Then Nick cut across the bay.

There was a mist coming up from the bay.

Jim Gilmore came to Hortons Bay from Canada.

In the old days Hortons Bay was a lumbering town.

Across the bay they found the other boat beached.

A cold mist was coming up through the woods from the bay.

A steep sandy road ran down the hill to the bay through the timber.

The water was lapping in the piles and the point was dark across the bay.

He looked across the bay to the hills that were beginning to sharpen against the sky.

Hortons Bay, the town, was only five houses on the main road between Boyne City and Charlevoix.

He saw the lights of Petoskey and, off across Little Traverse Bay, the lights of Harbour Springs.

From Smith’s back door you could look out across the woods that ran down to the lake and across the bay.

The lumber schooners came into the bay and were loaded with the cut of the mill that stood stacked in the yard.

In back of them was the close second-growth timber of the point and in front was the bay with the mouth of Hortons Creek.

Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay.

There was no moon and they walked ankle deep in the sandy road through the trees down to the dock and the warehouse on the bay.

In the evenings he read the Toledo Blade and the Grand Rapids paper by the lamp in the front room or went out spearing fish in the bay with a jacklight with A. J. Smith.

It was very beautiful in the spring and summer, the bay blue and bright and usually whitecaps on the lake out beyond the point from the breeze blowing from Charlevoix and Lake Michigan.

I looked back as we came out and there was only the sea, and below in the bay, a line of beach with fishing-boats and above, on the side of the hill, a town and then capes far down the coast.

The one-story bunk houses, the eating-house, the company store, the mill offices, and the big mill itself stood deserted in the acres of sawdust that covered the swampy meadow by the shore of the bay.

Its open hold covered with canvas and lashed tight, the sails of the schooner filled and it moved out into the open lake, carrying with it everything that had made the mill a mill and Hortons Bay, a town.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans.

Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound.

The schooner moved out of the bay toward the open lake carrying the two great saws, the traveling carriage that hurled the logs against the revolving, circular saws and all the rollers, wheels, belts and iron piled on a hull-deep load of lumber.