A generous contention has arisen between ourselves and the other
remaining family as to which shall be last to leave the hotel. They go
on the 10.25, and we have outstayed them! We are the last guests in the
house. The landlord’s Italian greyhound seems instinctively to feel our
pathetic distinction. He rushes upon me from far down the veranda, and
fawns upon me.
The cook and a last helper of some unknown function carry our trunks
to the station. But it has now suddenly become a question whether we
shall go on the 12.20 or wait for the 5.20. It depends finally upon our
getting a last lunch at the restaurant of the bathing-beach. We ask,
limiting our demands to a clam chowder. We are answered that there
are still clams, but the man who knows how to make chowder is gone.
The restaurant family are going to lunch upon a ham bone, which is now
being scraped for them. We refuse to share it with many thanks, and
decide to go on the 12.20.