“You don’t believe me!  I’ll take you down there sometime.  And another thing, the rock’s high and dry—­up on the land.  I said to Charlie Crane, who was with me, that it must have been a peach of a jump for old Miles Standish and Priscilla what’s her name.”

“How I’d love to see the ocean again!” Janet exclaimed.

“Why, I’ll take you—­as often as you like,” he promised.  “We’ll go out on it in summer, up to Maine, or down to the Cape.”

Her enchantment was now so great that nothing seemed impossible.

“And we’ll go down to Plymouth, too, some Sunday soon, if this weather keeps up.  If we start early enough we can get there for lunch, easy.  We’ll see the rock.  I guess some of your ancestors must have come over with that Mayflower outfit—­first cabin, eh?  You look like it.”

Janet laughed.  “It’s a joke on them, if they did.  I wonder what they’d think of Hampton, if they could see it now.  I counted up once, just to tease father—­he’s the seventh generation from Ebenezer Bumpus, who came to Dolton.  Well, I proved to him he might have one hundred and twenty-six other ancestors besides Ebenezer and his wife.”

“That must have jarred him some,” was Ditmar’s comment.  “Great old man, your father.  I’ve talked to him—­he’s a regular historical society all by himself.  Well, there must be something in it, this family business.  Now, you can tell he comes from fine old American stock-he looks it.”

Janet flushed.  “A lot of good it does!” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” said Ditmar.  “It’s something to fall back on—­a good deal.  And he hasn’t got any of that nonsense in his head about labour unions—­he’s a straight American.  And you look the part,” he added.  “You remind me—­I never thought of it until now—­you remind me of a picture of Priscilla I saw once in a book of poems Longfellow’s, you know.  I’m not much on literature, but I remember that, and I remember thinking she could have me.  Funny isn’t it, that you should have come along?  But you’ve got more ginger than the woman in that picture.  I’m the only man that ever guessed it isn’t that so?” he asked jealously.

“You’re wonderful!” retorted Janet, daringly.

“You just bet I am, or I couldn’t have landed you,” he asserted.  “You’re chock full of ginger, but it’s been all corked up.  You’re so prim-so Priscilla.”  He was immensely pleased with the adjective he had coined, repeating it.  “It’s a great combination.  When I think of it, I want to shake you, to squeeze you until you scream.”

“Then please don’t think of it,” she said.

“That’s easy!” he exclaimed, mockingly.