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” describ............