The sun was warm, the breeze was light, the horizon was veiled with a liquid haze. Albert's mind was veiled with a similar haze and the idea he wanted would not come. He was losing his desire to find it and was, in fact, dropping into a doze when aroused by a blood-curdling outburst of barks and yelps and growls behind him, at his very heels. He came out of his nap with a jump and, scrambling to a sitting position and turning, he saw a small Boston bull-terrier standing within a yard of his ankles and, apparently, trying to turn his brindled outside in, or his inside out, with spiteful ferocity. Plainly the dog had come upon him unexpectedly and was expressing alarm, suspicion and disapproval. Albert jerked his ankles out of the way and said “Hello, boy,” in as cheerfully cordial a tone as he could muster at such short notice. The dog took a step forward, evidently with the idea of always keeping the ankles within jumping distance, showed a double row of healthy teeth and growled and barked with renewed violence. “Nice dog,” observed Albert. The nice dog made a snap at the nearest ankle and, balked of his prey by a frenzied kick of the foot attached to the ankle, shrieked, snarled and gurgled like a canine lunatic. “Go home, you ugly brute,” commanded the young man, losing patience, and looking about for a stone or stick. On the top of that knoll the largest stone was the size of a buckshot and the nearest stick was, to be Irish, a straw. “Nice doggie! Nice old boy! Come and be patted! . . . Clear out with you! Go home, you beast!” Flatteries and threats were alike in their result. The dog continued to snarl and growl, darting toward the ankles occasionally. Evidently he was mustering courage for the attack. Albert in desperation scooped up a handful of sand. If worst came to worst he might blind the creature temporarily. What would happen after that was not clear. Unless he might by a lucky cast fill the dog's interior so full of sand that--like the famous “Jumping Frog”--it would be too heavy to navigate, he saw no way of escape from a painful bite, probably more than one. What Captain Zelotes had formerly called his “Portygee temper” flared up. “Oh, damn you, clear out!” he shouted, springing to his feet. From a little way below him; in fact, from behind the next dune, between himself and the beach, a feminine voice called his name. “Oh, Mr. Speranza!” it said. “Is it you? I'm so glad!” Albert turned, but the moment he did so the dog made a dash at his legs, so he was obliged to turn back again and kick violently. “Oh, I am so glad it is you,” said the voice again. “I was sure it was a dreadful tramp. Googoo loathes tramps.”