They had taken the direct county road across the hills from Monterey, instead of the Seventeen Mile Drive around by the coast, so that Carmel Bay came upon them without any fore-glimmerings of its beauty. Dropping down through the pines, they passed woods-embowered cottages, and , of artists and writers, and went on across wind-blown rolling sandhills held to place by sturdy lupine and nodding with pale California poppies. Saxon screamed in sudden wonder of delight, then caught her breath and gazed at the amazing peacock-blue of a breaker, shot through with golden sunlight, overfalling in a mile-long sweep and thundering into white ruin of on a crescent beach of sand scarcely less white.  
How long they stood and watched the stately procession of breakers, rising from out the deep and wind-capped sea to froth and thunder at their feet, Saxon did not know. She was recalled to herself when Billy, laughing, tried to remove the telescope basket from her shoulders.
 
“You kind of look as though you was goin' to stop a while,” he said. “So we might as well get comfortable.”
 
“I never dreamed it, I never dreamed it,” she repeated, with clasped hands. “I... I thought the surf at the Cliff House was wonderful, but it gave no idea of this.—Oh! Look! LOOK! Did you ever see such an unspeakable color? And the sunlight flashing right through it! Oh! Oh! Oh!”
 
At last she was able to take her eyes from the surf and gaze at the sea-horizon of deepest peacock-blue and piled with cloud-masses, at the curve of the beach south to the jagged point of rocks, and at the blue mountains seen across soft low hills, landward, up Carmel Valley.
 
“Might as well sit down an' take it easy,” Billy indulged her. “This is too good to want to run away from all at once.”
 
Saxon , but began immediately to unlace her shoes.
 
“You ain't a-goin' to?” Billy asked in surprised delight, then began unlacing his own.
 
But before they were ready to run barefooted on the fringe of cream-wet sand where land and ocean met, a new and wonderful thing attracted their attention. Down from the dark pines and across the sandhills ran a man, naked save for narrow trunks. He was smooth and rosy-skinned, cherubic-faced, with a of curly yellow hair, but his body was hugely thewed as a Hercules'.
 
“Gee!—must be Sandow,” Billy muttered low to Saxon.
 
But she was thinking of the in her mother's scrapbook and of the Vikings on the wet sands of England.
 
The runner passed them a dozen feet away, crossed the wet sand, never pausing, till the froth wash was to his knees while above him, ten feet at least, upreared a wall of overtopping water. Huge and powerful as his body had seemed, it was now white and fragile in the face of that , great-handed of the sea. Saxon with anxiety, and she stole a look at Billy to note that he was tense with watching.
 
But the stranger sprang to meet the blow, and, just when it seemed he must be crushed, he dived into the face of the breaker and disappeared. The mass of water fell in thunder on the beach, but beyond appeared a yellow head, one arm out-reaching, and a portion of a shoulder. Only a few strokes was he able to make ere he was compelled to dive through another breaker. This was the battle—to win seaward against the sweep of the shoreward hastening sea. Each time he dived and was lost to view Saxon caught her breath and her hands. Sometimes, after the passage of a breaker, they could not find him, and when they did he would be scores of feet away, flung there like a chip by a smoke-bearded breaker. Often it seemed he must fail and be thrown upon the beach, but at the end of half an hour he was beyond the outer edge of the surf and swimming strong, no longer diving, but topping the waves. Soon he was so far away that only at could they find the of him. That, too, vanished, and Saxon and Billy looked at each other, she with at the swimmer's , Billy with blue eyes flashing.
 
“Some swimmer, that boy, some swimmer,” he praised. “Nothing chicken-hearted about him.—Say, I only know tank-swimmin', an' bay-swimmin', but now I'm goin' to learn ocean-swimmin'. If I could do that I'd be so proud you couldn't come within forty feet of me. Why, Saxon, honest to God, I'd sooner do what he done than own a thousan' farms. Oh, I can swim, too, I'm tellin' you, like a fish—I swum, one Sunday, from the Narrow to Sessions' Basin, an' that's miles—but I never seen anything like that guy in the swimmin' line. An' I'm not goin' to leave this beach until he comes back.—All by his lonely out there in a mountain sea, think of it! He's got his nerve all right, all right.”
 
Saxon and Billy ran barefooted up and down the beach, pursuing each other with snakes of seaweed and playing like children for an hour. It was not until they were putting on their shoes that they sighted the yellow head bearing shoreward. Billy was at the edge of the surf to meet him, emerging, not white-skinned as he had entered, but red from the pounding he had received at the hands of the sea.
 
“You're a wonder, and I just got to hand it to you,” Billy greeted him in .
 
“It was a big surf to-day,” the young man replied, with a nod of acknowledgment.
 
“It don't happen that you are a fighter I never heard of?” Billy , striving to get some inkling of the identity of the physical .
 
The other laughed and shook his head, and Billy could not guess that he was an ex-captain of a 'Varsity Eleven, and incidentally the father of a family and the author of many books. He looked Billy over with an eye trained in measuring for the gridiron.
 
“You're some body of a man,” he appreciated. “You'd strip with the best of them. Am I right in guessing that you know your way about in the ring?”
 
Billy nodded. “My name's Roberts.”
 
The swimmer with a effort at recollection.
 
“Bill—Bill Roberts,” Billy supplemented.
 
“Oh, ho!—Not BIG Bill Roberts? Why, I saw you fight, before the eart............