ey come
from invisible chimneys far down in the leafy fastnesses. Up here are
the huts of the newly married. Almost without exception, they are tiny
affairs, scarcely larger than the metaphorical bandbox. Each contains
two rooms.

During the very hot weather in January and February, the long, curving
beach is alive with oddly dressed bathers and idlers. This is at midday
only, when the sun is so hot and fierce that all work ceases for two
hours or more. Though the sun is hot, the water is never warm. A dip in
the surf is all that any one save the hardiest cares to take. They loll
on the cool white sands, under improvised shelters made of boughs,
or indulge in spirited games on the long level stretches. This is the
play-hour of the people throughout the hot months of summer. They "knock
off" work of all sorts, and seek relief from the stifling heat of the
woodland in the cool wet sands along the shore.

The costumes are strange and varied; some are pretty, others almost
ludicrous. Small children appear in a scant breech-cloth; women of all
ages and proportions wear a sort of one-piece "jumper," arms bare and
legs uncovered up to the knees. The men affect nothing except trunks
made from coffee sacks. The few real bathing-suits belong to such
experienced travellers as Nicklestick, Shine and the Blocks,--regular
and persistent patrons of the hotels at Atlantic City, Palm Beach and
Rockaway. They never travel without a full and complete equipment. Mr.
Nicklestick, very superior in his red two piece "costume," goes so
far as to contend that a man never should be without a bathing-suit,
because, says he, "it takes up no room in your trunk, and if you leave
it at home some one else is sure to stretch it so's you can't use it
yourself again."

Olga Obosky and her three dancing-girls, Careni-Amori, and several
of the Brazilian ladies possess Ostend costumes in which they disport
themselves with complacent disregard for public opinion, favourable or
otherwise.

"She's got 'em all skinned a mile," was Morris Shine's comment upon
Olga's lithe, graceful figure. "Ain't that so, Abey?"

The remark was addressed to Abel Landover.

"Even so," returned that gentleman, glaring at the offender, "it doesn't
give you the right to call me Abey. You've got to cut it out, Shine.
Understand?"

"Sure," said the affable Morris. "Only I've got a brother named Abraham,
and that was my father's name too. It comes natural to me to--Why, by
gr