Martie Calkins threw herself on the cool sand of the beach and gave vent to a long breath. Sidney, standing over her, wished she could do likewise with the same picturesque abandon. Mart was so splendidly "I don't care a hang"; her tumbled hair now was thick with sand, across her tanned face was a smear of black, her shabby blouse was torn and open at the throat exposing her chest to the hot sun, her bare, hard-muscled legs were outstretched, the heels digging into the sand and the grimy toes separating and curling like the tentacles of a crab. "Oh, this is the life," she sang. "Sit down and make yourself at home. This beach's yours as much as mine I guess." Sidney sat down quickly lest her companion guess how she was tied inside with the innumerable bonds and knots of conventions, century old, which Martie had somehow escaped. Of course Sidney herself did not think it that way; she only knew that she felt ridiculously awkward with Martie Calkins in spite of her growing determination to be just like her. They had been friends now for two whole weeks, the shortest two weeks Sidney had ever known simply because into them they had crowded so much. She had met Mart the day after her coming to Sunset Lane. Mart had appeared at Aunt Achsa's with some baking soda her grandmother had borrowed two months before. Aunt Achsa had said: "I cal'late you two girls better make friends." That was so obviously sensible that Sidney quickly put from her the impression that Mart was the "queerest" girl she had ever met. She had _seen_ queerer but had never _talked_ to them. But Mart was young and frankly friendly and lived next door and, anyway, everything was so very different here that it was ridiculous to expect to meet a girl like Nancy or the others at school or perfect like Pola.