Rod followed at a more leisurely gait. He bore no ill-will. His dignity was touchy enough in respect of any affront from Grove. Phil was privileged to be as brusque as he liked. There was never any malice in what he said or did. Rod always gave Phil the benefit of the doubt. He was only a little puzzled as he gained the house and noiselessly made his way upstairs, to look over his fishing tackle and then read himself into drowsiness. Rod's forenoons had been given over to study under Mr. Spence, M.A., B.Sc. He found himself, in view of his near departure for academic pastures, excused from this. He did not feel any particular gratitude for the exemption. Mr. Spence, in spite of certain classical prejudices, an insular sense of superiority to mere colonials which twenty-odd years' residence under the Norquay ægis had but slightly vitiated, had a faculty of making dry facts palatable and interesting matters completely absorbing. Rod had a mind like a sponge; Mr. Spence had supplied it rather deftly with choice liquids. So Rod had none of the schoolboy's exultation at seeing the last of his teacher. He merely wondered at a greater liberty bestowed upon him when the family seemed unduly exercised lest he plunge into mischief. Thus having the whole day before him where he had counted only on the afternoon, he swallowed his breakfast--which was a go-as-you-please meal that kept the cook and butler busy from eight to ten-thirty--took his fishing kit and paddled the lurid dugout into the channel. He glanced back at a piercing whistle from ashore. The distance was too great for words to carry, but not for Rod to make out the signaller as Grove. He waved a paddle and kept on. "Probably wants to wish somebody on me to go fishing," Rod grunted. "He knows I'd much rather go alone. No chance, old cockatoo. This is my party." He bounded light-footed as a cougar up the steps to a porch floor pricked full of innumerable tiny holes from the sharp calks of logging boots, walked without ceremony into a rather bare front room, and when he found no one there to answer his casual "hello," passed on to the kitchen. Mary and her mother were cleaning up the breakfast things. "I'm headed for the Granite Pool," he announced. "Can Mary come along, Mrs. Thorn?" "I expect she can," the girl's mother answered placidly, "if she wants to." But Mary shook her head. "You're too early. Lots of work to do yet." "You can work when you can't do anything else," Rod said. "Come on. Don't be a piker. You're only in Mrs. Thorn's way. Isn't she, Mrs. Thorn? Isn't a girl a nuisance around a house? I'm sure you'd much rather have a boy." "I don't know about that," Mrs. Thorn smiled gently. "Mary's about as good at most things as a boy. Isn't she?" "Oh, sure--that's why I want her to go fishing," Rod grinned. "Come along, Mary."