"It's downright wicked..." she cried aloud. "Yeah..." came a harsh, nasal voice from directly behind her; "it air daownright wicked ... to shoot on posted graound." Sadly startled, Hermione swung about and beheld a tall, bleak, forbidding figure, whose harsh, Yankee face was quite lacking in the dry, semi-humorous quality which is to be found in so many of his type, and which the irony of his words might have led one to expect. On the contrary, it was a cruel, sneering face, with small, swinish eyes and thin, straight lips, smooth-shaven and of the expression which one associates with the witch-burners of earlier days. The man carried no gun, but held in one hand a stout cudgel. His costume was that of the vicinity, but above the visor of his battered ship's cap were the letters:--"S.H.G. & F.C." Hermione understood at once that he was a game-keeper. The blood rushed to her face. It is always embarrassing to be taken in the act of conscious wrong-doing, but particularly so when one happens to be a young lady in a very syncopated bathing suit. Moreover, there was a quality in the man's regard which angered and embarrassed her; a sort of sneering contempt, such as a brutal officer of the law might direct toward some depraved unfortunate who was dead to all common decency. Hermione suddenly felt as one does in some silly dream where one finds one's self in the middle of a ball-room or addressing a public meeting in a night-gown. Worst of all, she knew that she was in the wrong. The game-keeper looked her up and down, slowly and with insulting deliberation. Hermione felt her embarrassment and fright give way to anger. "Well..." said she, "what do you want?" "What do I want, hey? Wa'al, fust off I want that gun o' your'n and them birds. After that, I want you to take a leetle walk with me and talk a mite to the sup'ntendent. That's what I want, young woman." Hermione stared. She had had a vague idea that, if discovered by any of the club people, the worst that could happen would be the indignity of getting "warned off." Even this, she had thought, would probably be done politely and with due apologies. But to be haled like a thief before the superintendent ... and that in her bathing suit, was so extreme a measure as to arouse her ridicule and anger. "Indeed!" said she, scornfully. "You don't want very much, do you?" The man scowled. "I don't want no more than what I'm a-goin' to git!" he answered. Hermione's eyes began to darken. The rich blood glowed through her clear olive skin. "You think so?" she retorted. "Then let me tell you that you will get nothing but my name and address. I am Miss Bell, and my father is Captain Bell, of the schooner-yacht _Shark_. If the club wants to do anything about this it can go ahead and do it." The game-keeper gave her a sullen look.