The poem Tim read from his scrap-book is an excellent description of ’Sconset. It is a place in which to dream one’s life away in spite of the fact that it is a very popular summer resort and filled to overflowing with pleasure and rest seekers. There is many a nook and cranny behind the ever changing sand dunes where one can get away from the “madding crowd.” Behind one of those dunes Breck and Jane found a snug harbor after having taken a dip in the surf.

“Did you ever feel such water?” cried Jane, burrowing down in the yielding sand. “It isn’t as cold as Hurricane Island, but it has a stinging, spanking way with it as though it meant to conquer you.”

“Yes, I feel as though parental authority had got after me with the wrong side of the hair brush,” laughed Breck. “It is a treacherous bit of beach down at this end and none but good swimmers should venture here.”

The bathing beach proper was several hundred yards from where Breck and June had taken their swim. There the island made a sharp curve and the undertow suddenly was increased as though the old ocean resented the change of tactics in the land. It was a sparkling, brilliant day, but the water gave evidence of there having been a storm at sea. Far out near the horizon were occasional white-caps and as the waves came closer to the shore they increased in size and fury, each one seemingly trying to jump on the back of the one in front, foaming and raging, thundering and booming, breaking on the sand with a final roar and then endeavoring to drag the whole of Nantucket Island down into the deep. The sand was coarse and loose and it took a firm, quick-footed person to get out of the surf safely without being “boiled.” Boiling is a terrible experience and one often had by the unwary who does not know the habits of the surf on a shelving beach with loose and shifting sand. The worst feature about being “boiled” is the jeering crowd that sits on the beach and screams with laughter as the poor victim is turned over and over and played with by the relentless waves like some gigantic cat worrying a poor little mouse. There is nothing amusing in it but the crowd always finds it so and, when the poor mouse is cast up on the sands with a final admonishing spank from the last playful breaker, the ordinary crowd of holiday makers shows less heart than an ancient audience in a Roman arena. The victim, if it is a woman, is pretty apt to have lost her stockings in the struggle, her bathing cap, hair pins, anything in the way of apparel that is not securely fastened on. No matter what the sex, it is hard to come out from a real good “boiling” with much religion left. Ears leveled over with sand, shins, knees and elbows scraped sore from being dragged back and forth, besides the hurt feelings from being laughed at, is enough to make one doubt that “whatever is, is right.”

To the more secluded spot, sought by Jane and Breck, came Mabel and Charlie. They, too, found it difficult at times to pursue their love-making on the deck of the “Boojum” where, as Charlie put it, “somebody was always butting in.”

“Gee! Ain’t this nice? Not a soul around! Come on, Mabel honey, let’s take a dive and then get on the safe side of one of those friendly dunes.”

Now Charlie Preston was a fresh-water fish and, while he was a powerful swimmer, he knew little of the dangers of surf bathing. While on the “Boojum,” as a rule, the bathing had been done by diving from the yacht’s deck into the deep sea. Mabel was as at home in the surf as a seal and could dive under a breaker and come up on the other side with amazing poise. She never even thought to warn Charlie of the treachery of the beach but dived in and while her fiancÉ stood to watch her prowess and admire her skill a wave took him off his feet and then began the process of “boiling” described above.

Over and over poor Charlie rolled, struggling and spluttering, gurgling and choking. He would clutch with desperate hands at the loose sand and then a relentless wave would dash over him and drag him back while a playful brother wave would knock him with a resounding smack up on the beach only to let him be dragged back and rolled over by yet another one before he could get a footing.

Hearing a great splashing and screaming, Breck and Jane emerged from behind their friendly dune just in time to see Charlie being boiled to a king’s taste and Mabel, who ordinarily would have been much amused at the discomfiture of an unwary bather, was screaming shrilly and trying to get in to come to the rescue of her beloved Charlie. But one must bide his time in trying to ride waves. Time and tide waits for no man, nor does it hurry, and getting back to shore was not as quick as Mabel would have liked. She made a desperate lunge and, for the first time in the annals of the Wings, one of that name was caught in the surf and “boiled.”

Over and over went Mabel and over and over went Charlie again, but in the confusion they managed to clasp hands and just as Breck, trying to conceal a grin, came to their assistance they managed to crawl up out of reach of the spanking waves.

A rueful couple they were, sitting on the beach blinking ludicrously at each other.

“Well, you needn’t laugh!” spluttered Charlie.

“I’m not laughing! I’m trying to cry, but my eyes are dammed up with sand,” sobbed Mabel.

“Well, you needn’t laugh, Breck, you and Jane.”

“We are not laughing, old fellow. I would have come sooner if I had known what was going on,” said Breck. “‘Boiling’ is no joke to my mind but a serious calamity.”

Breck spoke soberly but he was glad Mabel and Charlie had so much sand in their eyes they could not see his face. Nobody could help smiling at their misery.

Jane came to the assistance of her friend with a small pail some child had left half buried in the sand. This she filled with sea water by carefully timing an incoming breaker. She had no desire to be caught as Mabel and Charlie had been.

“Here, honey, wash out your poor eyes.”

“They are getting washed fro-om with-h-in-hin-out-hout-ward,” sobbed Mabel. “I ne-hever expec-hected to get boi-hoiled.”

“Don’t you mind, darling,” comforted Charlie, who was still panting but was happy to be alive after such an experience. “Here’s a moonstone I found buried in my ear. A beauty too! I’m going to have it set in a ring for you. I’ve heard there were lovely moonstones on this beach, but I never expected to pick up one by ear.”

“I’m hun-un-gry,” said Mabel, her sobs letting up somewhat. “When I get scared, I always get hungry. Maybe it is the ‘boiling’ that made me think about food.”

“Of course,” said Charlie, indulgently. “I’m kind of hungry too. I tell you what you do: you and Jane wait here and Breck and I’ll go forage and bring us back a light lunch. We’ll pick up the rest of the crowd on the way.”

“Not too light,” admonished Mabel.

Breck looked sadly at Jane. There seemed to be no place where he could go and have a quiet little love-making with his sweetheart. Why should Charlie and Mabel come and be ‘boiled’ near their dune of refuge? And why should he have to go hunt food for Mabel? But Jane gave him a bright little nod of admonition and there was nothing for him to do but comply. He leant over and whispered to her:

“Don’t go in the water while I am away. Please promise me!”

And she laughingly promised.