawned on him that for a meadow this one was unusually well kept. The grass was short and thick and the field quite level. He wondered if it could be a lawn. He would explore it. So, rather stiff by this time, he slipped off the wall and started straight ahead across the turf. Presently he came to a ridge some three feet high, rounded and turfed. He stopped and wondered. It disappeared on either side of him into the surrounding grayness. He climbed to the top of it and looked down. On the other side was a six-foot ditch of coarse sand. He was on a golf links and the ridge was a silly old bunker!