He was hot and tired and the air was cool.

He would drink it in as if it were an ambrosial nectar in--and, moreover, he would also enjoy a cigarette.

Carefully he refrained from throwing the burnt-out match into the pool below: even such as he could feel that it might be desecration.

As he leaned back with a sigh of exquisite ease and a splendid exhalation of Turkish smoke, a small, imperious voice from somewhere behind broke in upon his primary reflections.
"What are you doing in here ?" demanded the voice.
Truxton, conscious of guilt, whirled with as much consternation as if he had been accosted by a voice of thunder.

He beheld a very small boy standing at the top of the knoll above him, not thirty feet away.