And after that whenever he _did_ tend his beehives, whether the weather was warm or cold, he always wore the pith helmet under the bee veil instead of his usual hat. Now he doffed it to them. "Good morning, Philosophers. A pleasure to see you. We're in for another scorcher, I fear." "The thermometer says 100° right now," Julian was glad to inform him. "_Already._ It will be worse than that by noon!" He sounded perfectly delighted, and was. "By Jupiter!" Mr. Payton gave a whistle and dropped his hoe on the ground. "This is no day for gardening, then. Perhaps we'd better go and see how my sister is faring, though she never seems bothered by the heat." They found Mrs. Cheever sitting on her front porch quite contented. Tarrigo lay at her feet, panting. He rolled his eyes at them pathetically, too hot to bark; but Mrs. Cheever looked cool and composed. She was wearing a dress of embroidered India mull. Once it had been white--"My sister Persy's graduation dress, just fancy!"--but time had tanned it and frayed it in many places. It looked very pretty, though, and she had pinned a rose to her collar, and the bow on her hair was the same color as the rose. She was sitting in a rocking chair with her mending, and on the table beside her lay a palm-leaf fan with green words painted on it: Atlantic City, 1889. "Why, children, your clubhouse will be suffocating, won't it?" "We're not going to use it today," Julian told her. "The guys--the other fellows--Tom Parks and Joe Felder are coming here to meet us--" "And Lucy Lapham, too," Portia interrupted. "She's back visiting the Gaysons, thank goodness." "The membership reunited, eh?" said Mr. Payton. "Yes. They'll be here at eleven, and then we'll decide what to do. I wish there was anything to swim in but the brook." "They won't let us use the river; too dangerous," Portia explained dolefully. "Oh, if only Tarrigo could turn back into a lake just for one day! I'm _dying_ for a swim." "Now, wait a moment, wait a moment," said Mr. Payton, frowning. "Let me see. There used to be--oh, years ago--but there _used_ to be a limestone quarry back in the woods above Pork Ferry. _Way_ back. Abandoned. Springs fed into it. Cold. Refreshing. Wonder if it's still there? Probably not. Probably a used-car lot by now, or a public dump, or a drive-in motion-picture theater, or some other confounded thing," he concluded grumpily; the heat had made him grumpy. "But we could go and see, couldn't we, sir? If you gave us directions." "Nonsense, I'll drive you there in the Machine. As far as I _can_; after that we'll walk." "Now, Pin, I wonder if you should," his sister objected. "It might be too much for you. You might get heat exhaustion." "Perfect nonsense, Minnie. You make me feel like an old crock!" "Very well, then. Very well." Mrs. Cheever creaked her rocker back and forth. "How I wish you would not call me Minnie!"