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STROLLING along the beach at Brighton, Long Island, in search of Harold Lockwood, whom I had been told I might find there, I was scanning the line of bathers, trying to discern him among them, when I stumbled over the form of a man lolling on the beach and almost covered with the white sand. Just as I was about to apologize I turned the words into a greeting, for there, right under my feet, was the subject of my search.
As he leisurely stretched himself and arose to answer my greetings, I carefully scrutinized this man — the idol and hero of a nation of young people. He strikes one as being a great, big, overgrown boy in many ways — a boy who is especially good looking, with a splendid— I might almost say marvelous — physique, merry, dancing blue eyes, blond hair, and a healthy, pink-cheeked complexion.
"I always try my best to run out to the beach whenever I have a spare moment,'' he explained. "I got into the habit while on the coast, and I don't think I could break it if I wished — and I don't." He smiled.
"You prefer the West to the effete East, anyway, I guess?" I questioned.
He hesitated. "Well, you know, I always manage to enjoy myself wherever I happen to be, but 'California, I hear you calling me,' " and he started to sing that popular song of a year or two ago.
As we talked, a passer-by or two recognized the handsome Metro leading man and stopped to gaze at him out of curiosity. Soon these few people were augmented by a fast-gathering throng of interested spectators, and Harold began to fidget and get nervous.
"I think we had better get away from here," he suggested. "I'll jump into my togs and we'll ride to my cottage, where we will have a little more privacy."
Suiting his words to actions, he sprinted along the beach, an enthusiastic mob trailing, and was soon behind the closed doors of his bathhouse.
Presently, dressed in his street clothes, he sought me out and then led me to his machine — one of his few extravagances. I made him Jump into the machine first, and then gazed at him in approval. From the low seat of the gray car only his head, in a plaid cap of gorgeous colors, and his shoulders, hunched over the wheel, could be seen. Lower down, an apparently independ