“Who are they?” asked Salsbury; “I don’t know them.”

“Nor I,” said Burnham; “but they look like people to know.  They must be somebody.”

Half an hour later the hotel-office was besieged by a score of young men, all anxious for a peep at the last names upon the register.  It is needless to say that our friends were not in the crowd.  Ned Salsbury was no more the man to exhibit curiosity than Charley Burnham was the man to join in a scramble for anything under the sun.  They had educated their emotions clear down, out of sight, and piled upon them a mountain of well-bred inertia.

But, somehow or other, these fellows who take no trouble are always the first to gain the end.  A special Providence seems to aid the poor, helpless creatures.  So, while the crowd still pressed at the office-desk, Jerry Swayne, the head clerk, happened to pass directly by the piazza where the inert ones sat, and, raising a comical eye, saluted them.

“Heavy arrivals to-night.  See the turnout?”

“Y-e-s,” murmured Ned.

“Old Chapman and family.  His daughter drove the pony-phaeton, with her friend, a Miss Thurston.  Regular nobby ones.  Chapman’s the steam-ship man, you know.  Worth thousands of millions!  I’d like to be connected with his family—­by marriage, say!”—­and Jerry went off, rubbing his cropped head and smiling all over, as was his wont.

“I know who they are now,” said Charley.  “Met a cousin of theirs, Joe Faulkner, abroad two years ago.  Dooced fine fellow.  Army.”

The manly art of wagoning is not pursued vigorously at Brant Beach.  The roads are too heavy back from the water, and the drive is confined to a narrow strip of wet sand along the shore; so carriages are few, and the pony-chaise became a distinguished element at once.  Salsbury and Burnham whirled past it in their light trotting-wagons at a furious pace, and looked hard at the two young ladies in passing, but without eliciting even the smallest glance from them in return.

“Confounded distingue-looking girls, and all that,” owned Ned, “but, aw, fearfully unconscious of a fellow!”

This condition of matters continued until the young men were actually driven to acknowledge to each other that they should not mind knowing the occupants of the pony carriage.  It was a great concession, and was rewarded duly.  A bright, handsome boy of seventeen, Miss Thurston’s brother, came to pass a few days at the seaside, and fraternized with everybody, but was especially delighted with Ned Salsbury, who took him out sailing and shooting, and, I am afraid, gave him cigars stealthily, when out of range of Miss Thurston’s fine eyes.  The result was that the first time the lad walked on the beach with the two girls and met the young man, introductions of an enthusiastic nature were instantly sprung upon them.  An attempt at conversation followed.

“How do you like Brant Beach?” asked Ned.