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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 37482
   :PG.Title: The Postmaster
   :PG.Released: 2011-09-19
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Roger Frank
   :PG.Producer: Mary Meehan
   :PG.Producer: the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
   :PG.Credits:
   :DC.Creator: Joseph C. Lincoln
   :MARCREL.ill: Howard Heath
   :DC.Title: The Postmaster
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1912

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   :class: small-caps

==============
THE POSTMASTER
==============

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.. container:: pgheader language-en

   .. style:: paragraph
      :class: noindent

   This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
   almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
   re-use it under the terms of the `Project Gutenberg License`_
   included with this eBook or online at
   http://www.gutenberg.org/license.

   

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   .. _pg-machine-header:

   .. container::

      Title: The Postmaster
      
      Author: Joseph C. Lincoln
      
      Release Date: September 19, 2011 [EBook #37482]
      
      Language: English
      
      Character set encoding: UTF-8

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      \*\*\* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POSTMASTER \*\*\*

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   .. container::

      Produced by Roger Frank, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.

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.. class:: center x-large

   | BY JOSEPH C. LINCOLN

.. class:: center large

   | Author of "The Depot Master," "Cap'n Warrens Wards,"
   | "Cap'n Eri," "Mr. Pratt," etc.

   | :small-caps:`With Four Illustrations`
   | :small-caps:`By` HOWARD HEATH

   | A. L. BURT COMPANY
   | :small-caps:`Publishers New York`

   | :small-caps:`Copyright, 1912, by`
   | D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

   | Copyright, 1911, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company
   | Copyright, 1911, 1912, by the Ainslee Magazine Company
   | Copyright, 1912, by the Ridgeway Company

   | Published, April, 1912

   | Printed in the United States of America

----

.. figure:: images/illus1.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Seems to me I never saw her look prettier.

   Seems to me I never saw her look prettier.

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.. contents:: CONTENTS
   :depth: 1
   :backlinks: entry


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.. class:: center larger

THE POSTMASTER

----



CHAPTER I—I MAKE TWO BETS—AND LOSE ONE OF 'EM
=============================================


"So you're through with the sea for good, are you,
Cap'n Zeb," says Mr. Pike.

"You bet!" says I. "Through for good
is just *what* I am."

"Well, I'm sorry, for the firm's sake," he says.
"It won't seem natural for the *Fair Breeze* to make
port without you in command. Cap'n, you're goin'
to miss the old schooner."

"Cal'late I shall—some—along at fust," I told
him. "But I'll get over it, same as the cat got
over missin' the canary bird's singin'; and I'll have
the cat's consolation—that I done what seemed
best for me."

He laughed. He and I were good friends, even
though he was ship-owner and I was only skipper,
just retired.

"So you're goin' back to Ostable?" he says.
"What are you goin' to do after you get there?"

"Nothin'; thank you very much," says I, prompt.

"No work at *all*?" he says, surprised. "Not a
hand's turn? Goin' to be a gentleman of leisure,
hey?"

"Nigh as I can, with my trainin'. The 'leisure'
part'll be all right, anyway."

He shook his head and laughed again.

"I think I see you," says he. "Cap'n, you've
been too busy all your life even to get married,
and—"

"Humph!" I cut in. "Most married men I've
met have been a good deal busier than ever I was.
And a good deal more worried when business was
dull. No, sir-ee! 'twa'n't that that kept me from
gettin' married. I've been figgerin' on the day
when I could go home and settle down. If I'd
had a wife all these years I'd have been figgerin'
on bein' able to settle up. I ain't goin' to Ostable
to get married."

"I'll bet you do, just the same," says he.
"And I'll bet you somethin' else: I'll bet a new
hat, the best one I can buy, that inside of a year
you'll be head over heels in some sort of hard
work. It may not be seafarin', but it'll be somethin'
to keep you busy. You're too good a man
to rust in the scrap heap. Come! I'll bet the hat.
What do you say?"

"Take you," says I, quick. "And if you want
to risk another on my marryin', I'll take that, too."

"Go you," says he. "You'll be married inside
of three years—or five, anyway."

"One year that I'll be at work—steady work—and
five that I'm married. You're shipped,
both ways. And I wear a seven and a quarter,
soft hat, black preferred."

"If I don't win the first bet I will the second,
sure," he says, confident. "'Satan finds some mischief
still for idle hands,' you know. Well, good-by,
and good luck. Come in and see us whenever
you get to New York."

We shook hands, and I walked out of that office,
the office that had been my home port ever
since I graduated from fust mate to skipper. And
on the way to the Fall River boat I vowed my vow
over and over again.

"Zebulon Snow," I says to myself—not out
loud, you understand; for, accordin' to Scriptur' or
the Old Farmers' Almanac or somethin', a feller
who talks to himself is either rich or crazy and,
though I was well enough fixed to keep the wolf
from the door, I wa'n't by no means so crazy as to
leave the door open and take chances—"Zebulon
Snow," says I, "you're forty-eight year old and
blessedly single. All your life you've been haulin'
ropes, or bossin' fo'mast hands, or tryin' to make
harbor in a fog. Now that you've got an anchor
to wind'ard—now that the one talent you put under
the stock exchange napkin has spread out so
that you have to have a tablecloth to tote it home
in, don't you be a fool. Don't plant it again, cal'latin'
to fill a mains'l next time, 'cause you won't
do it. Take what you've got and be thankful—and
careful. You go ashore at Ostable, where you
was born, and settle down and be somebody."

That's about what I said to myself, and that's
what I started to do. I made Ostable on the next
mornin's train. The town had changed a whole
lot since I left it, mainly on account of so many
summer folks buyin' and buildin' everywhere, especially
along the water front. The few reg'lar inhabitants
that I knew seemed to be glad to see me,
which I took as a sort of compliment, for it don't
always foller by a consider'ble sight. I got into
the depot wagon—the same horse was drawin' it,
I judged, that Eben Hendricks had bought when
I was a boy—and asked to be carted to the Travelers'
Inn. It appeared that there wa'n't any
Travelers' Inn now, that is to say, the name of it
had been changed to the Poquit House; "Poquit"
bein' Injun or Portygee or somethin' foreign.

But the name was the only thing about that hotel
that was changed. The grub was the same and the
wallpaper on the rooms they showed to me looked
about the same age as I was, and wa'n't enough
handsomer to count, either. I hired a couple of
them rooms, one to sleep in and smoke in, and
t'other to entertain the parson in, if he should call,
which—unless the profession had changed, too—I
judged he would do pretty quick. I had the
rooms cleaned and papered, bought some dyspepsy
medicine to offset the meals I was likely to have,
and settled down to be what Mr. Pike had called a
"gentleman of leisure."

Fust three months 'twas fine. At the end of the
second three it commenced to get a little mite dull.
In about two more I found my mind was shrinkin'
so that the little mean cat-talks at the breakfast
table was beginnin' to seem interestin' and important.
Then I knew 'twas time to doctor up with somethin'
besides dyspepsy pills. Ossification was settin'
in and I'd got to do somethin' to keep me interested,
even if I paid for Pike's hats for the next
generation.

You see, there was such a sameness to the programme.
Turn out in the mornin', eat and listen
to gossip, go out and take a walk, smoke, talk with
folks I met—more gossip—come back and eat
again, go over and watch the carpenters on the
latest summer cottage, smoke some more, eat some
more, and then go down to the Ostable Grocery,
Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes and Fancy Goods
Store, or to the post-office, and set around with the
gang till bedtime. That may be an excitin' life for
a jellyfish, or a reg'lar Ostable loafer—but it
didn't suit me.

I was feelin' that way, and pretty desperate, the
night when Winthrop Adams Beanblossom—which
wa'n't the critter's name but is nigh enough to the
real one for him to cruise under in this yarn—told
me the story of his life and started me on the v'yage
that come to mean so much to me. I didn't know
'twas goin' to mean much of anything when I
started in. But that night Winthrop got me to paddlin',
so's to speak, and, later on, come Jim Henry
Jacobs to coax me into deeper water; and, after
that, the combination of them two and Miss Letitia
Lee Pendlebury shoved me in all under, so 'twas a
case of stickin' to it or swimmin' or drownin'.

I was in the Ostable Store that evenin', as usual.
'Twas almost nine o'clock and the rest of the
bunch around the stove had gone home. I was
fillin' my pipe and cal'latin' to go, too—if you can
call a tavern like the Poquit House a home. Beanblossom
was in behind the desk, his funny little grizzly-gray
head down over a pile of account books
and papers, his specs roostin' on the end of his thin
nose, and his pen scratchin' away like a stray hen in
a flower bed.

"Well, Beanblossom," says I, gettin' up and
stretchin', "I cal'late it's time to shed the partin'
tear. I'll leave you to figger out whether to spend
this week's profits in government bonds or trips to
Europe and go and lay my weary bones in the tomb,
meanin' my private vault on the second floor of the
Poquit. Adieu, Beanblossom," I says; "remember
me at my best, won't you?"

He didn't seem to sense what I was drivin' at.
He lifted his head out of the books and papers,
heaved a sigh that must have started somewheres
down along his keelson, and says, sorrowful but polite—he
was always polite—"Er—yes? You
were addressin' me, Cap'n Snow?"

"Nothin' in particular," I says. "I was just
askin' if you intended spendin' your profits on a trip
to Europe this summer."

Would you believe it, that little storekeepin' man
looked at me through his specs, his pale face twitchin'
and workin' like a youngster's when he's tryin'
not to cry, and then, all to once, he broke right
down, leaned his head on his hands and sobbed out
loud.

I looked at him. "For the dear land sakes,"
I sung out, soon's I could collect sense enough to say
anything, "what is the matter? Is anybody dead
or—"

He groaned. "Dead?" he interrupted. "I
wish to heaven, I was dead."

"Well!" I gasps. "*Well!*"

"Oh, why," says he, "was I ever born?"

That bein' a question that I didn't feel competent
to answer, I didn't try. My remark about
goin' to Europe was intended for a joke, but if my
jokes made grown-up folks cry I cal'lated 'twas time
I turned serious.

"What *is* the matter, Beanblossom?" I says.
"Are you in trouble?"

For a spell he wouldn't answer, just kept on sobbin'
and wringin' his thin hands, but, after consider'ble
of such, and a good many unsatisfyin' remarks,
he give in and told me the whole yarn, told
me all his troubles. They were complicated and
various.

Picked over and b'iled down they amounted to
this: He used to have an income and he lived on
it—in bachelor quarters up to Boston. Nigh as I
could gather he never did any real work except to
putter in libraries and collect books and such.
Then, somehow or other, the bank the heft of his
money was in broke up and his health broke down.
The doctors said he must go away into the country.
He couldn't afford to go and do nothin', so he
has a wonderful inspiration—he'll buy a little store
in what he called a "rural community" and go into
business. He advertises, "Country Store Wanted
Cheap," or words to that effect. Abial Beasley's
widow had the "Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots
and Shoes and Fancy Goods Store" on her hands.
She answers the ad and they make a dicker. Said
dicker took about all the cash Beanblossom had left.
For a year he had been fightin' along tryin' to make
both ends meet, but now they was so fur apart they
was likely to meet on the back stretch. He owed
'most a thousand dollars, his trade was fallin' off,
he hadn't a cent and nobody to turn to. What
should he do? *What* should he do?

That was another question I couldn't answer off
hand. It was plain enough why he was in the hole
he was, but how to get him out was different. I set
down on the edge of the counter, swung my legs
and tried to think.

"Hum," says I, "you don't know much about
keepin' store, do you, Beanblossom? Didn't know
nothin' about it when you started in?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Cap'n
Snow," he says. "Why should I? I never was
obliged to labor. I was not interested in trade. I
never supposed I should be brought to this. I am
a man of family, Cap'n Snow."

"Yes," I says, "so'm I. Number eight in a family
of thirteen. But that never helped me none.
My experience is that you can't count much on your
relations."

Would I pardon him, but that was not the sense
in which he had used the word "family." He
meant that he came of the best blood in New
England. His ancestors had made their marks and—

"Made their marks!" I put in. "Why?
Couldn't they write their names?"

He was dreadful shocked, but he explained. The
Beanblossoms and their gang were big-bugs, fine
folks. He was terrible proud of his family. During
the latter part of his life in Boston he had become
interested in genealogy. He had begun a
"family tree"—whatever that was—but he never
finished it. The smash came and shook him out of
the branches; that wa'n't what he said, but 'twas the
way I sensed it. And now he had come to this.
His money was gone; he couldn't pay his debts; he
couldn't have any more credit. He must fail; he
was bankrupt. Oh, the disgrace! and likewise oh,
the poorhouse!

"But," says I, considerin', "it can't be so turrible
bad. You don't owe but a thousand dollars,
this store's the only one in town and Abial used to
do pretty well with it. If your debts was paid, and
you had a little cash to stock up with, seems to me
you might make a decent v'yage yet. Couldn't
you?"

He didn't know. Perhaps he could. But what
was the use of talkin' that way? For him to pick
up a thousand would be about as easy as for a paralyzed
man with boxin' gloves on to pick up a flea,
or words to that effect. No, no, 'twas no use! he
must go to the poorhouse! and so forth and so on.

"You hold on," I says. "Don't you engage
your poorhouse berth yet. You keep mum and say
nothin' to nobody and let me think this over a
spell. I need somethin' to keep me interested and ... I'll
see you to-morrow sometime. Good
night."

I went home thinkin' and I thought till pretty
nigh one o'clock. Then I decided I was a fool even
to think for five minutes. Hadn't I sworn to be
careful and never take another risk? I was sorry
for poor old Winthrop, but I couldn't afford to mix
pity and good legal tender; that was the sort of
blue and yeller drink that filled the poor-debtors'
courts. And, besides, wasn't I pridin' myself on
bein' a gentleman of leisure. If I got mixed up in
this, no tellin' what I might be led into. Hadn't I
bragged to Pike about—Oh, I *was* a fool!

Which was all right, only, after listenin' to the
breakfast conversation at the Poquit House, down
I goes to the store and afore the forenoon was over
I was Winthrop Adams Beanblossom's silent partner
to the extent of twenty-five hundred dollars. I
was busy once more and glad of it, even though
Pike *was* goin' to get a hat free.

This was in January. By early March I was
twice as busy and not half as glad. You see I'd
cal'lated that the store was all right, all it needed
was financin'. Trade was just asleep, taking a nap,
and I could wake it up. I was wrong. Trade was
dead, and, barrin' the comin' of a prophet or some
miracle worker to fetch it to life, what that shop
was really sufferin' for was an undertaker. My
twenty-five hundred was funeral expenses, that's all.

But the prophet came. Yes, sir, he came and
fetched his miracle with him. One evenin', after
all the reg'lar customers, who set around in chairs
borrowin' our genuine tobacco and payin' for it
with counterfeit funny stories, had gone—after
everybody, as we cal'lated, had cleared out—Beanblossom
and I set down to hold our usual autopsy
over the remains of the fortni't's trade. 'Twas a
small corpse and didn't take long to dissect. We'd
lost twenty-one dollars and sixty-eight cents, and
the only comfort in that was that 'twas seventy-six
cents less than the two weeks previous. The
weather had been some cooler and less stuff had
sp'iled on our hands; that accounted for the savin'.

Beanblossom—I'd got into the habit of callin'
him "Pullet" 'cause his general build was so similar
to a moultin' chicken—he vowed he couldn't
understand it.

"I think I shall give up buyin' so liberally, Cap'n
Snow," says he. "If we didn't keep on buyin' we
shouldn't lose half so much," he says.

"Yes," says I, "that's logic. And if we give up
sellin' we shouldn't lose the other half. You and
me are all right as fur as we go, Pullet, and I guess
we've gone about as fur as we can."

"Please don't call me 'Pullet,'" he says, dignified.
"When I think of what I once was, it—"

"S-sh-h!" I broke in. "It's what I am that troubles
me. I don't dare think of that when the minister's
around—he might be a mind-reader. No,
Pul—Beanblossom, I mean—it's no use. I imagined
because I could run a three-masted
schooner I could navigate this craft. I can't. I
know twice as much as you do about keepin' store,
but the trouble with that example is the answer,
which is that you don't know nothin'. We might
just exactly as well shut up shop now, while there's
enough left to square the outstandin' debts."

He turned white and began the hand-wringin'
exercise.

"Think of the disgrace!" he says.

"Think of my twenty-five hundred," says I.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," says a voice astern of
us; "excuse me for buttin' in; but I judge that what
you need is a butter."

Pullet and I jumped and turned round. We'd
supposed we was alone and to say we was surprised
is puttin' it mild. For a second I couldn't make out
what had happened, or where the voice came from,
or who 'twas that had spoke—then, as he come
across into the lamplight I recognized him. 'Twas
Jim Henry Jacobs, the livin' mystery.

.. figure:: images/illus2.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: As he come across into the lamplight I recognized him.

   As he come across into the lamplight I recognized him.

Jim Henry was middlin'-sized, sharp-faced,
dressed like a ready-tailored advertisement, and as
smooth and slick as an eel in a barrel of sweet ile.
Accordin' to his entry on the books of the Poquit
House he hailed from Chicago. He'd been in Ostable
for pretty nigh a month and nobody had been
able to find out any more about him than just that,
which is a some miracle of itself—if you know
Ostable. He was always ready to talk—talkin'
was one of his main holts—but when you got
through talkin' with him all you had to remember
was a smile and a flow of words. He was at the
seashore for his health, that he always give you to
understand. You could believe it if you wanted
to.

He'd got into the habit of spendin' his evenin's
at Pullet's store, settin' around listenin' and smilin'
and agreein' with folks. He was the only feller
I ever met who could say no and agree with you
at the same time. Solon Saunders tried to borrow
fifty cents of him once and when the pair of 'em
parted, Saunders was scratchin' his head and lookin'
puzzled. "I can't understand it," says Solon. "I
would have swore he'd lent it to me. 'Twas just
as if I had the fifty in my hand. I—I thanked
him for it and all that, but—but now he's gone I
don't seem to be no richer than when I started. I
can't understand it."

Pullet and I had seen him settin' abaft the stove
early in the evenin', but, somehow or other, we got
the notion that he'd cleared out with the other
loafers. However, he hadn't, and he'd heard all
we'd been sayin'.

He walked across to where we was, pulled a shoe
box from under the counter, come to anchor on it
and crossed his legs.

"Gentlemen," he says again, "you need a butter."

Poor old Pullet was so set back his brains was
sort of scrambled, like a pan of eggs.

"Er-er, Mr. Jacobs," he says, "I am very
sorry, extremely sorry, but we are all out just at
this minute. I fully intended to order some to-day,
but I—I guess I must have forgotten it."

Jacobs couldn't seem to make any more out of
this than I did.

"Out?" he says, wonderin'. "Out? Who's
out? What's out? I guess I've dropped the key
or lost the combination. What's the answer?"

"Why, butter," says Pullet, apologizin'. "You
asked for butter, didn't you? As I was sayin', I
should have ordered some to-day, but—"

Jim Henry waved his hands. "Sh-h," he says,
"don't mention it. Forget it. If I'd wanted butter
in this emporium I should have asked for somethin'
else. I've been givin' this mart of trade some
attention for the past three weeks and I judge that
its specialty is bein' able to supply what ain't wanted.
I hinted that you two needed a butter-in. All
right. I'm the goat. Now if you'll kindly give
me your attention, I'll elucidate."

We give the attention. After he'd "elucidated"
for five minutes we'd have given him our clothes.
You never heard such a mess of language as that
Chicago man turned loose. He talked and talked
and talked. He knew all about the store and the
business, and what he didn't know he guessed and
guessed right. He knew about Pullet and his buyin'
the place, about my goin' in as silent partner—though
*that* nobody was supposed to know. He
knew the shebang wa'n't payin' and, also and moreover,
he knew why. And he had the remedy buttoned
up in his jacket—the name of it was James
Henry Jacobs.

"Gentlemen," he says, "I'm a specialist. I'm a
doctor of sick business. Ever since my medicine
man ordered me to quit the giddy metropolis and
the Grand Central Department Store, where I was
third assistant manager, I've been driftin' about
seekin' a nice, quiet hamlet and an opportunity.
Here's the ham and, if you say the word, here's
the opportunity. This shop is in a decline; it's got
creepin' paralysis and locomotive hang-back-tia.
There's only one thing that can change the funeral
to a silver weddin'—that's to call in Old Doctor
Jacobs. Here he is, with his pocket full of testimonials.
Now you listen."

We'd been listenin'—'twas by long odds the
easiest thing to do—and we kept right on. He
had testimonials—he showed 'em to us—and they
took oath to his bein' honest and the eighth business
wonder of the world. He went on to elaborate.
He had a thousand to invest and he'd invest it provided
we'd take him in as manager and give him
full swing. He'd guarantee—etcetery and so on,
unlimited and eternal.

"But," says I, when he stopped to eat a throat
lozenge, "sellin' goods is one thing; gettin' the
right goods to sell is another. Me and Pullet—Mr.
Beanblossom here—have tried to keep a pretty
fair-sized stock, but it's the kind of stock that keeps
better'n it sells."

"Sell!" he puts in. "You can sell anything, if
you know how. See here, let me prove it to you.
You think this over to-night and to-morrow forenoon
I'll be on hand and demonstrate. Just put on
your smoked glasses and watch me. *I'll* show you."

He did. Next mornin' old Aunt Sarah Oliver
came in to buy a hank of black yarn to darn stockin's
with. With diplomacy and patience the average
feller could conclude that dicker in an hour and
a quarter—if he had the yarn. Pullet was just
out of black, of course, but that Jim Henry Jacobs
stepped alongside and within twenty minutes he sold
Aunt Sarah two packages of needles, a brass thimble
and a half dozen pair of blue and yellow striped
stockin's that had been on the shelves since Abial
Beasley's time, and was so loud that a sane person
wouldn't dare wear 'em except when it thundered.
She went out of the store with her bundles in one
hand and holdin' her head with the other. Then
that Jim Henry man turned to Pullet and me.

"Well?" he says, serene and smilin'.

It was well, all right. At just quarter to twelve
that night the arrangements was made. Jacobs was
partner in and manager of the "Ostable Grocery,
Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes and Fancy Goods
Store."




CHAPTER II—WHAT A "PULLET" DID TO A PEDIGREE
============================================


In less than two months that store of ours was
a payin' proposition. Jim Henry Jacobs was
responsible, that is all I can tell you. Don't
ask me how he did it. 'Twas advertisin', mainly.
Advertisin' in the papers, advertisin' on the fences,
things set out in the windows, a new gaudy delivery
cart, special bargain days for special stuff—they all
helped. Of course if we'd limited ourselves to
Ostable the cargo wouldn't have been so heavy that
we'd get stoop-shouldered, but that Jim Henry was
unlimited. He advertised in the county weekly and
sent a special cart to take orders for twenty mile
around. The early summer cottages was beginnin'
to open and 'twas summer trade, rich city
folks' trade, that the Jacobs man said we must have.
And we got it, one way or another we got it all.
Most of the swell big-bugs had been in the habit
of orderin' wholesale from Boston, but he soon
stopped that. One after another Jim Henry
landed 'em. When I asked him how, he just
winked.

"Skipper," says he—he most generally called
me "Skipper" same as I called Beanblossom "Pullet"—"Skipper,"
he says, "you can always hook
a cod if there's any around and you keepin' changin'
bait; ain't that so? Um-hm; well, I change bait,
that's all. Every man, woman and suffragette has
got a weak p'int somewheres. I just cast around
till I find that particular weak p'int; then they swaller
hook, line and sinker."

"Humph!" I says, "Miss Letitia ain't swallowed
nothin' yet, that I've noticed. Her weak
p'ints all strong ones? or what is the matter?"

He made a face. "Sister Pendlebury," says he,
"is the frostiest proposition I ever tackled outside
of an ice chest. But I'll get her yet. You wait and
see. Why, man, we've *got* to get her."

Well, I could find more truth in them statements
than I could satisfaction. We'd got to get her—yes.
But she wouldn't be got. She was the richest
old maid on the North Shore; lived in a stone
and plaster house bigger'n the Ostable County jail,
which she'd labeled "Pendlebury Villa"; had six
servants, three cats and a poll parrot; and was so
tipped back with dignity and importance that a
plumb-line dropped from her after-hair comb would
have missed her heels by three inches. Her winter
port was Brookline; summers she condescended to
shed glory over Ostable.

To get the trade of Pendlebury Villa had been
Jim Henry's dream from the start. And up to date
he was still dreamin'. The other big-bugs he had
caged, but Letitia was still flyin' free and importin'
her honey from Boston, so to speak. Jacobs had
tried everything he could think of, bribin' the servants,
sendin' samples of fancy breakfast food and
pickles free gratis, writin' letters, callin' with his
Sunday clothes on, everything—but 'twas "Keep
Off the Grass" at Pendlebury Villa so far as we
was concerned. 'Twas the biggest chunk of trade
under one head on the Cape and it hurt Jim Henry's
pride not to get it. However, he kept on tryin'.

One mornin' he comes back to the store after a
cruise to the Villa and it seemed to me that he
looked happier than was usual after one of these
trips.

"Skipper," says he, "I think—I wouldn't bet
any more'n my small change, but I *think* I've laid
a corner stone."

"With Miss Pendlebury?" says I, excited.

"With Letitia," he says, noddin'. "I haven't
got an order, but I have got a promise. She's
agreed to drop in one of these days and look us
over."

"Well!" says I, "I should say that *was* a corner
stone."

"We'll hope 'tis," he says. "Ho, ho! Skipper,
I wish you might have been present at the exercises.
They were funny."

Seems he'd managed—bribery and corruption of
the hired help again—to see Letitia alone in what
she called her "mornin' room." He said that, if
he'd paid any attention to the temperature of that
room when he and she first met in it, he'd have figgered
he'd struck the morgue; but he warmed it up a
little afore he left. Miss Pendlebury just set and
glared frosty while he talked and talked and talked.
She said about three words to his two hundred
thousand, but every one of hers was a "no." She
didn't care to patronize the local merchants. The
city ones were bad enough—she had all the trouble
she wanted with *them*. She was not interested;
and would he please be careful when he went out
and not step on the flower beds.

He was about ready to give it up when he
happened to notice an ile portrait in a gorgeous gold
frame hangin' on the wall. 'Twas the picture of
a man, and Jim Henry said there was a kind of great-I-am
look to it, a combination of fatness and importance
and wisdom, same as you see in a stuffed
owl, that give him an idea. He started to go,
stopped in front of the picture and began to look
it over, admirin' but reverent, same as a garter
snake might look at a boa-constrictor, as proof of
what the race was capable of.

"Excuse me, Miss Pendlebury," he says, "but
that is a wonderful portrait. I have had some experience
in judgin' paintin's—" he was clerk in the
Grand Central Store framed picture department once—"and
I think I know what I'm talkin' about."

Would you believe it, she commenced to unbend
right off.

"It is a Sargent," says she.

Now I should have asked: "Sergeant of militia,
or what?" and upset the whole calabash; but
Jim Henry knew better. He bows, solemn and wise,
and says he'd been sure of it right along.

"But any painter," he says, "would have made
a success with a subject like that gentleman before
him. There is somethin' about him, the height of
his brow, and his wonderful eyes, etcetery, which
reminds me—You'll excuse me, Miss Pendlebury,
but isn't that a portrait of one of your near relatives?"

She unbent some more and almost smiled. The
painted critter was her pa and he was considered
a wonderful likeness.

Well, that was enough for your uncle Jim Henry.
He settled down to his job then and the way he
poured gush over that painted Pendlebury man was
close to sacreligion. But Letitia never pumped up
a blush; worship was what she expected for her
and her pa. He'd been a member of the
Governor's staff and a bank president and a church
warden and an alderman and land knows what.
His daughter and Jacobs had a real sociable interview
and it ended by her promisin' to drop in at the
store and look our stock over. 'Course 'twa'n't
likely 'twould suit her—she was very exacting, she
said—but she'd look it over.

We looked it over fust. We put in the rest of
that day changin' everything around on the counters
and shelves, puttin' the canned stuff in piles
where they'd do the most good, and settin' advertisin'
signs and such in front of the empty places
where they'd been afore. Even Pullet worked,
though he couldn't understand it, and growled because
he had to leave the musty old book he was
readin' and the "genealogical tree" he'd begun to
cultivate once more. Jacobs was pretty well disgusted
with Pullet. Said he was an incumbrance
on the concern and hadn't any business instinct.

All the next day and the next we hung around,
dressed up to kill—that is, Jim Henry's togs would
have killed anything with weak eyes—waitin' for
Letitia Pendlebury to come aboard and inspect.
But she didn't come that day, or the next either.
Jacobs was disapp'inted, but he wouldn't give in
that he was discouraged. The fourth forenoon,
when there was still nothin' doin', he and I went
on a cruise with a hired horse and buggy over to
Bayport, where we had some business. We left
Pullet in charge of the store and when we came back
he was lookin' pretty joyful.

"Who do you think has been here?" he says,
in his thin, polite little voice. "Miss Letitia Pendlebury
called this afternoon."

"She did!" shouts Jacobs.

"Did she buy anythin'?" I wanted to know.

No, it appeared that she hadn't bought anythin'.
Fact is, Pullet had forgot he was supposed to be
a storekeeper. When Letitia came in he was
roostin' in his family tree, had the chart spread out
on the counter and was fillin' in some of the twigs
with the names of dead and gone Beanblossoms.
He couldn't climb down to common things like
crackers and salt pork.

"But she was very much interested," he says, his
specs shinin' with joy. "When she found out what
I was busy with she was *very* much interested, really.
She is a lady of family, too."

"She *is*?" I sings out. "What are you talkin'
about? She's an old maid and an only child besides,
and—"

"Hush up, Skipper," orders Jacobs. "Go on,
Pullet—Mr. Beanblossom, I mean—go on."

So on went Pullet, both wings flappin'. Letitia
and he had talked "family" to beat the cars. She
had 'most everything in the Villa except a family
tree. She must have one right away. She simply
must.

"And I am to help her in preparin' it," says Pullet,
puffed up and vainglorious. "The Pendlebury
family tree will be an honor to prepare. Of course
it will require much labor and research, but I shall
enjoy doing it. I told her so. Her father would
have prepared one himself, had often spoken of it,
but he was a very busy man of affairs and lacked the
time."

My, but I was mad! I cal'late if I had a marlinspike
handy our coop would have been a Pullet
short. But Jim Henry Jacobs was so full of tickle
he couldn't keep still. He fairly dragged me into
the back room.

"Skipper," he says, "here it is at last! We've
got it!"

"Yes," I sputters, thinkin' he was referrin' to
Beanblossom, "we've got it; and, if you ask me,
I'd tell you we'd ought to chloroform it afore it
does any more harm."

"No, no," he says, "you don't understand.
We've got the old girl's weak p'int at last. It's
genealogy. Pullet shall grow her a family tree if
I have to buy a carload of fertilizer to-morrer.
Think of it! think of it! Why, she won't give him
a minute's rest from now on. She'll be after him
the whole time."

"But I can't see where the trade comes in,"
says I.

"You *can't*! With our senior pardner head forester?
My boy, if any other shop sells Pendlebury
Villa a dollar's worth after this, I'll Fletcherize my
hat, that's all!"

He knew what he was talkin' about, as usual.
The very next forenoon Letitia was in to consult
with Pullet about huntin' up her family records.
Afore she left Jacobs took orders for thirty-two dollars'
worth and I'd have bet she didn't know a thing
she bought. After dinner, Jim Henry sent Pullet
up to see her. He stayed until supper time. Next
day he had supper at the Villa. A week later he
made his first trip to Boston, to the Genealogical
Society, to hunt for records. And Jacobs stayed
in Ostable and kept the Villa supplied with the luxuries
of life. If the Pendlebury servants didn't die
of gout and overeatin', it wasn't our fault.

By August the whole town was talkin'. They
had it all settled. 'Cordin' to the gossip-spreaders
there could be only one reason for Pullet and Miss
Letitia bein' together so much—they was cal'latin'
to marry. The weddin' day was prophesied and set
anywheres from to-morrer to next Christmas. I
thought such talk ought to be stopped. Jim Henry
didn't.

"Why?" says he.

"*Why!*" I says. "Because it's foolishness,
that's why. 'Cause there's no truth in it and you
know it."

"No, I don't know," says he. "Stranger things
than that have happened."

"*She* marry that old fossilized pauper!"

"Why not? He's a gentleman and a scholar, if
he *is* poor. She's rich, but if there's one thing she
isn't, it's a scholar."

"Humph! fur's that goes," says I, "she ain't a
gentleman, either—though she's next door to
it."

"That's all right. Skipper, there's some things
money can't buy. Pullet's got book learnin' and
treed ancestors and she ain't. She's got money
and he ain't. Both want what t'other's best fixed
in. If old Beanblossom had any sand, I should believe
'twas a sure thing. I guess I'll drop him a
hint."

"My land!" I sang out; "don't you do it. The
fat'll all be in the fire then."

"Skipper," says he, "you're a cagey old bird,
but you don't know it all. There's some things you
can leave to me. And, anyhow, whether the weddin'
bells chime or not, all this talk is good free
advertisin' for the store."

'Twa'n't long after this that the genealogical man
begun to seem less gay-like. He and Letitia was
together as much as ever, the Pendlebury tree and
the Beanblossom tree—he worked on both at the
same time—was flourishin', after the topsy-turvy
way of such vegetables—from the upper branches
down towards the trunks; but there was a look on
Pullet's face as he pawed through his books and
papers that I couldn't understand. He looked worried
and troubled about somethin'.

"What's the matter?" I asked him, once.
"Ain't your ancestors turnin' up satisfactory?"

"Yes," he says, polite as ever, but sort of condescendin'
and proud, "the Beanblossom history
is, if you will permit me to say so, a very satisfactory
record indeed."

"And the Pendleburys?" says I. "George
Washin'ton was first cousin on their ma's side, I
s'pose."

He didn't answer for a minute. Then he wiped
his specs with his handkerchief. "The Pendlebury
records are," he says, slow, "a trifle more confused
and difficult. But I am progressin'—yes, Cap'n
Snow, I think I may say that I am progressin'."

The thunderbolt hit us, out of a clear sky, the
fust week in September. Yet I s'pose we'd ought
to have seen it comin' at least a day ahead. That
day the Pendlebury gasoline carryall come buzzin'
up to the front platform and Letitia steps out, grand
as the Queen of Sheba, of course.

"Cap'n Snow," says she, and it seemed to me
that she hesitated just a minute, "is Mr. Beanblossom
about?"

"No," says I, "he ain't. I don't know where
he is exactly. He was in the store this mornin'
askin' about a letter he's expectin' from the Genealogical
Society folks, but he went out right afterwards
and I ain't seen him since. I s'posed, of
course, he was up to your house."

"No," she says, and I thought she colored up a
little mite; "he has not been there since day before
yesterday. Perhaps that is natural, under the circumstances,"
speakin' more to herself than to me,
"but ... however, will you kindly tell him
I called before leavin' for the city. I am goin' to
Boston on a shoppin' excursion," she adds, condescendin'.
"I shall return on Wednesday."

She went away. Pullet didn't show up until night
and then the first thing he asked for was the mail.
When I told him about the Pendlebury woman he
turned round and went out again.

Next day was Saturday and we was pretty busy,
that is, Jim Henry and the clerk was busy. I was
about as much use as usual, and, as for Pullet, he
was no use at all. A big green envelope from the
Genealogical Society come for him in the morning
mail—he was always gettin' letters from that Society—and
he grabbed at it and went out on the platform.
A little while afterwards I saw him roostin'
on a box out there, with his hair, what there was
of it, all rumpled up, and an expression of such
everlastin', world-without-end misery on his face
that I stopped stock still and looked at him.

"For the mercy sakes," says I, "what's happened?"

He turned his head, stared at me fishy-eyed, and
got up off the box.

"What's wrong?" I asked. "Is the world comin'
to an end?"

He put one hand to his head and waved the other
up and down like a pump handle.

"Yes," he sings out, frantic like. "It is ended
already. It is all over. I—I—"

And with that he jumps off the platform and
goes staggerin' up the road. I'd have follered him,
but just then Jim Henry calls to me from inside the
store and in a little while I'd forgot Beanblossom
altogether. I thought of him once or twice durin'
the day, but 'twa'n't till about shuttin'-up time that
I thought enough to mention him to Jacobs. Then
he mentioned him fust.

"Whew!" says he, settin' down for the fust time
in two hours. "Whew! I'm tired. This has been
the best day this concern has had since I took hold
of it, and I've worked like a perpetual motion
machine. We'll need another boy pretty soon,
Skipper. Pullet's no good as a salesman. By the
way, where *is* Pullet? I ain't seen him since
noon."

Neither had I, now that I come to think of it.

"I wonder if the poor critter's sick," I says. Then
I started to tell how queer he'd acted out on the platform.
I'd just begun when Amos Hallett's boy
come into the store with a note.

"It's for you, Cap'n Zeb," he says, all out of
breath. "I meant to give it to you afore, but I
just this minute remembered it. Mr. Beanblossom,
he give it to me at the depot when he took the
up train."

"Took the up train?" says I. "Who did?
Not Pul—Mr. Beanblossom?"

"Yes," says the boy. "He's gone to Boston,
leastways the depot-master said he bought a ticket
for there. Why? Didn't you know it? He—"

I was too astonished to speak at all, but Jim
Henry was cool as usual.

"Yes, yes, son," he says. "It's all right. You
trot right along home afore you catch cold in your
freckles." Then, after the youngster'd gone, he
turns to me quick. "Open it, Skipper," he orders.
"Somethin's happened. Open it."

I opened the envelope. Inside was a sheet of
foolscap covered from top to bottom with mighty
shaky handwritin'. I read it out loud.

    "*Captain Zebulon Snow*,

    ":small-caps:`Dear Sir`:

"Polite as ever, ain't he?" I says. "He'd been
genteel if he was writin' his will."

"Go on!" snaps Jacobs. "Hurry up."

    ":small-caps:`Dear Sir`: When you receive this I shall have
    left Ostable, it may be forever. I have made a
    horrible discovery, which has wrecked all my hopes
    and my life. In accordance with Mr. Jacob's kindly
    counsel, I recently summoned courage to ask Miss
    Pendlebury to become my wife.

"Good heavens to Betsy!" I sang out, almost
droppin' the letter.

"Go on!" shouts Jacobs. "Don't stop now."

"But he asked her to *marry* him!" I gasps.
"In accordance with your advice—\ *yours*! Did
*you* have the cheek to—"

"*Will* you go on? Of course I advised him.
We'd got the Pendlebury trade, hadn't we? Can
you think of any surer way to cinch it than to have
those two idiots marry each other? Go on—or
give me the letter."

I went on, as well as I could, everything considered.

    "She did not refuse. She was kinder than I had
    a right to expect. I realized my presumption,
    but—"

"Skip that," orders Jim Henry. "Get down to
brass tacks."

I skipped some.

    "She told me she must have a few days' time to
    consider. I waited. To-day I received a communication
    from the Genealogical Society which has
    dashed my hopes to the ground. It was in connection
    with my work on the Pendlebury family tree.
    For some time I have been very much troubled concerning
    developments in that work. The later Pendleburys
    have been ladies and gentlemen of repute
    and worth, but as I delved deeper into the past and
    approached the early generations in this country,
    I—"

"Skip again," says Jacobs.

I skipped.

    "And now, to my horror, I find the fact proven
    beyond doubt. Ezekiel Jonas Pendlebury—whose
    name should be inscribed upon the trunk of the tree,
    he being the original settler in America—was
    hanged in the Massachusetts Bay Colony for stealing
    a hog upon the Sabbath Day."

Then I *did* drop the letter. "My land of love!"
was all I could say. And what Jacobs said was
just as emphatic. We stared at each other; and
then, all at once, he began to laugh, laugh till I
thought he'd never stop. His laughin' made me
mad until I commenced to see the funny side of the
thing; then I laughed, too, and the pair of us rocked
back and forth and haw-hawed like loons.

"Oh, dear me!" says Jim Henry, wipin' his
eyes. "The original Pendlebury hung for hog
stealin'!"

"Stealin' it on Sunday," says I. "Don't forget
that. Sabbath-breakin' was worse than thievin' in
them days."

"Well, go on, go on," says he. "There's more
of it, ain't they?"

There was. The writing got finer and finer as
it got close to the bottom of the page. Poor Pullet
had caved in when that revelation struck him.
Honor compelled him to tell Letitia the truth and
how could he tell her such a truth as that? She,
so proud and all. He had led her into this dreadful
research work and she would blame him, of course,
and dismiss him with scorn and contempt. Her
contempt he could not bear. No, he must go away.
He could never face her again. He was goin' to
Boston, to his cousin's house in Newton, and stay
there for a spell. Perhaps some day, after she had
shut up her summer villa and gone, too, he might
return; he didn't know. But would we forgive
him, etcetery and so forth, and—good-by.

His name was squeezed in the very corner. I
looked at Jacobs.

"Well," I says, some disgusted, "it looks to me,
as a man up a tree—not a family tree, neither,
thank the Lord—as if instead of cinchin' the Pendlebury
trade your 'advice' had queered it forever."

He didn't say nothin'. Just scowled and kicked
his heels together. Then he grabbed the letter out
of my hand and begun to read it again. I scowled,
too, and set starin' at the floor and thinkin'. All
at once I heard him swear, a sort of joyful swear-word,
seemed to me. I looked up. As I did he
swung off the counter, crumpled up the letter,
jammed it in his pocket and grabbed up his hat.

"Skipper," he says, his eyes shinin', "there's a
night freight to Boston, ain't there?"

"Yes, there is, but—"

"So long, then. I'll be back soon's I can. You
and Bill"—that was the clerk—"must do as well
as you can for a day or so. So long. But you just
remember this: Old Doctor James Henry Jacobs,
specialist in sick businesses, ain't given up hopes of
this patient yet, not by any manner of means. By,
by."

He was gone afore I could say another word,
and for the rest of that night and all day Sunday
and until Monday evenin's train come in, I was like
a feller walkin' in his sleep. All creation looked
crazy and I was the only sane critter in it.

On Monday evenin' he came sailin' into the store,
all smiles. 'Twas some time afore I could get him
alone, but, when I could, I nailed him.

"Now," says I, "perhaps you'll tell me why you
run off and left me, and where you've been, and
what you mean by it, and a few other things."

He grinned. "Been?" he says. "Well, I've
been to see the last of Miss Letitia Pendlebury of
Pendlebury Villa, Ostable, Mass. Miss Pendlebury
is no more."

"No more!" I hollered. "No *more*! Don't
tell me she's dead!"

"I sha'n't," says he, "because she isn't. She's
alive, all right, but she's no more Miss Pendlebury.
She's Mrs. Winthrop Adams Beanblossom
now," he says. "They were married this forenoon."

"*Married?*"

"Married."

"But—but—after the hangin' news—and
the hog-stealin'—and—Does she know it? She
wouldn't marry him after *that*?"

"She knows and she was tickled to death to
marry him. Skipper, there was a P.S. on the back
of that letter of Pullet's. You didn't turn the page
over; I did and I recognized the life-saver right off.
Here it is."

He passed me Beanblossom's letter, back side up.
There was a P.S., but it looked to me more like
the finishin' knock on the head than it did like a
life-saver. This was it:

    "P.S. I have neglected to state another fact
    which my researches have brought to light and
    which makes the affair even more hopeless. My
    own ancestor, at that time Governor of the Colony,
    was the person who sentenced Ezekiel Pendlebury
    and caused him to be hanged."

"And that," says I, "is what you call a life-saver!
My nine-times great-granddad has your
nine-times great-granddad hung and that removes
all my objections to marryin' you. Oh, sure and sartin!
Yes, indeed!"

He smiled superior. "Listen, you doubtin'
Thomas," says he. "You can't see it, but Sister
Letitia saw it right off when I put Pullet's case
afore her at the Hotel Somerset, where she was
stoppin'. *Her* ancestor was a hog-stealer and a
hobo; but Beanblossom's ancestor was a Governor
and a nabob from way back. If by just sayin' yes
you could swap a pig-thief for a governor, you'd
do it, wouldn't you? You would if you'd been
braggin' 'family' as Letitia has for the past three
months. I saw her, turned on some of my convincin'
conversation, saw Pullet at his cousin's and
convinced him. They were married at Trinity
parsonage this very forenoon."

"My! my! my!" I says, after this had really
sunk in. "And the Pendlebury tree is—"

"There ain't any Pendlebury tree," he interrupts.
"It's the kindlin'-bin for that shrub. But
the *Beanblossom* tree, with governors and judges
and generals proppin' up every main limb, is goin'
to hang right next to Pa Pendlebury's picture in the
mornin' room of Pendlebury Villa. And the head
of Pendlebury Villa is the senior partner in the
Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes and
Fancy Goods Store."

He was wrong there. Letitia Pendlebury Beanblossom
had another surprise under her bonnet and
she sprung it when she got back. She sent for
Jacobs and me and made proclamation that her husband
would withdraw from the firm.

"I trust that Mr. Beanblossom and I are democratic,"
she says. "Of course we shall continue
to purchase our supplies from you gentlemen. But,
really," she says, "you *must* see that a man whose
ancestor by direct descent was Governor of Massachusetts
Bay Colony could scarcely humiliate himself
by engaging in *trade*."

So, instead of gettin' out of storekeepin', I was
left deeper in it than ever. But Jim Henry cheered
me up by sayin' I hadn't really been in it at all yet.

"This foundlin' is only beginnin' to set up and
take notice," he says. "Skipper, you put your faith
in old Doctor Jacobs' Teethin' Syrup and Tonic for
Business Infants."

"I guess that's where it's put," says I, drawin' a
long breath.

"It couldn't be in a better place, could it? No,
we've got a good start, but that's all it is. Before
I get through you'll see. We've got to make this
store prominent and keep it prominent, and the best
way to do that is to be prominent ourselves. Skipper,
I wish you'd go into politics."

"Politics!" says I, soon as I could catch my
breath. "Well, when I do, I give you leave to
order my room at the Taunton Asylum. What do
you cal'late I'd better try to get elected to—President
or pound-keeper?"

He laughed.

"Both of them jobs are filled at the present time,"
I went on, sarcastic. "So is every other I can think
of off-hand."

"That's all right," says he. "Some of these
days you'll hold office right in this town. We need
political prestige in our business and you, Cap'n Snow,
bein' the solid citizen of this close corporation, will
have to sacrifice yourself on the altar of public duty."

"Nary sacrifice," says I. Which shows how little
the average man knows what's in store for him.




CHAPTER III—I GET INTO POLITICS
===============================


When I shook hands with Mary Blaisdell
and left her standin' under the wistaria
vine at the front door of the little old
house that had belonged to Henry, all I said was
for her to keep a stiff upper lip and not to be any
bluer than was necessary. "Ostable's lost a good
postmaster," says I, "and you've lost a kind,
thoughtful, providin' brother. I know it looks
pretty foggy ahead to you just now and you can't
see how you're goin' to get along; but you keep up
your pluck and a way'll be provided. Meantime
I'm goin' to think hard and perhaps I can see a light
somewheres. My owners used to tell me I was consider'ble
of a navigator, so between us we'd ought
to fetch you into port."

Her eyes were wet, but she smiled, rainbow
fashion, through the shower, and said I was awful
good and she'd never forget how kind I'd been
through it all.

"Whatever becomes of me, Cap'n Snow," she
says, "I shall never forget that."

What I'd done wa'n't worth talkin' about, so I
said good-by and hurried away. At the top of the
hill I turned and looked back. She was still standin'
in the door and, in spite of the wistaria and the
hollyhocks and the green summer stuff everywheres,
the whole picture was pretty forlorn. The little
white buildin' by the road, with the sign, "Post-office"
over the window, looked more lonesome still.
And yet the sight of it and the sight of that sign
give me an inspiration. I stood stock still and
thumped my fists together.

"Why not?" says I to myself. "By mighty,
yes! Why not?"

You see, Henry Blaisdell was one of the few
Ostable folks that I'd known as a boy and who was
livin' there yet when I came back. He was younger
than I, and Mary, his sister, was younger still. I
liked Henry and his death was a sort of personal
loss to me, as you might say. I liked Mary, too.
She was always so quiet and common-sense and comfortable.
*She* didn't gossip, and the way she helped
her brother in the post-office was a treat to see.
She wa'n't exactly what you'd call young, and the
world hadn't been all fair winds and smooth water
for her, by a whole lot; but, in spite of it, she'd
managed to keep sweet and fresh. She and Henry
and I had got to be good friends and I gen'rally
took a walk up towards their house of a Sunday or
managed to run in at the post-office buildin' at least
once every week-day and have a chat with 'em.

When I heard of Henry's dyin' so sudden my
fust thought was about Mary and what would she
do. How was she goin' to get along? I thought
of that even durin' the funeral, and now, the day
after it, when I went up to see her, I was thinkin'
of it still. And, at last, I believed I had got the
answer to the puzzle.

Half the way back to the "Ostable Grocery, Dry
Goods, Boots and Shoes and Fancy Goods Store,"
I was thinkin' of my new notion and makin' up my
mind. The other half I was layin' plans to put it
through. When I walked into the store, Jim Henry
met me.

"Hello, Skipper," says he, brisk and fresh as a
no'theast breeze in dog days, "did you ever hear
the story about the office-seekin' feller in Washin'ton,
back in President Harrison's time? He
wanted a gov'ment job and he happened to notice
a crowd down by the Potomac and asked what was
up. They told him one of the Treasury clerks had
been found drowned. He run full speed to the
White House, saw the President, and asked for the
drowned chap's place. 'You're too late,' says Harrison,
'I've just app'inted the man that saw him
fall in.'"

I'd heard it afore, but I laughed, out of politeness,
and wanted to know what made him think of
the yarn.

"Why," says he, "because that's the way it's
workin' here in Ostable. Poor old Blaisdell's
funeral was only yesterday and it's already settled
who's to be the new postmaster."

Considerin' what I'd been goin' over in my mind
all the way home from Mary's, this statement, just
at this time, knocked me pretty nigh out of water.

"What?" I gasped. "How did you know?"

"Why wouldn't I know?" says he. "I got the
advance information right from the oracle. I was
told not ten minutes since that the app'intment was
to go to Abubus Payne."

I stared at him. "Abubus Payne!" says I.
"Abubus—Are you dreamin'?"

He laughed. "I'd never dream a name like
'Abubus,' he says, 'even after one of our Poquit
House dinners. No, it's no dream. The Major
was just in and he says his mind is made up. That
settles it, don't it? You wouldn't contradict the all-wise
mouthpiece of Providence, would you, Cap'n
Zeb?"

I never said anything—not then. I was realizin'
that, if I wanted Mary Blaisdell to be postmistress
at Ostable—which was the inspiration I was took
with when I looked back at her from the hill—I'd
got to do somethin' besides say. I'd got to work
and work hard. And even at that my work was
cut out from the small end of the goods. To beat
Major Cobden Clark in a political fight was no boy's
job. But Abubus Payne! Abubus Payne postmaster
at Ostable!! Think of it! Maybe you can;
*I* couldn't without stimulants.

You see, this critter Abubus—did you ever hear
such a name in your life?—had lived around 'most
every town on the Cape at one time or another.
He and his wife wa'n't what you'd call permanent
settlers anywhere, but had a habit of breakin' out
in new and unexpected places, like a p'ison-ivy rash.
He worked some at carpenterin', when he couldn't
help it, but his main business, as you might say, had
always been lookin' for an easier job. In Ostable
he'd got one. He was caretaker and general nurse
of Major Cobden Clark. His wife, who was about
as shiftless as he was, was the Major's housekeeper.

And the Major? Well, the Major was a star, a
planet—yes, in his own opinion, the whole solar
system. He was big and fleshy and straight and
gray-haired and red-faced. He belonged to land
knows how many clubs and societies and milishys,
includin' the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company
of Boston and the Old Guard of New York.
He had political influence and a long pocketbook
and a short temper. Likewise he suffered from pig-headedness
and chronic indigestion. 'Twas the
indigestion that brought him to Ostable and Abubus;
or rather 'twas his doctor, Dr. Conquest Payne, the
celebrated food and diet specializer—see advertisements
in 'most any newspaper—who sent him there.
Abubus was Doctor Conquest's cousin and I judge
the two of 'em figgered the Clark stomach and
income as things too good to be treated outside of
the family.

Anyway, the spring afore I landed in Ostable,
down comes the Major, buys a good-sized house on
the lower road nigh the water front, hires Abubus
and his wife to look out for the place and him, and
settles down to the simple life, which wa'n't the
kind he'd been livin', by a consider'ble sight. But
he lived it now; yes, sir, he did! He lived by the
clock and he ate and slept by the clock, and that
clock was wound up and set accordin' to the rules
prescribed by Dr. Conquest Payne, "World Famous
Dietitian and Food Specialist"—see more advertisin',
with a tintype of the Doctor in the corner.

Nigh as I could find out the diet was a queer one.
It give me dyspepsy just to think of it. Breakfast
at seven sharp, consistin' of a dozen nut meats, two
raw prunes, some "whole wheat bread"—whatever
that is—and a pint of hot water. Luncheon
at quarter to eleven, with another assortment of
similar truck. Afternoon snack at three and dinner
at half-past seven. He had two soft b'iled eggs
for dinner, or else a two-inch slice of rare steak,
and, with them exceptions, the whole bill of fare
was, accordin' to my notion, more fittin' for a goat
than a human bein'. He mustn't smoke and he
mustn't drink: Considerin' what he'd been used
to afore the "World Famous" one hooked him it
ain't much wonder that he was as crabbed and
cranky as a liveoak windlass.

However, it—or somethin' else—had made
him feel better since he landed in Ostable and he
swore by that Conquest Payne man and everybody
connected with him. And if he once took a notion
into his tough old head, nothin' short of a surgeon's
operation could get it out. He'd decided to make
Abubus postmaster and he'd move heaven and earth
to do it. All right, then, it was up to me to do some
movin' likewise. I can be a little mite pig-headed
myself, if I set out to be.

And I set out right then. It may seem funny to
say so, but I was about as good a friend as the
Major had in Ostable. Course he had a tremendous
influence with the selectmen and the like of
that, owin' to his soldier record and his pompousness
and the amount of taxes he paid. And he and
I never agreed on one single p'int. But just the
same he spent the heft of his evenin's at the store
and I was always glad to see him. I respected the
cantankerous old critter, and liked him, in a way.
And I'm inclined to think he respected and liked
me. I cal'late both of us enjoyed fightin' with
somebody that never tried for an under-holt or quit
even when he was licked.

So that night, when he comes puffin' in and sets
down, as usual, in the most comfortable chair, I
went over and come to anchor alongside of him.

"Hello," he grunts, "you old salt hayseed. Any
closer to bankruptcy than you was yesterday?"

"Your bill's a little bigger and more overdue,
that's all," says I. "See here, I want to talk politics
with you. Mary Blaisdell, Henry's sister, is
goin' to have the post-office now he's gone, and I
want you to put your name on her petition. Not
that she needs it, or anybody else's, but just to help
fill up the paper."

Well, sir, you ought to have seen him! His red
face fairly puffed out, like a young-one's rubber balloon.
He whirled round on the edge of his chair—he
was too big to move in any other part of it—and
glared at me. What did I mean by that?
Hey? Was my punkin head sp'ilin' now that warm
weather had come, or what? Had I heard what
he told my partner that very mornin'?

"Yes," says I, "I heard it. But I judged you
must have broke your rule about drinkin' liquor,
or else your dyspepsy has struck to your brains.
No sane person would set out to make Abubus
Payne anythin' more responsible than keeper of a
pig pen. You didn't mean it, of course."

He didn't! He'd show me what he meant!
Abubus was the most honest, able man on the whole
blessed sand-heap, and he was goin' to be postmaster.
Mary Blaisdell was an old maid, good enough
of her kind, maybe, but the place for her was some
kind of an asylum or home for incompetent females.
He'd sign a petition to put her in one of them places,
but nothin' else. Abubus was just as good as app'inted
already.

We had it back and forth. There was consider'ble
chair thumpin' and hollerin', I shouldn't wonder.
Anyhow, afore 'twas over every loafer on
the main road was crowdin' 'round us and Jim Henry
Jacobs was pacin' up and down back of the counter
with the most worried look on his face ever I see
there. It ended by the Major's jumpin' to his feet
and headin' for the door.

"You—you—you tarry old imbecile," he hollers,
shakin' a fat forefinger at me, "I'll show you
a few things. I'll never set foot in this rathole of
yours again."

"You better not," I sung out. "If you dare to,
I'll—"

"What?" he interrupts. "You'll what? I'll
be back here to-morrow night. Then what'll you
do?"

"I'll show you Mary Blaisdell's petition," I says.
"And the names on it'll make you curl up and quit
like a sick caterpillar."

"Humph! I'll show *you* a petition for Abubus
Payne, next postmaster of Ostable, with a string of
names on it so long you'll die of old age afore you can
finish readin' 'em. Bah!"

With that he went out and I went into the back
room to wash my face in cold water.

I wrote the headin' to the Blaisdell petition afore
I turned in that very night. Next mornin' I hurried
over and, after consider'ble arguin', I got Mary
to say she'd try for the place. All the rest of that
day I put in drivin' from Dan to Beersheby gettin'
signatures. And I got 'em, too, a schooner load
of 'em. I had the petition ready to show the Major
that evenin'; but, when he come into the store, he
had a petition, too, just as long as mine. And the
worst of it was, in a lot of cases the same names
was signed to both papers. Accordin' to those petitions
the heft of Ostable folks wanted somebody to
keep post-office and they didn't much care who.
They wanted to please me and they didn't like to
say no to the Major.

He was mad and I was mad and we had another
session. But he wouldn't cross the names off and
neither would I and so, after another week, both
petitions went in as they was. All the good they
seemed to do was that we each got a letter from
the Post-office Department and Mary Blaisdell was
allowed to hold over her brother's place until somebody
was picked out permanent. And every evenin'
Major Clark came into the store to tell me Abubus
was sure to win and get my prediction that Mary
was as good as elected. One week dragged along
and then another, and 'twas still a draw, fur's a
body could tell. The Washin'ton folks wa'n't makin'
a peep.

But old Ancient and Honorable Clark was workin'
his wires on the quiet and I must give in that he
pulled one on me that I wa'n't expectin'. The
whole town had got sort of tired of guessin' and
talkin' about the post-office squabble and had drifted
back into the reg'lar rut of pickin' their neighbors to
pieces. The Major had set 'em talkin' on a new
line durin' the last fortni't. He'd been fixin' up
his house and havin' the grounds seen to, and so
forth. Likewise he'd bought an automobile, one
of the nobbiest kind. This was somethin' of a surprise,
'cause afore that he'd been pretty much down
on autos and did his drivin' around in a high-seated
sort of buggy—"dog cart" he called it—though
'twas hauled by a horse and he hated dogs so that
he kept a shotgun loaded with rock salt on his porch
to drive stray ones off his premises.

"Who's goin' to run that smell-wagon of yours?"
I asked him, sarcastic. He kept comin' to the store
just the same as ever and we had our reg'lar rows
constant. I cal'late we'd both have missed 'em if
they'd stopped. I know I should.

"Humph!" he snorts; "smell-wagon, hey? If
it smells any worse than that old fish dory of yours,
I'll have it buried, for the sake of the public health."

By "fish dory" he meant a catboat I'd bought.
She was named the *Glide* and she could glide away
from anything of her inches in the bay.

"But who's goin' to run that auto?" I asked
again. "'Tain't possible you're goin' to do it yourself.
If she went by alcohol power, I could understand,
but—"

"Hush up!" he says, forgettin' to be mad for
once and speakin' actually plaintive. "Don't talk
that way, Snow," says he. "If you knew how much
I wanted a drink you wouldn't speak lightly of
alcohol."

"Why don't you take one, then?" I wanted to
know. "I believe 'twould do you good. That and
a square meal. If you'd forget your prunes and
your nutmeats and your quack doctorin'—"

He was mad then, all right. To slur at the
"World Famous" was a good deal worse than
murder, in his mind. He expressed his opinion of
me, free and loud. He said I'd ought to try Doctor
Conquest, myself, for developin' my brains. The
Doctor was pretty nigh a vegetarian, he said, and
my head was mainly cabbage—and so on. Incidentally
he announced that Abubus was to run the
new auto.

"Abubus!" says I. "Why, he don't know a
gas engine from a coffee mill! He wouldn't know
what the craft's for."

"That's all right," he says. "He's been takin'
lessons at the garage in Hyannis and he can run
it like a bird. He knows what it's for. He! he!
so do I. By the way, Snow, are you ready to give
up the post-office to my candidate yet?"

"Give up?" says I. "Tut! tut! tut! I hate
to hear a supposed sane man talk so. Mary Blaisdell
handles the mail in the Ostable post-office for
the next three years—longer, if she wants to."

"Bet you five she don't," he says.

"Take the bet," says I.

He went out chucklin'. I wondered what he had
up his sleeve. A week later I found out. Congressman
Shelton, our district Representative at
Washin'ton, came to Ostable to look the post-office
situation over and, lo and behold you, he comes as
Major Cobden Clark's guest, to stay at his house.

When Jim Henry Jacobs learned that, he took
me to one side to give me some brotherly advice.

"It's all up for Mary now," he says. "She
can't win. Clark and Shelton are old chums in politics.
There's only one chance to beat Payne and
that's to bring forward a compromise candidate—a
dark horse."

"Rubbish!" I sung out. "Dark horse be hanged!
Shelton's square as a brick. Nobody can bribe him."

"It ain't a question of bribin'," he says. "If it
was, you could bribe, too. Shelton is square, and
that's why he'd welcome a compromise candidate.
But if it comes to a fight between Mary Blaisdell
and Abubus Payne, Abubus'll win because he's the
Major's pet. Shelton knows the Major better than
he knows you. Take my advice now and look out
for the dark horse."

But I wouldn't listen. All the next hour I was
ugly as a bear with a sore head and long afore dinner
time I told Jacobs I was goin' for a sail in the
*Glide*. "Goin' somewheres on salt water where the
air's clean and not p'isoned by politics and automobiles
and congressmen and Paynes," I told him.

I headed out of the harbor and then run, afore
a wind that was fair but gettin' lighter all the time,
up the bay. I sailed and sailed until some of my
bad temper wore off and my appetite begun to come
back. All the time I was settin' at the tiller I was
thinkin' over the post-office situation and, try as hard
as I could to see the bright side for Mary Blaisdell,
it looked pretty dark. The Major would give that
Shelton man the time of his life and he'd talk
Abubus to him to beat the cars. I couldn't get at
the Congressman to put in an oar for Mary and—well,
I'd have discounted my five-dollar bet for about
seventy-five cents, at that time.

I thought and thought and sailed and sailed.
When I came to myself and realized I was hungry
the *Glide* was miles away from Ostable. I came
about and started to beat back; then I saw I was
in for a long job. Let alone that the wind was
ahead, 'twas dyin' fast, and if I knew the signs of
a flat calm, there was one due in half an hour. I
took as long tacks as I could, but I made mighty
little progress.

On the second tack inshore I came up abreast of
Jonathan Crowell's house at Heron P'int. Jonathan's
just a no-account longshoreman or he wouldn't
live in that place, which is the fag-end of creation.
There's a twenty-mile stretch of beach and pines and
such close to the shore there, with a road along it.
The first eight mile of that road is pretty good
macadam and hard dirt. A land company tried to
develop that section of beach once and they put in
the road; but the land didn't sell and the company
busted and after that eight mile the road is just
beach sand, soft and coarse. The strip of solid
ground, with its pines and scrub-oaks, is, as I said
afore, twenty mile long, but it's only a half mile or
so wide. Between it and the main cape is a
tremendous salt marsh, all cut up with cricks that
nobody can get over without a boat. Jonathan's
is the only house for the whole twenty mile, except
the lighthouse buildin's down at the end. The land
company put up a few summer shacks on speculation,
but they're all rickety and fallin' to pieces.

I knew Jonathan had gone to Bayport, quahaug
rakin', and that his wife was visitin' over to Wellmouth,
so when the *Glide* crept in towards the beach
and I saw a couple of folk by the Crowell house,
I was surprised. I didn't pay much attention to
'em, however, until I was just about ready to put
the helm over and stand out into the bay again.
Then they come runnin' down to the beach, yellin'
and wavin' their arms. I thought one of 'em had
a familiar look and, as I come closer, I got more
and more sure of it. It didn't seem possible, but
it was—one of those fellers on the beach was Major
Cobden Clark.

"Hi-i!" yells the Major, hoppin' up and down
and wavin' both arms as if he was practicin' flyin';
"Hi-i-i! you man in the boat! Come here! I
want you!"

That was him, all over. He wanted me, so of
course I must come. My feelin's in the matter
didn't count at all. I run the *Glide* in as nigh the
beach as I dared and then fetched her up into what
little wind there was left.

"Ahoy there, Major," I sung out. "Is that
you?"

"Hey?" he shouts. "Do you know—Why,
I believe it's Snow! Is that you, Snow?"

"Yes, it's me," I hollers. "What in time are
you doin' way over here?"

"Never mind what I'm doin'," he roared. "You
come ashore here. I want you."

If I hadn't been so curious to know what he was
doin', I'd have seen him in glory afore I ever
thought of obeyin' an order from him; but I was
curious. While I was considerin' the breeze give
a final puff and died out altogether. That settled
it. I might as well go ashore as stay aboard. I
couldn't get anywhere without wind. So I hove
anchor and dropped the mains'l.

"Come on!" he kept yellin'. "What are you
waitin' for? Don't you hear me say I want you?"

I had on my long-legged rubber boots and the
water wa'n't more'n up to my knees. When I got
good and ready, I swung over the side and waded
to the beach.

"Hello, Maje," I says, brisk and easy, "you
ought not to holler like that. You'll bust a b'iler.
Your face looks like a red-hot stove already."

He mopped his forehead. "Shut up, you old
fool," says he. "Think I'm here to listen to
a lecture about my face? You carry Mr. Shelton
and me out to that boat of yours. We want you
to sail us home."

So the other chap was the Congressman. I'd
guessed as much. I went up to him and held out
my hand.

"Pleased to know you, Mr. Shelton," says I.
"Had the pleasure of votin' for you last fall."

Shelton shook and smiled. "This is Cap'n
Snow, isn't it?" he says, his eyes twinklin'. "Glad
to meet you, I'm sure. I've heard of you often."

"I shouldn't wonder," says I. "Major Clark
and me are old chums and I cal'late he's mentioned
my name at least once. Hey, Maje?"

The Major grinned. I grinned, too; and Shelton
laughed out loud.

"I never saw such a talkin' machine in my life,"
snaps Clark. "Don't stop to tell us the story of
your life. Take us aboard that boat of yours.
You've got to get us back to Ostable, d'you understand?"

"Have, hey?" says I. "I appreciate the honor,
but.... However, maybe you won't mind
tellin' me what you're doin' here, twelve miles from
nowhere?"

The Major was too mad to answer, so Shelton
did it for him.

"Well," he says, smilin' and with a wink at his
partner, "we *came* in the Major's auto, but—"

He stopped without finishin' the sentence.

"The auto?" says I. "You came in the auto?
Well, why don't you go back in it? What's the
matter? Has it broke down? Humph! I ain't
surprised; them things are always breakin' down,
'specially the cheap ones."

*That* stirred up the kettle. The Major give me
to understand that his auto cost six thousand dollars
and was the best blessedty-blank car on earth. It
wa'n't the auto's fault. It hadn't broke down. It
had stuck in the eternal and everlastin' sand and
they couldn't get it out, that was the trouble.

"But Abubus can get it out, can't he?" says I.
"Abubus runs it like a bird, you told me so yourself.
Now a bird can fly, and if you want to get from
here to Ostable in anything like a straight line,
you've *got* to fly. By the way, where is Abubus?"

Three or four more questions, and a hogshead
of profanity on the Major's part, and I had the
whole story. He and Shelton had started for a ride
way up the Cape. They was cal'latin' to get home
by eleven o'clock, but the machine went so fast that
they got where they was goin' early and had time
to spare. Shelton happened to remember that he'd
sunk some money in the land company I mentioned
and he thought he'd like to see the place where
'twas sunk. He asked Abubus if they couldn't run
along the beach road a ways. Abubus hemmed and
hawed and didn't know for sure—he never was
sure about anything. But the Major said course
they could; that car could go anywhere. So they
turned in way up by Sandwich and come b'ilin' down
alongshore. Long's the old land company road
lasted they was all right, but when, runnin' thirty-five
miles an hour, they whizzed off the end of that
road, 'twas different. The automobile lit in the
soft sand like a snow-plow and stopped—and
stayed. They tried to dig it out with boards from
Jonathan Crowell's pig pen, but the more they dug
the deeper it sunk. At last they give it up; nothin'
but a team of horses could haul that machine out of
that sand. So Abubus starts to walk the ten or
eleven miles back to civilization and livery stables
and the Major and Shelton waited for him. And
the more they waited the hungrier and madder
Clark got. 'Twas all Abubus's fault, of course. He
ought to have had more sense than to run that way
on that road, anyhow. He ought to have known
better than to get into that sand, a feller that had
lived in sand all his life. He was an incompetent
jackass. Well, I knew that afore, but it certainly
did me good to hear the Major confirm my judgment.

I went over and looked at the automobile. It
had always acted like a mighty lively contraption,
but now it looked dead enough. And not only dead,
but two-thirds buried.

"Well?" fumes Clark, "how much longer have
we got to stay in this hole?"

"It's consider'ble of a hole," says I, "and it
looks to me as if she'd stay there till Abubus gets
back with a pair of horses. Considerin' how far
he's got to tramp and how long it'll be afore he can
get a pair, I cal'late the hole'll be occupied until
some time in the night."

That wa'n't what he meant and I knew it. Did
I suppose he and Shelton was goin' to wait and
starve until the middle of the night? No, sir; the
auto could stay where it was; he and the Congressman
would sail home with me in the *Glide*.

"I hope you ain't in any partic'lar hurry," says
I, lookin' out over the bay. There wa'n't a breath
of air stirrin' and the water was slick and shiny as
a starched shirt. "The *Glide* runs by wind power
and there's no wind. This calm may last one hour
or it may last two. As long as it lasts I stay where
I am."

What! Did I think they would stay there just
because I was too lazy to get my whoopety-bang
fish-dory under way? Stay there in that sand-heap—sand-heap
was the politest of the names he called
Crowell's plantation—and starve?

"Oh," says I. "I won't starve. I'm goin' to
get dinner."

Dinner! The very name of it was like a
life-preserver to a feller who'd gone under for the second
time.

"Can you get us dinner?" roars the Major.
"By George, if you can I'll—"

"Not for you I can't," I says. "You live accordin'
to the Payne schedule, on prunes and pecans
and such. The prune crop 'round here is a failure
and I don't see a pecan tree in Jonathan's back yard.
No, any dinner I'd get would give you compound,
gallopin' dyspepsy, and I can't be responsible for
your death—I love you too much. But I cal'late
I can scratch up a meal that'll keep folks with common
insides from perishin' of hunger. Anyhow,
I'm goin' to try."




CHAPTER IV—HOW I MADE A CLAM CHOWDER; AND WHAT A CLAM CHOWDER MADE OF ME
========================================================================


Well, sir, even the Major's guns was spiked
for a minute. I cal'late that, for once,
he'd forgot all about his dietizin' and
only remembered his appetite. He gurgled and
choked and glared. Afore he could get his artillery
ready for a broadside I walked off and left him.
He'd riled me up a little and I saw a chance to rile
him back.

I went around to the back part of the Crowell
house and tried the kitchen door. 'Twas locked,
for a wonder, but the window side of it wasn't. I
pushed up the sash and reached in fur enough to
unhook the door. Then I went into the house and
begun to overhaul the supplies in the galley. I
found flour and sugar and salt and pepper and
coffee and butter and canned milk and salt pork—about
everything I wanted. Jonathan and I was
friendly enough so's I knew he wouldn't care what
I used so long as I paid for it. If he had I'd have
taken the risk, just then.

The wood-box was full and I got a fire goin' in
the cookstove, and put on a couple of kettles of
water to heat. Then I went out to the shed and
located a clam hoe and a bucket. There's clams
a-plenty 'most anywheres along that beach and the
tide was out fur enough for me to get a bucket-full
of small ones in no time. I fetched 'em up to
the house and set down on the back step to open
'em.

The Major and Shelton was watchin' me all this
time and they looked interested—that is, the Congressman
did, and Clark was doin' his best not to.
Pretty soon Shelton walks over and asks a question.
"What are you doin' with those things, Cap'n
Snow?" says he, referrin' to the clams.

"Oh," says I, cheerful, "I'm figgerin' on makin'
a chowder, if nothin' busts."

"A chowder," he says, sort of eager. "A clam
chowder? Can you?"

"I can. That is, I have made a good many and
I cal'late to make this one, unless I'm struck with
paralysis."

"A clam chowder!" he says again, sort of eager
but reverent. "By George! that's good—er—for
you, I mean."

"I hope 'twill be good for you, too," says I.
"I'm sorry that Major Clark's dyspepsy's such that
'twon't be good for him, but that's his misfortune,
not my fault."

Shelton looked sort of queer and went away to
jine his chum. The two of 'em did consider'ble
talkin' and the Major appeared to be deliverin' a
sermon, at least I heard a good many orthodox
words in the course of it. I finished my clam
openin', went in and got my cookin' started. The
flour and the butter made me think that some hot
spider-bread would go good with the chowder
and I started to mix a batch. Then I got another
idea.

'Twas too late for huckleberries and such, but out
back of the shed, beyond the pines, was a little
swampy place. I took a tin pail, went out there and
filled the pail with early wild cranberries in five
minutes. As I was comin' back I noticed an onion
patch in the garden. A chowder without onions is
like a camp-meetin' Sunday without your best girl—pretty
flat and impersonal. Most of those left
in the patch had gone to seed, but I got a half
dozen.

After a short spell that kitchen begun to get
fragrant and folksy, as you might say. The coffee
was b'ilin', the chowder was about ready, there was
a pan of red-hot spider-bread on the back of the
stove and a cranberry shortcake—'twould have
been better with cream, but to skim condensed milk
is more exercise than profit—in the oven. I'd
opened all the windows and the door, so the smell
drifted out and livened up the surroundin' scenery.
Clark and Shelton were settin' on a sand hummock
a little ways off and I could see 'em wrinklin' their
noses.

When the table was set and everything was ready
I put my head out of the window and hollered:

"Dinner!" I sung out.

There wa'n't any answer. The pair on the hummock
stirred and acted uneasy, but they didn't move.
I ladled out some of the chowder and the perfume
of it got more pervadin' and extensive. Then I
rattled the dishes and tried again.

"Dinner!" I hollered. "Come on; chowder's
gettin' cold."

Still they didn't move and I begun to think my
fun had been all for myself. I was disappointed,
but I set down to the table and commenced to eat.
Then I heard a noise. The pair of 'em had drifted
over to the doorway and was lookin' in.

"Hello!" says I, blowin' a spoonful of chowder
to cool it. "Am I givin' a good imitation of a
hungry man? If I ain't, appearances are deceitful."

"*Hog!*" snarls Clark, with enthusiasm.

"Not at all," says I. "There's plenty of everything
and Mr. Shelton's welcome. So would you
be, Major, if there was anything aboard you could
eat. I'm awful sorry about them prunes and
nutmeats. I only wish Crowell had laid in a supply—I
do so."

The Major's mouth was waterin' so he had to
swallow afore he could answer. When he did I
realized what he was at his best. Shelton didn't
say a word, but the looks of him was enough.

"My, my!" says I, "I'm glad I made a whole
kettleful of this stuff; I can use a grown man's share
of it."

Shelton looked at Clark and Clark looked at him.
Then the Major yelps at him like a sore pup.

"Go ahead!" he shouts. "Go ahead in!
Don't stand starin' at me like a cannibal. Go in
and eat, why don't you?"

You could see the Congressman was divided in
his feelin's. He wanted dinner worse than the Old
Harry wanted the backslidin' deacon, but he hated
to desert his friend.

"You're sure—" he stammered. "It seems
mean to leave you, but.... Sure you wouldn't
mind? If it wasn't that you are on a diet and *can't*
eat I shouldn't think of it, but—"

"Shut up!" The Major fairly whooped it to
Jericho. "If you talk diet to me again I'll kill
you. Go in and eat. Eat, you idiot! I'd just as
soon watch two pigs as one. Go in!"

So Shelton came in and I had a plate of chowder
waitin' for him. He grabbed up his spoon and
didn't speak until he'd finished the whole of it.
Then he fetched a long breath, passed the plate for
more, and says he:

"By George, Cap'n, that is the best stuff I ever
tasted. You're a wonderful cook."

"Much obliged," says I. "But you ain't competent
to judge until after the third helpin'. And
now you try a slab of that spider-bread and a cup
of coffee. And don't forget to leave room for the
shortcake because.... Well, I swan to man!
Why, Major Clark, are you crazy?"

For, as sure as I'm settin' here, old Clark had
come bustin' into that kitchen, yanked a chair up to
that table, grabbed a plate and the ladle and was
helpin' himself to chowder.

"Major!" says I.

"Why, *Cobden*!" says Shelton.

"Shut up!" roars the Major. "If either of you
say a word I won't be responsible for the consequences."

We didn't say anything and neither did he.
Judgin' by the silence 'twas a mighty solemn occasion.
Everybody ate chowder and just thought, I
guess.

"Pass me that bread," snaps Clark.

"But Cobden," says Shelton again.

"It's hot," says I, "and it's fried, and—"

"Give it to me! If you don't I shall know it's
because you're too rip-slap stingy to part with it."

After that, there was nothin' to be done but the
one thing. He got the bread and he ate it—not
one slice, but two. And he drank coffee and ate a
three-inch slab of shortcake. When the meal was
over there wa'n't enough left to feed a healthy
canary.

"Now," growls the Major, turnin' to Shelton,
"have you a cigar in your pocket? If you have,
hand it over."

The Congressman fairly gasped. "A cigar!" he
sings out. "You—goin' to *smoke*? *You?*"

"Yes—me. I'm goin' to die anyway. This
murderer here," p'intin' to me, "laid his plans to
kill me and he's succeeded. But I'll die happy.
Give me that cigar! If you had a drink about you
I'd take that."

He bit the end off his cigar, lit it, and slammed
out of that kitchen, puffin' like a soft-coal tug. Shelton
shook his head at me and I shook mine back.

"Do you s'pose he *will* die?" he asked. "He's
eaten enough to kill anybody. And with his stomach!
And to smoke!"

"The dear land knows," says I. To tell you
the truth I was a little conscience-struck and worried.
My idea had been to play a joke on Clark—tantalize
him by eatin' a square meal that he couldn't
touch—and get even for some of the names he'd
called me. But now I wa'n't sure that my fun
wouldn't turn out serious. When a man with a lame
digestion eats enough to satisfy an elephant nobody
can be sure what'll come of it.

The Congressman and I washed the dishes and
'twas a pretty average sorrowful job. Only once,
when I happened to glance at him and caught a
queer look in his eyes, was the ceremony any more
joyful than a funeral. Then the funny side of it
struck me and I commenced to laugh. He joined
in and the pair of us haw-hawed like loons. Then
we was sorry for it.

Shelton went out when the dish-washin' was over.
I cleaned up everything, left a note and some money
on Jonathan's table and locked up the house.
When I got outside there was a fair to middlin'
breeze springin' up. Shelton was settin' on the hummock
waitin' for me.

"Where—where's the Major?" I asked, pretty
fearful.

"He's over there in the shade—asleep," he
whispered.

"Asleep!" says I. "Sure he ain't dead?"

"Listen," says he.

I listened. If the Major was dead he was a
mighty noisy remains.

He woke up, after an hour or so, and come
trampin' over to where we was.

"Well," he snaps, "it's blowin' hard enough now,
ain't it? Why don't you take us home?"

"How about the auto?" I asked.

The auto could stay where it was until the horses
came to pull it out. As for him he wanted to be
took home.

"But—but are you able to go?" asked Shelton,
anxious.

What in the sulphur blazes did we mean by that?
Course he was able to go! And had Shelton got
another cigar in his clothes?

All of the sail home I was expectin' to see that
military man keel over and begin his digestion torments.
But he didn't keel. He smoked and
talked and was better-natured than ever I'd seen
him. He didn't mention his stomach once and you
can be sure and sartin that I didn't. As we was
comin' up to the moorin's in Ostable I'm blessed if
he didn't begin to sing, a kind of a fool tune about
"Down where the somethin'-or-other runs."
Then I *was* scared, because I judged that his attack
had started and delirium was settin' in.

Shelton shook hands with me at the landin'.

"You're all right, Cap'n Snow," he says. "That
was the best meal I ever tasted and nobody but you
could have conjured it up in the middle of a howlin'
wilderness. If there's anything I can do for you
at any time just let me know."

There was one thing he could do, of course, but
I wouldn't be mean enough to mention it then. The
Major and I had, generally speakin', fought fair,
and I wouldn't take advantage of a delirious invalid.
And just then up comes the invalid himself.

"See here, Snow," says he, pretty gruff; "I'll
probably be dead afore mornin', but afore I die I
want to tell you that I'm much obliged to you for
bringin' us home. Yes, and—and, by the great
and mighty, I'm obliged to you for that chowder
and the rest of it! It'll be my death, but nothin'
ever tasted so good to me afore. There!"

"That's all right," says I.

"No, it ain't all right. I'm much obliged, I tell
you. You're a stubborn, obstinate, unreasonable
old hayseed, but you're the most competent person
in this town just the same. Of course though," he
adds, sharp, "you understand that this don't affect
our post-office fight in the least. That Blaisdell
woman don't get it."

"Who said it did affect it?" I asked, just as
snappy as he was. That's the way we parted and
I wondered if I'd ever see him alive again.

I didn't see him for quite a spell, but I heard
about him. I woke up nights expectin' to be jailed
for murder, but I wa'n't; and when, three days
later, Shelton started for Washin'ton, the Major
went away on the train with him. Abubus and his
wife shut up the house and went off, too, and nobody
seemed to know where they'd gone. All's could be
found out was that Abubus acted pretty ugly and
wouldn't talk to anybody. This was comfortin' in
a way, though, most likely, it didn't mean anything
at all.

But at the end of two weeks a thing happened
that meant somethin'. I got two letters in the mail,
one in a big, long envelope postmarked from the
Post-Office Department at Washington and the
other a letter from Shelton himself. I don't suppose
I'll ever forget that letter to my dyin' day.

    "Dear Captain Snow," it begun. "You may be
    interested to know that our mutual friend, Major
    Clark, has suffered no ill effects from our picnic at
    the beach. In fact, he is better than he ever was
    and has been enjoying the comforts of city life
    to an extent which I should not dare attempt.
    Whether his long respite from such comforts
    helped, or whether the celebrated Doctor Conquest
    was responsible, I know not. The Major, however,
    declares Doctor Payne to be a fraud and to have
    been, as he says, 'working him for a sucker.'
    Therefore he has discharged the doctor and discharged
    the cousin with the odd name—your fellow
    townsman, Abubus Payne. The mishap with
    the auto was the beginning of Abubus's finish and the
    fact that no indigestion followed our chowder party
    completed it. And also—which may interest you
    still more—Major Clark has withdrawn his support
    of Payne's candidacy for the post-office and
    urged the appointment of another person, one whom
    he declares to be the only able, common-sense, honest
    *man* in the village. As I have long felt the
    appointment of a compromise candidate to be the
    sole solution of the problem, I was very happy to
    agree with him, particularly as I thoroughly approve
    of his choice. When you learn the new postmaster's
    name I trust you may agree with us both. I
    know the citizens of Ostable will do so.

                  "Yours sincerely,

                              ":small-caps:`William A. Shelton.`

    "P.S. I am coming down next summer and shall
    expect another one of your chowders."

My hands shook as I ripped open the other envelope.
I knew what was comin'—somethin' inside
me warned me what to expect. And there it
was. Me—\ *me*—Zebulon Snow, was app'inted
postmaster of Ostable!

Was I mad? I was crazy! I fairly hopped up
and down. What in thunder did I want of the
postmastership? And if I wanted it ever so much
did they think I was a traitor? Was it likely that
I'd take it, after workin' tooth and nail for Mary
Blaisdell? What would Mary say to me? By
time, *I'd* show 'em! It should go back that minute
and my free and frank opinion with it. I'd
kicked one chair to pieces already, and was beginnin'
on another, when Jim Henry Jacobs come runnin'
in and stopped me.

No use to goin' into particulars of the argument
we had. It lasted till after one o'clock next
mornin'. Jim Henry argued and coaxed and proved
and I ripped and vowed I wouldn't. He was
tickled to death. The post-office was the greatest
thing to bring trade that the store could have, and
so on. I *must* take the job. If I didn't somebody
else would, somebody that, more'n likely, we
wouldn't like any better than we did Abubus.

"No," says I. "*No!* Mary Blaisdell shall
have—"

"She won't get it anyway," says he. "She's out
of it—Shelton as much as says so—whatever happens.
And she don't want the title anyway. All
she needs or cares for is the pay and I've thought of
a way to fix that. You listen."

I listened—under protest, and the upshot of it
was that the next day I went up to see Mary. She'd
heard that I was likely to get the appointment—old
Clark had been doin' some hintin' afore he left
town, I cal'late—and she congratulated me as
hearty as if 'twas what she'd wanted all along. But
I wa'n't huntin' congratulations. I felt as mean as
if I'd been took up by the constable for bein' a
chicken thief, and I told her so.

"Mary," says I, "I wa'n't after the postmastership.
I swear by all that is good and great I wa'n't.
I don't know what you must think of me."

"What I've always thought," says she, "and
what poor Henry thought before he died. My
opinion is like Major Clark's," with a kind of half
smile, "that the appointment has gone to the best
man in Ostable."

"My, my!" says I. "*Your* digestion ain't given
you delirium, has it? No sir-ee! I'm no more fit
to be postmaster than a ship's goat is to teach
school."

"You mustn't talk so," she says, earnest. "You
will take the position, won't you?"

"I'll take it," says I, "under one condition."
Then I told her what the condition was. She argued
against it at fust, but after I'd said flat-footed
that 'twas either that or the government could take
its appointment and make paper boats of it, and
she'd seen that I meant it, she give in.

"But," says she, chokin' up a little, "I know
you're doin' this just to help me. How I can ever
repay your kindness I don't—"

I cut in quick. My deadlights was more misty
than I like to have 'em. "Rubbish!" says I,
"I'm doin' it to win my bet with old Clark. I'd do
anything to beat out that old critter."

So it happened that when, along in November,
the Major came back to Ostable to look over his
place, afore leavin' for Florida, and come into the
store, I was ready for him. He grinned and asked
me if he had any mail.

"While you're about it," he says, chucklin', "you
can pay me that bet."

Now the very sound of the word "bet" hit me on
a sore place. I'd lost one hat to Mr. Pike and the
letter I'd got from him rubbed me across the grain
every time I thought of it.

"What bet?" says I.

"Why, the bet you made that the Blaisdell
woman would be postmistress here."

"I didn't bet that," I says.

"You didn't?" he roared. "You did, too!
You bet—"

"I bet that Mary would handle the mail, that's
all. So she will; fact is, she's handlin' it now.
She's my assistant in the post-office here. If you
don't believe it, go back to the mail window and
look in. No, Major, *I* win the bet."

Maybe I did, but he wouldn't pay it. He
vowed I was a low down swindler and a "welsher,"
whatever that is. He blew out of that store like
a toy typhoon and I didn't see him again until the
next summer. However, I had a feelin' that Major
Cobden Clark wa'n't the wust friend I had, by
a consider'ble sight.

You see, that was Jim Henry's great scheme—to
hire Mary to run the office as my assistant. He
didn't say what salary I was to pay her, and, if I
chose to hand over three-quarters of the postmaster's
pay to her, what business was it of his? I told
him that plain, and, to do him justice, he didn't seem
to care.

But he did rub it in about my declarin' I'd never
go into politics.

In a little while the mail department was as much
a part of the "Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots
and Shoes and Fancy Goods Store" as the calico
and dress goods counter. We bought the Blaisdell
letter-box rack and fixin's and set 'em up and they
done fust-rate for the time bein'. I was postmaster,
so fur as name goes, but 'twas Mary that really run
that end of the ship. It seemed as natural to have
her come in mornin's, as it did for the sun to rise;
and, if she was late, which didn't happen often, it
seemed almost as if the sun hadn't rose. The old
store needed somethin' like her to keep it clean and
sweet and even Jim Henry give in that she was the
best investment the business had made yet.

As for business it kept on good, even though the
summer folks had gone and winter had set in. Our
order carts kept runnin' and they *took* orders, too.
The store was doin' well by us both and I certainly
owed old Pullet a debt of thanks for workin' on
my sympathies until I put my cash into it. There
was consider'ble buildin' goin' on in town and,
when spring begun to show symptoms of makin'
Ostable harbor, Jim Henry got possessed of a new
idea. I didn't pay much attention at fust. He
was always as full of notions as a peddler's cart
and if I took every one of 'em serious we'd either
been Rockefellers or star boarders at the poorhouse,
one or t'other. 'Twa'n't till that day in April when
old Ebenezer Taylor came in after his mail and
went out after the constable that I realized somethin'
had to be done.

You see, Ebenezer's eyes was failin' on him and,
to make things worse, he'd forgot his nigh-to specs
and had on his far-off pair. Consequently, when he
headed for the after end of the store, he wa'n't in
no condition to keep clear of the rocks and shoals
in the channel. Fust thing he run into was a couple
of dress-forms with some bargain calico gowns on
'em. While he was beggin' pardon of them forms,
under the impression that they was women customers,
he backed into a roll of barbed wire fencin'
that was leanin' against the candy and cigar counter.
His clothes was sort of thin and if that barbed wire
had been somebody tryin' to borrer a quarter of
him he couldn't have jumped higher or been more
emphatic in his remarks. The third jump landed
him against the gunwale of a bushel basket of eggs
that Jacobs was makin' a special run on and had
set out prominent in the aisle. Maybe Ebenezer
was tired from the jumpin' or maybe the excitement
had gone to his head and he thought he was a hen.
Anyhow he set on them eggs, and in two shakes of
a heifer's tail he was the messiest lookin' omelet
ever I see. Jacobs and me and the clerk scraped
him off best we could with pieces of barrel hoop
and the cheese knife, and Mary come out from behind
the letter boxes and helped along with the
floor mop, but when we'd finished with him he was
consider'ble more like somethin' for breakfast than
he was human.

And mad! An April fool chocolate cream
couldn't have been more peppery than he was. He
distributed his commentaries around pretty general—Mary
got some and so did Jacobs—but the heft
was fired at me. He hated me anyhow, 'count of
my bein' made postmaster and for some other reasons.

"You—you thunderin' murderer!" he hollered,
shakin' his old fist in my face. "'Twas all
your fault. You done it a-purpose. Look at me!
Look! my legs punched full of holes like a skimmer,
and—and my clothes! Just look at my
clothes! A whole suit ruined! A suit I paid ten
dollars and a half for—"

"Ten year and a half ago," I put in, involuntary,
as you might say.

"It's a lie. 'Twon't be nine year till next
September. You think you're funny, don't you?
Ever since this consarned, robbin' Black Republican
administration made you postmaster! Postmaster!
You're a healthy postmaster! I'll have you arrested!
I'll march straight out and have you took
up. I will!"

He headed for the door. I didn't say nothin'.
I was sorry about the clothes and I'd have paid for
'em willin'ly, but arguin' just then was a waste of
time, as the feller said when the deef and dumb
man caught him stealin' apples. Ebenezer stamped
as fur as the door and then turned around.

"I may not have you took up," he says; "but
I'll get even with you, Zeb Snow, yet. You wait."

After he'd gone and we'd made the place look
a little less like an egg-nog, I took Jim Henry by
the sleeve and led him into the back room where
we could be alone. Even there the surroundin's
was so cluttered up with goods and bales and boxes
that we had to stand edgeways and talk out of the
sides of our mouths.

"Jim," says I, "this place of ours ain't big
enough. We've got to have more room."

He pretended to be dreadful surprised.

"Why, why, Skipper!" he says. "You shock
me. This is so sudden. What put such an idea as
that in your head? Seems to me I have a vague
remembrance of handin' you that suggestion no less
than twenty-five times since the last change of the
moon, but I hope *that* didn't influence you."

"Aw, dry up," says I. "You was right. Let it
go at that. Afore I got the postmastership this
buildin' was big enough. Now it ain't. We've got
to build on or move or somethin'. Have you got
any definite plan?"

He smiled, superior and top-lofty, and reached
over to pat me on the back; but reachin' in that
crowded junk-shop was bad judgment, 'cause his
elbow hit against the corner of a tea chest and his
next set of remarks was as explosive and fiery as a
box of ship rockets.

"Never mind the blessin'," I says. "Go ahead
with the fust course. Have you got anything up
your sleeve? anything besides that bump, I mean."

Well, it seems he had. Seems he'd thought it
all out. We'd ought to buy Philander Foster's
buildin', which was on the next lot to ours, move it
close up, cut doors through, and use it for the post-office
department.

"Humph!" says I, after I'd turned the notion
over in my mind. "That ain't so bad, considerin'
where it come from. I can only sight one possible
objection in the offin'."

"What's that, you confounded Jezebel?" he
says.

"Jezebel?" says I. "What on airth do you call
me that for?"

"'Cause you're him all over," he says. "He
was the feller I used to hear about in Sunday School,
the prophet chap that was always croakin' and believed
everything was goin' to the dogs. That was
Jezebel, wasn't it?"

"No," says I, "that was Jeremiah; Jezebel was
the one the dogs *went* to. And she was a woman,
at that."

"Well, all right," he says. "Whatever he or
she was they didn't have anything on you when it
comes to croaks. What's the objection?"

"Nothin' much. Only I don't know's you've
happened to think that Philander might not care to
sell his buildin', to us or to anybody else."

That was all right. We could go and see,
couldn't we? Well, we could of course—and we
did.




CHAPTER V—A TRAP AND WHAT THE "RAT" CAUGHT IN IT
================================================


Foster run a shebang that was labeled
"The Palace Billiard, Pool and Sipio Parlors.
Cigars and Tobacco. Tonics, all
Flavors. Ice Cream in Season." The "Palace"
part was some exaggeration and so was the "Parlors,"
but the place was the favorite hang-out of
all the loafers and young sports in town and the
church folks was tumble down on it, callin' it a
"gilded hell" and such pious profanity. The gilt
had wore off years afore and if the hot place ain't
more interestin' than that billiard saloon it must be
dull for some of the permanent boarders.

We found Philander asleep back of the soft
drink counter and young Erastus Taylor—"Ratty,"
everybody called him—practicin' pin pool, as
usual, at one of the tables. "Ratty" was Ebenezer
Taylor's only son and the combination trial
and idol of the old man's soul. Ebenezer thought
most as much of him as he did of his money, and when
you've said that you couldn't make it any stronger.
He'd done a heap to make a man of "Rat"—his
idea of a man—even separatin' from enough cash
to send him to a business college up to Middleboro;
but all the boy got from that college was a thunder
and lightnin' taste in clothes and a post-graduate
course in pool playin'. Pool playin' was the only
thing he cared about and he could spot any one of
the Ostable sharps four balls and beat 'em hands
down. He'd sampled two or three jobs up to Boston,
but they always undermined his health and he
drifted back home to live on dad and look for another
"openin'." I cal'late the pair lived a cat and
dog life, for Ratty always wanted money to spend
and Ebenezer wanted it to keep. The old man
was the wust down on the billiard room of anybody
and his son put in most of his time there.

Me and Jim Henry woke up Philander and told
him we wanted to talk with him private. He said
go ahead and talk; there wa'n't anybody to hear
but Ratty, and Rat was just like one of the family.
So, as we couldn't do it any different, we went
ahead. Jacobs explained that we felt that maybe
we might some time or other need a little extry
room for our business and, bein' as he—Philander—was
handy by and we was always prejudiced in
favor of a neighbor and so on, perhaps he'd consider
sellin' us his buildin' and lot. Course it didn't make
so much difference to him; he could easy move his
"Parlors" somewheres else—and similar sweet
ile. Philander listened till Jim Henry had poured
on the last soothin' drop, and then he laughed.

"Um ... ya-as," he says. "I could
move a heap, *I* could! I'm so durned popular
amongst the good landholders in this town that any
one of 'em would turn their best settin'-rooms over
to me the minute I mentioned it. Yes, indeed!
Just where 'bouts would I move?—if 'tain't too
much to ask."

Well, that was some of a sticker, 'cause *I*
couldn't think of anybody that would have that
billiard room within a thousand fathoms of their
premises, if they could help it. But Jim Henry he
pretended not to be shook up a cent's wuth. That
was easy; 'twas just a matter of Philander's
pickin' out the right place, that was all there was
to it.

Philander heard him through and then he
laughed again.

"You're wastin' good business breath," he says.
"I wouldn't sell if I could, unless I had a fust-class
place to move into, and there ain't no such
place on the main road and you know it. I'm doin'
trade enough to keep me alive and I'm satisfied,
though I can't lay up a cent. But, so fur as movin'
out is concerned, I expect to do that on the fust of
next November. I'll be fired out, I judge, and
prob'ly'll have to leave town. Hey, Rat?"

Ratty Taylor, who'd been listenin', twisted his
mouth and grunted.

"Yes," he says, "I guess that's right, worse
luck!"

"You bet it's right!" says Philander. "As I
said, Mr. Jacobs, if I could sell out to you and
Cap'n Zeb I wouldn't, without a good handy place
to move into. And I can't sell any way. There's
a thousand dollar mortgage on this shop and lot;
it's due June fust; and, unless I pay it off—which
I can't, havin' not more'n five hundred to my name—the
mortgage'll be foreclosed and out I go."

This was news all right. Then me and Jim
Henry asked the same question, both speakin' together.

"Who owns the mortgage?" we asked.

Foster looked at Ratty and grinned. Rat grinned
back, sort of sickly.

"Shall I tell 'em?" says Philander.

"I don't care," says Ratty. "Tell 'em, if you
want to."

"Well," says Foster, "old Ebenezer Taylor,
Ratty's dad, owns it, drat him! and he's tryin' to
drive me out of town 'count of Rat's spendin' so
much time in here. Ratty's a fine feller, but his
pa's the meanest old skinflint that ever drawed the
breath of life. Not meanin' no reflections on your
family, Rat—but ain't it so?"

"*I* shan't contradict you, Phi," says Ratty.

Jacobs and I looked at each other. Then I got
up from my chair.

"Jim Henry," says I, "I don't see as we've got
much to gain by stayin' here. Let's go home."

We went back to the store, neither of us speakin',
but both thinkin' hard. It was all off now, of course.
If old Taylor owned that mortgage, he'd foreclose
on the nail, if only to get rid of his son's loafin' place.
And he wouldn't sell to us—hatin' us as he did—unless
we covered the place with cash an inch deep.
No, buyin' the "Palace" was a dead proposition.
And there wa'n't another available buildin' or lot big
enough for us to move to within a mile of Ostable
Center.

"Humph!" says I, some sarcastic. "It looks to
me—speakin' as a man in the crosstrees—as if that
wonderful business brain of yours had sprung a leak
somewheres, Jim. Better get your pumps to workin',
hadn't you?"

He snorted. "I'd rather have a leaky head than
a solid wood one like some I know," he says.
"Quiet your Jezebellerin' and let me think....
There's one thing we might do, of course: We
might advance the other five hundred to Foster, let
him pay off his mortagage, and then—"

"And then trust to luck to get the money back,"
I put in. "There's more charity than profit in that,
if you ask me. Once that mortgage is paid, you
couldn't get Philander out of that buildin' with a
derrick. He don't want to go."

"But we might make some sort of a deal to
pay him a hundred dollars or so to boot and
then—"

"And then you'd have another hundred to collect,
that's all. I wouldn't trust that billiard and sipio
man as fur as old Ebenezer could see through his
nigh-to specs. No sir-ee! Nothin' doin', as the
boys say."

Next forenoon I met old Ebenezer Taylor on the
sidewalk in front of the Methodist meetin'-house
and, when he saw me, he stopped and commenced
chucklin' and gigglin' as if he was wound up.

"He, he, he!" says he. "He, he! I hear you
and that partner of yours, Zebulon, want to buy my
property next door to you. Well, I'll sell it to you—at
a price. He, he, he! at a price."

.. figure:: images/illus3.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: 'Well, I'll sell it to you—at a price.'

   'Well, I'll sell it to you—at a price.'

"So your hopeful and promisin' son's been tellin'
tales, has he?" says I. "I wa'n't aware that it was
your property—yet."

He stopped gigglin' and glared at me, sour and
bitter as a green crab-apple.

"It's goin' to be," he says. "Don't you forget
that, it's goin' to be. And if you want it, you'll pay
my price. You owe me for them clothes you
ruined, Zeb Snow—for them and for other things.
And I cal'late I've got you fellers about where I
want you."

"Oh, I don't know," says I. "You may be glad
enough to sell to us later on. What good is an
empty buildin' on your hands? Unless of course you
intend rentin' it for another billiard saloon."

That made him so mad he fairly gurgled.

"There'll be no billiard saloon in this town," he
declared. "No more gilded ha'nts of sin, temptin'
young men whose parents have spent good money on
their education. No, you bet there won't! And
that buildin' may not be empty, nuther. I know
somethin'. He, he, he!"

"Sho!" says I. "Do you? I wouldn't have
believed it of you, Ebenezer."

I left him tryin' to think of a fittin' answer, and
walked on to the store. Mary called to me from
behind the letter-boxes.

"Mr. Jacobs is in the back room," she says, "and
he wants to see you right away. Erastus Taylor is
with him."

"'Rastus Taylor?" I sung out. "Ratty? What
in the world—?"

I hurried into the back room. Sure enough, there
was Jim Henry and Ratty caged behind a pile of
boxes and barrels.

"Ah, Skipper!" says Jacobs; "is that you? I
was hopin' you'd come. Young Taylor here has
been suggestin' an idea that looks good to me. Tell
the Cap'n what you've been tellin' me, Ratty."

Rat twisted uneasy on the box where he was settin'
and give me a side look out of his little eyes. I never
saw him look more like his nickname.

"Well, Cap'n Zeb," he says, "it's like this: I've
been thinkin' and I believe I've thought of a way
so you and Mr. Jacobs can get Philander's lot and
buildin'."

"You have, hey?" says I. "That's interestin',
if true. What's the way?"

"Why," says he, twistin' some more, "that mortgage
is due on the first of June. If it ain't paid,
Philander'll be foreclosed and he'll move out of
town. It's only a thousand dollars and Phi's got
half of it. If somebody—you and Mr. Jacobs,
say—was to lend him t'other half, why then he
could pay it off and—and—"

"And stay where he is," I finished disgusted.
"That would be real lovely for Philander, but I
don't see where we come in. This ain't a billiard
and loan society Mr. Jacobs and I are runnin',
thankin' you and Foster for the suggestion."

"Wait a minute, Skipper," says Jim Henry.
"Your engine is runnin' wild. That ain't Ratty's
scheme at all. Go on, Rat; spring it on him."

"Philander wouldn't be so set on stayin' where
he is, Cap'n Zeb," says Rat, quick as a flash, "if he
had another place to move into; another place here
on the main road, convenient and handy by. And
I think I know a place that could be got for him."

I didn't answer for a minute. I was runnin' over
in my mind every possible place that might be sold
or let to Philander Foster for a "Palace." And to
save my life I couldn't think of one.

"Well," says I, at last, "where is it?"

Ratty leaned forward. "What's the matter with
Aunt Hannah Watson's buildin' up the street?" he
says. "She's been crazy to sell it for a long spell.
And the lower floor would make a pretty fair billiard
room, wouldn't it?"

I was disgusted. I knew the buildin' he meant,
of course. Jacobs and I had talked it over that very
mornin' as a possible place to move the "Ostable
Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes and Fancy
Goods Store" to, but we'd both decided it wa'n't
nigh big enough.

"Humph!" says I, "that scheme's so brilliant
you need smoked glass to look at it. Do you cal'late
as good a church woman as Aunt Hannah Watson
would sell or let her place for a billiard room? She
needs the money bad enough, land knows; but she's
as down on those ha'nts of sin as your dad is, Rat
Taylor. She'd never sell to Phi Foster in this
world."

"*She* mightn't, I give in," answered Rat. "But
her nephew up to Wareham is a diff'rent breed of
cats. And since she moved over there to live along
with him, he's got the handlin' of her property. I
found that out to-day. From what I hear of this
nephew man he ain't as particular as his aunt. And,
anyway, 'tain't necessary for Philander to make the
deal. You and Mr. Jacobs might make it for him."

I thought this over for a minute. I begun to
catch the idea that the young scamp had in his noddle—or
I thought I did.

"H'm," I says. "Yes, yes. You mean that if
we'd lend Philander enough to pay the balance of
his mortgage on the buildin' he's in now and would
fix it so's Aunt Hannah'd sell us her place, under the
notion that *we* was goin' to use it—you mean that
then, after June fust, Foster'd swap. He'd move
in there and turn over the old 'Palace' to us."

He and Jim Henry both bobbed their heads emphatic.

"That's what he means," says Jim.

"That's the idea exactly, Cap'n," says Rat. "I
think Philander might be willin' to do that."

"Is that so!" says I, sarcastic. "Well, well!
I want to know! But, say, Ratty, ain't you takin'
an awful lot of trouble on Foster's account? You're
turrible unselfish and disinterested all to once; or
else there's a nigger in the woodpile somewheres.
Where do you come in on this?"

He looked pretty average cheap. He fussed and
fumed for a minute and then he blurts out his reason.
"Well, I'll tell you, Cap'n," he says. "Philander's
about the best friend I've got in this bum town and
I get more solid comfort in his saloon than anywheres
else. If he's drove out of Ostable, I'll be lonesomer
than the grave. I don't want him to go. And
besides—well, you see, the old man—dad, I mean—has
got a notion about settin' me up in business
here. And I don't want to be set up—not in his
kind of business. I know the kind of business I
want to go into, and ... but never mind that
part," he adds, in a hurry.

I smiled. I remembered what old Ebenezer had
said about the "Palace" buildin' not bein' empty on
his hands very long and about somethin' he knew.
It was all plain enough now. He intended openin'
some sort of a store there with his son as boss. I
almost wished he would. 'Twould be as good as
a three-ring circus, that store would, if I knew Ratty.
But I was mad, just the same, and when Jim Henry
spoke, I was ready for him.

"Well, Skipper," says Jacobs, "what do you think
of the plan?"

"Think it's a good one, if you're willin' to heave
morals and common honesty overboard—otherwise
no. To put up a trick like that on an old widow
woman like Aunt Hannah Watson—to land a
billiard room on her property, when she'd rather die
than have it there, is too close to robbin' the Old
Ladies' Home to suit me. I wouldn't touch it with
a ten-foot pole. So good day to you, Rat Taylor,"
says I, and walked out.

But Jim Henry Jacobs didn't walk out. No, sir!
him and that young Taylor scamp stayed in that
back room for another half hour and left it whisperin'
in each other's ears and actin' thicker than
thieves. I wondered what was up, but I was too
put-out and mad to ask.

"I'll look it over right after dinner to-morrer,"
says Jacobs, as they shook hands at the front door.

"Sure you will, now?" asks Ratty, anxious.
"Don't put it off, 'cause it may be too late."

"At one o'clock to-morrer I'll be there," says Jim
Henry, and Rat went away lookin' pretty average
happy.

Jacobs scarcely spoke to me all the rest of that
day nor the next mornin'. As we got up from the
boardin' house table the follerin' noon he says, without
lookin' me in the face, "I ain't goin' back to the
store now. I've got an errand somewheres else."

"Yes," says I, "I imagined you had. You're
goin' down to look at that buildin' of poor old Aunt
Hannah's. That's where you're goin'. Ain't you
ashamed of yourself, Jim Jacobs?"

"Oh, cut it out!" he snaps, savage. "You make
me tired, Skipper. You and your backwoods scruples
give me a pain. I've lived where people aren't
so narrow and bigoted and I don't consider a billiard
room an annex to the hot place. If, by a
business deal, I can get that buildin' next door to
add to our establishment, I'm goin' to do it, if I
have to use my own money and not a cent of yours.
Yes, I *am* goin' to look at that Watson property.
Now, what have you got to say about it?"

"Why, just this," says I; "I cal'late I'll go with
you."

"You will?" he sings out. "*You?*"

"Yes," says I, "me. Not that I feel any different
about skinnin' Aunt Hannah than I ever did,
but because there's a bare chance that her place may
be big enough for us to move the store and post-office
to, after all. With that idea and no other,
I'll go with you, Jim."

So we went together, though we never spoke more
than two words on the way down. We got the key
at the jewelry and hardware shop next door and
went in. The Watson place was an old-fashioned
tumble-down buildin' with a big open lower floor
and two or three rooms overhead. I saw right off
'twouldn't do for us to move into, but likewise I
saw that the lower floor *might* do for Foster, though
'twa'n't as good as where he was, by consider'ble.

Jim Henry looked the place over.

"No good for us," he snapped.

"None at all," says I.

"Humph!" says he, and we locked up and came
down the steps together. As we did so I noticed
someone watchin' us from acrost the road.

"There's our friend, Jim Henry," says I. "And,
judgin' by the way he's starin', he's got on his fur-off
glasses and knows who we are."

He looked across. "Old Taylor, by thunder!"
says he. "Well, if my deal goes through we'll jolt
the old tight-wad yet."

"Do you mean you're goin' on with that low-down
billiard-room game?" I asked.

"Of course I do," he snapped.

"Then you'll do it on your own hook. *I* won't
be part or parcel of it."

"Who asked you to?" he wanted to know. And
we didn't speak again for the rest of that day. It
made me feel bad, because he and I had been mighty
friendly, as well as partners together. The only
comfort I got out of it was that, judgin' by the way
he kept from lookin' at me or speakin', he didn't
feel any too good himself.

But that evenin' Ratty drifted in and the pair of
'em had another confab. And next day, after the
mail had gone, Jacobs got me alone and says he:

"Well," he says, "I think I ought to tell you that
I've written that nephew in Wareham and made
an offer on the Watson property. I did it on my
own responsibility and I'll pay the freight. But I
thought perhaps I ought to tell you."

"What did you offer?" I asked. He told me.

"I'll take half," says I, "because I consider it a
good investment at that figger. But only with the
agreement that the billiard saloon sha'n't go there."

"Then you can keep your money," he says, short.
And there was another long spell of not speakin'
between the two of us.

Mary noticed that there was somethin' wrong,
and it worried her. She spoke to me about it.

"Cap'n Zeb," she says, "what's the trouble between
you and Mr. Jacobs? Of course it isn't my
business, and you mustn't tell me unless you wish to."

I thought it over. "Well," says I, "I can't tell
you just now, Mary. It's a business matter we don't
agree on and it's kind of private. I'll tell you some
day, but just now I can't. It ain't all my secret, you
see."

"I see," says she. "I shouldn't have asked. I
beg your pardon. I wasn't curious, but I do hate to
see any trouble between you two. I like you both."

I nodded. I was feelin' pretty blue. "Jim's a
mighty good chap at heart," I says. "I owe him
a lot and he's consider'ble more than just a partner
to me."

"He thinks the world of you, too," says she.
"He's told me so a great many times. That is why
I can't bear to see you disagree."

I couldn't bear it none too well, either, but Jim
Henry showed no signs of givin' in and I wouldn't.
So we moped around, keepin' out of each other's
way, and actin' for all the world like a couple of
young-ones in bad need of a switch.

A couple more days went by afore the answer
came from Wareham. When I saw the envelope
on the desk, with the Watson man's name in the
corner, I knew what it meant and I was on hand
when Jim Henry opened it. He was ugly and
scowlin' when he ripped off the envelope. Then I
heard him swear. I was dyin' to know what the
letter said, but I wouldn't have asked him for no
money. I walked out to the front of the store.
Five minutes later I felt his hand on my shoulder.
He had a curious expression on his face, sort of a
mixture of mad and glad.

"Skipper," he says, "we're buncoed again. We
don't get the Watson place."

"Don't, hey?" says I. "All right, I sha'n't shed
any tears. I wa'n't after it, and you know it. But
I'm surprised that your offer wa'n't accepted. Why
wa'n't it?"

"Because somebody got ahead of me. Here's
the letter. Listen to this: 'Your offer for my
aunt's property in Ostable came a day too late.
Yesterday I gave a year's option on that property,
for five hundred dollars cash, to—'"

"Land of love!" I interrupted. "Only yesterday!
That was close haulin', I must say."

"Wait," says he, "you haven't heard the whole
of it. 'A year's option ... for five hundred
dollars cash, to Mr. Taylor of your town.'"

"Taylor!" says I. "*Taylor!* My soul and
body! The old skinflint beat us again! Well, I
swan!"

"Um-hm," says he. "I size it up like this.
He saw us come out of there the other day and
guessed that we thought of buyin' and movin'. So,
as he owed us a grudge, and because the Watson
property is, as you said, a good investment anyhow,
he makes his option offer on the jump, and beat me
to it."

I whistled. "I cal'late you've hit the nailhead,
Jim," says I. "Well, to be free and frank, I'm glad
of it."

"So am I," says he.

*That* was a staggerer. I whirled round and
looked at him.

"You *are*?" I sung out.

"Yes," says he, "I am. Of course I had my
heart set on gettin' that 'Palace' for an addition
that would give more room and extry space to our
place here; and the only way I could see to get it
was to take up with that Rat's proposition. I
haven't any prejudice against billiards—"

"Neither have I, but—"

"I know. And you're right. Old lady Watson
has, and to run Foster's establishment in on her
would have been a low-down mean trick. I've felt
like a thief, but I was so pig-headed I wouldn't back
down. Now that I've got it where the chicken got
his, I'm glad of it, I really am. Partner, will you
forget my meanness and shake hands?"

Would I? I was as tickled as a youngster with
a new tin whistle. And so was he.

"There's only one thing that keeps me mad," he
says, "and that is that old Ebenezer's got the laugh
on us again. As for more room for the store—well,
we'll have to think that out."

We thought, but it wa'n't us that got the answer.
'Twas Mary Blaisdell. I told her what our fuss had
been about, and she agreed that I was right and that
Jim Henry's sharp business sense had sort of run
away with him for the time bein'.

"But," says she, "we certainly do need more
room, both in the mail department and the store.
I've had an idea for some time. Let *me* think a
while."

Next day she told Jacobs and me what her idea
was. 'Twas that we should build an addition on
to our own buildin'. Run it two stories high and
right out into the back yard. 'Twas just the thing
and the wonder is that we hadn't thought of it ourselves.

"She's a wonder, Jim, ain't she?" says I, when
we was alone together.

"*You* think so, don't you, Skipper," says he,
smilin'.

I flared up. "Sartin I do," I says. "Don't
you?"

"Indeed I do."

"Then what do you mean?"

"Oh, nothin', nothin'. Say, have you seen old
Taylor lately? I suppose he's crowin' like a Shanghai
rooster. I do hate for that old skinflint to have
the joke always on his side."

"I know," says I. "So do I. But some day,
if we wait long enough, we may have a chance to
laugh at him. I've lived a good many year and
I've seen it work that way pretty often. We'll
wait—and when we do laugh, we'll laugh hard."

And we didn't have to wait so turrible long
neither. We got a carpenter in, told him to keep
it a secret, but to plan how we could build the backyard
extension. The plannin' and estimatin' kept
us busy and we forgot about everything else. Fust
along I expected young Taylor would pester us with
more schemes, but he didn't. He never came nigh
us once, fact is he seemed mighty anxious to keep
out of our way, and so long as he did we didn't
complain. His dad come crowin' and chucklin'
around a couple of times and finally Jacobs lost his
temper and told him if he ever showed his face on
our premises again he was liable to be put to the
expense of havin' it repaired by the doctor.
Ebenezer vowed vengeance and law suits, but he
went, and after that he sent a boy for his mail instead
of comin' to fetch it himself.

One forenoon, about eleven o'clock 'twas, I was
standin' on the store platform, when I heard the
Old Harry's own row in the "Palace Billiard, Pool
and Sipio Parlors." Loud voices, all goin' at once,
and two or three different assortments of language.
Jim Henry heard it, too, and come out to listen.

"Skipper," he says, sudden; "what day is
this?"

"Why, Thursday," says I, "ain't it? Oh, you
mean what day of the month. Hey? By the everlastin'!
I declare if it ain't the fust of June!"

"The day Foster's mortgage falls due," he says,
excited. "I wonder.... You don't suppose—"

He didn't have to suppose, for inside of the next
two minutes we both knew. Three men came bustin'
out of the billiard room door. One was Philander
himself, the other was Ezra Colcord, the lawyer,
and the third was our old shipmate and bosom friend,
Ebenezer Taylor. The old man was fairly frothin'
at the mouth.

"You—you—" he sputtered, "you've deceived
me. You've lied to me. You led me to think—"

"I don't see as you've got any kick, Mr. Taylor,"
purrs Philander, smilin'. "You've got your money.
What more can you ask?"

"But—but I don't want the money. I want
this property, and I'll have it."

"Oh, no, you won't, Mr. Taylor," says Colcord,
the lawyer. "This property belongs to Foster now.
He's paid your mortgage in full. You have no
rights here whatever and I advise you to go before
you are arrested for trespassin'."

Well, the old man went, but he was still talkin'
and threatenin' when he turned the corner. Colcord
laughed and shook hands with Philander.

"Don't mind him, Foster," he says. "He's sore,
that's all, but he has no claim whatever. You've
paid off your mortgage and the property is yours
absolutely. As for the other matter, the papers will
be ready for signature this afternoon. Ha, ha!
I imagine they won't add to our friend's joy."

"Cal'late not," says Philander, grinnin'. "This'll
be his day for surprises, hey?"

They shook hands again and Colcord left. Soon's
he'd gone, Jim Henry grabbed me by the arm. He
didn't even wait for the lawyer to get out of sight.

"Come on," he says. "This is too good to be
true. We must find out about this, Skipper."

So over to the "Parlors" we hurried. Philander
looked sort of queer when he saw us comin', but he
didn't run away. We commenced to ask questions,
both of us together. After we'd asked a dozen or
so, he held up his hand.

"Come inside," he says, "and I'll tell you about
it. The secret'll be out in a little while, anyhow,
and maybe we do owe you fellers a little mite of
explanation."

We went in, wonderin'. Philander set up the
cigars, ten-centers at that, and then he says:
"Yes, I've paid off my mortgage and I cal'late
you wonder where the money came from. Five
hundred of it I had myself. You knew that."

"Yes," says Jacobs, and I nodded.

"Um-hm," says he. "Well, I loaned the five
hundred to Ratty and he bought the option on Aunt
Hannah's buildin' with it."

We fairly jumped off our pins.

"What?" says I.

"*Rat* bought that option?" gasped Jim Henry.
"Nonsense! his dad bought it."

"No-o," says Philander, solemn, "'twas Rat that
bought it at fust. The whole scheme was his and
I give him credit for it. After Mr. Jacobs here
had agreed to look at the Watson place, Ratty got
Ed. Holmes to take him over to Wareham in his
auto. There he see this nephew of Aunt Hannah's,
paid down his five hundred and got the option."

"But that letter I got said—" began Jim Henry,
and then he pulled up short. "No," says he, "it
said 'Mr. Taylor' had secured the option; I remember
now. But, of course, we supposed it was
Ebenezer."

"And Ebenezer did have it," I put in. "He
told me so himself. I met him on the road and
he—"

"Hold on, Cap'n," cuts in Philander, "no use
goin' through all that. Ebenezer *has* got it now.
Ratty decoyed his dad down abreast the Watson
place while you and Mr. Jacobs was inside lookin'
it over, and the old man see you two come out."

"I know he did," says I. "I saw him peekin'
at us from behind a tree."

"Yes," goes on Foster, "he was there. And,
naturally, he jedged you was cal'latin' to buy that
buildin' and move into it. Fact is, he'd been intendin'
to buy it himself as an investment, and, now
that there was a chance to spite you fellers hove
in for good measure, he was more anxious to get
it than ever. Then Rat broke the news that he
had the option and was willin' to sell it to the highest
bidder. Ha! ha! I guess there was a lively session,
but the upshot of it was that Ebenezer bought
that option off his boy for a thousand dollars.
That's how *he* got it."

"Well, I'll be hanged!" says Jim Henry. I was
way past sayin' anything.

"And so," continues Philander, "the five hundred
dollars' profit on the option and the five hundred
dollars I lent Rat to start with made just the amount
needful to pay off my mortgage. And, Squire Colcord
and me paid it off this mornin'. You fellers
heard the concludin' section of the ceremonies.
Ebenezer's benediction was some spicy, hey!"

"But—but—why, look here, Philander," says
I. "I don't understand this at all. Five hundred
of that thousand was Rat's. He ain't no philanthropist;
he wouldn't *give* it to you, unless miracles
are comin' into fashion again. What—"

Foster laughed. "There is a little somethin'
underneath," he says. "It's been kept pretty close,
but the cat'll be out of the bag afore the day's over
and, considerin' how much you two helped without
meanin' to, I'd just as soon tell you. Ratty told you
that his pa was cal'latin' to set him up in business,
didn't he? Yes. Well, Rat's had a notion for a
long spell about the business he meant to get into.
There's a new sign been ordered for this shebang
of mine. Here's the copy for it."

He reached under the cigar counter and held up
a long piece of pasteboard. 'Twas lettered like this:

.. class:: center

    PALACE BILLIARD, POOL AND SIPIO PARLORS.

    :small-caps:`Philander Foster & Erastus Taylor,`

    *Proprietors.*

"I cal'late the old man'll disown his son when he
knows it," goes on Foster, "but Rat had rather run
a pool room than be rich, any day in the week. And
say," he adds, "if I was you fellers I'd try to be on
hand when Ebenezer fust sees the new sign. I
should think you'd get consider'ble satisfaction from
watchin' his face. I'm cal'latin' to, myself," says
Philander Foster.




CHAPTER VI—I RUN AFOUL OF COUSIN LEMUEL
=======================================


Well, to be honest, I felt pretty bad about
that billiard room business. I was real
sorry for old Ebenezer. Of course
Taylor was a skinflint and a thorough-goin' mean
man, but Ratty was his son and his pride, and to
have a son play a dog's trick like that on the father
that had, at least, tried to make somethin' out of
him, seemed tough enough. And my conscience
plagued me. I felt almost as if I was to blame
somehow. I wa'n't, of course, but I felt that way.
A feller's conscience is the most unreasonable part
of his works; I've noticed it often.

But I needn't have wasted any sympathy on
Ebenezer. For the fust little while after his boy
went into the pool and sipio business, he was a sore
chap. Then, all at once, I noticed that he took to
hangin' around the "Parlors" consider'ble and one
evenin' I saw him comin' out of there, all smiles. I
was standin' on the store platform and as he passed
me I hailed him. We hadn't spoken for a consider'ble
spell, but I hadn't any grudge, for my part.

"Hello!" says I, "what are you so tickled
about?"

I didn't know as he wouldn't throw somethin' at
me for darin' to hail him, but no, he was ready to
talk to anybody, even me.

"No use," says he, "that boy of mine's a mighty
smart feller. He just beat Tom Baker three games
runnin', and spotted him two balls on the last one.
He's a wonder, if I do say it."

I looked at him. This didn't sound much like
disinheritin'.

"Three games of what?" says I.

"Why, pool," says he, "of course. And Baker's
been countin' himself the best player in the county.
'Rastus was playin' for the house. Him and Philander
cleared over a hundred dollars in the last
month. That ain't so bad for a young feller just
startin' in, is it? I always knew that boy had the
business instinct, if he'd only wake up to it. I've
told folks so time and again."

He went along, chucklin' to himself, and I stood
still and whistled. And when I heard that the old
man had taken to callin' the anti-billiard-room crowd
bigoted and narrer it didn't surprise me much. I
judged that Ebenezer's opinions was like those of
others of his tribe—dependent on the profit and
loss account in the ledger. You can forgive your
own kith and kin a lot easier than you can outsiders,
especially if your moral scruples are the Taylor
kind, to be reckoned in dollars and cents.

The carpenters were ready to begin work on our
store addition at last, and we started right in to
build on. 'Twas an awful job, enough sight worse
than movin', but it had to be got through with some
way and we wanted to have it finished when the
summer season opened for good. If the store had
been cluttered up and crowded afore, it was ten
times worse now. The amount of energy and
healthy remarks that Jacobs and I wasted in fallin'
over and runnin' into things would have kept a
steamer's engines goin' from Boston to Liverpool,
I cal'late. I expected one of us would break our
neck sartin sure, but we didn't and, by the fust of
July we thought we could see the end.

"There!" says I, "in another week we'll be
clear of sawdust, I do believe. The painters won't
be so bad. And we've got on without any accidents,
too, which is a miracle."

"You ought to knock wood when you say that,
Skipper," says Jim Henry.

"I've knocked enough of it already—with my
head," I told him. But I hadn't. At any rate the
accident come, and not by reason of the buildin' on,
either. It come right in the way of everyday trade,
from where we wa'n't expectin' it. That's the way
such things generally happen. A feller runs under
a tree, so's to keep from gettin' rained on and catchin'
cold, and then the tree's struck by lightnin'.

If I'd remembered what old Sylvanus Baxter said
when they asked him to prove one of his fish statements,
I'd have been a wiser man. Sylvanus was
tellin' how many mack'rel him and his brother caught
off Setucket P'int with a hand line, back when Methusalum
was a child, or about then. Forty-eight barrels
they caught, and it nigh filled the dory. One
of the young city fellers who was listenin' undertook
to doubt the yarn. He got a piece of paper and a
pencil and proved that a dory wouldn't hold that
many fish. Sylvanus shut him up in a hurry.

"Young man," he says, scornful, "where a human
bein' is blessed with a memory same as I've got,
proof's too unsartin to compare with it."

If I'd borne in mind what Sylvanus said and abided
by it I might not have dropped the barrel of sugar
on my starboard foot. I'd have been satisfied to
remember my strength and not try to prove it by
liftin' the said barrel off the tailboard of our delivery
wagon.

However, I did try, and the result was that the
barrel slipped when I'd got it 'most to the ground,
and my foot went out of commission with a hurrah,
so to speak.

Jim Henry come runnin' and him and the clerk
loaded me into the wagon and carted me off to my
rooms at the Poquit House. And there I stayed
in dry dock for three weeks, while the doctor done
his best to patch up my busted trotter and get me
off the ways and into active service again.

He done his part all right. I was mendin' so
far as the lower end of me was concerned, but my
upper works and temper was gettin' more tangled
and snarled every day. Too much company was
the trouble. I had too many folks runnin' in to
ask how I was gettin' on and to talk and talk and
talk. Jim Henry he come, of course, to talk about
the store; and Mary Blaisdell, to tell me how the
post-office was doin'. I could stand them; fact is,
Mary was a sort of soothin' sirup, with her pleasant
face and calm, cheery voice. But the parson he
come, to keep the spiritual part of me ready for
whatever might happen; and the undertaker, to be
sure he got the other part, if it *did* happen; and
twenty-odd old maids and widows from sewin'-circle
to talk about each other and church squabbles and
the dreadful sufferin's and agonizin' deaths of their
relations, who'd had accidents similar to mine.

They made me so fidgety and mad that the doctor
noticed it. "What's troublin' you, Cap'n Snow?"
he asked. "No new pains, I hope?"

"Humph!" says I. "Your hope's blasted.
I've got the meanest pain I've had yet."

"Where?" says he, anxious.

"All over," I says. "Tabitha Nickerson's responsible
for it. She's been here for the last hour
and a half, tellin' about how her second cousin, by
her uncle's marriage, stuck a nail in his hand and
was amputated twice and finally died of lingerin'
lockjaw. She never missed a groan. Consarn her!
*She* gives me a pain just to look at."

He laughed. "That's the trouble with you old
bachelors," he says. "You're too popular with the
fair sex."

"Fair!" I sung out. "Doc, if you mean to say
Tabby Nickerson's fair, then I'm goin' to switch to
the homeopaths. *Your* judgment ain't dependable."

He laughed again and then he went on. Seems
he'd been thinkin' for quite a spell that the Poquit
House wasn't the place for me.

"What you need, Cap'n," he says, "is a nice quiet
spot where nobody can get at you—that is, nobody
but the disagreeable necessities, like me. I've found
the place for you to board durin' your convalescence.
Do you know the Deacon house over at South
Ostable on the lower road?"

"If you mean Lot Deacon's, I do—yes," says I.

"That's it," says he. "Lot's all alone there, and
he'd be mighty glad of a boarder. The house is as
neat as wax, and Lot used to go as cook on a Banks'
boat, so you'll be fed well. It's right on the shore,
with the woods back of it. There's a splendid view,
the air's fine, and—and—"

"Don't strain yourself, Doc," I put in. "You
couldn't think of anything else if you thought for a
week. Air and view is all there is in that neighborhood.
What on earth have I done to be sentenced
to serve a term at Lot Deacon's?"

Well, it was quiet, and I needed quiet. It was
restful, and I needed rest. It was too far from
civilization for the undertaker or the sewin'-circle
to get at me. It was—but there! never mind the
rest. The upshot was that I agreed to board at
Lot's till my foot got well enough to navigate and
they carted me down in the delivery wagon, next day.

The Deacon place lived up to specifications all
right. Nighest neighbor half a mile off, woods all
round on three sides, and the bay on t'other. Good
grub and plenty of it. And no company except the
doctor every other day, and Jim Henry the days
between, and Lot—oh, land, yes! Lot, always and
forever.

He was a meek little critter, Lot was, accommodatin'
and willin' to please, as good a cook as ever
fried a clam, and a great talker on some subjects.
He was a widower, with no relations except an aunt-in-law
over to Denboro, and a third cousin up to
Boston; and his principal hobby was spirits and
mediums and such. He was as sot on Spiritu'lism
as anybody ever you see, and hadn't missed a Spirit'list
camp-meetin' in Harniss durin' the memory of
man.

However, Lot and I got along first-rate and he'd
set and talk by the hour about the camp-meetin',
which was a couple of weeks off, and how he was
goin', and so on. Said I needn't worry about bein'
left alone, 'cause his wife's Aunt Lucindy from Denboro
was comin' to keep house for me durin' the
two days he was away.

"Is your Aunt Lucindy given to spirits, too?"
I wanted to know.

No, she wasn't. Seems her particular bug was
"mind cure." She was a widow whose husband
had died of creepin' paralysis. She'd tried every
kind of doctorin' and patent medicines on him and,
in spite of it, the last specimen of "Swamp Bitters"
or "Thistle Tea" finished him. But, anyhow,
Aunt Lucindy had no faith in medicines or doctors
after that. She'd tried 'em all and they'd gone back
on her. Now she was a "mind-curer."

"She'll prob'bly try to cure your foot with mind,
Cap'n Zeb," says Lot, apologetic as usual. "But you
mustn't worry about that. She means well."

"I sha'n't worry," I says. "She can put her
mind on my foot, if she wants to; unless it's as hefty
as that sugar barrel I cal'late 'twon't hurt me much.
But say, Lot," I says, "are all your folks taken with
something special in the line of religion or cures?
How about this cousin—this Lemuel one? What's
possessin' *him*?"

Oh, Cousin Lemuel was different. He'd had
money left him and was an aristocrat. He never
married, but lived in "chambers" up to Boston.
He didn't have to work, but was a "collector" for
the fun of it; collected postage stamps and folks'
hand-writin's and insects and such. He wasn't very
well, his nerves was kind of twittery, so Lot said.

"Um-hm," says I. "Well, collectin' insects
would make most anybody's nerves twitter, I cal'late.
But if Cousin Lemuel likes 'em, I s'pose we hadn't
ought to fret. He could pick up a healthy collection
of wood-ticks back here in the pines, if he'd only
come after 'em, though it ain't likely he will."

But he did, just the same. Not after the ticks,
exactly, but, as sure as I'm settin' here, this Cousin
Lemuel landed in the house at South Ostable, bag
and baggage. 'Twas three days afore the beginnin'
of camp-meetin' and two afore Aunt Lucindy
was expected over. Lot and me was settin' in rockin'
chairs by the front windows in my room lookin' out
over the bay, when all to once we heard the rattle
of a wagon from the woods abaft the kitchen.

"It's the doctor, I cal'late," says Lot, wakin' up
and stretchin'. "Ah, hum, I s'pose I'll have to go
down and let him in."

"'Tain't the doctor," says I. "He come yesterday.
More likely it's Mr. Jacobs, though I thought
he'd gone to Boston and wouldn't be back for three
or four days."

But a minute later we see we was mistaken.
Around the house come rattlin' Simeon Wixon's old
depot wagon, with the curtains all drawed down—though
'twas hot summer—and the rack astern and
the seat in front piled up high with trunks and bags
and satchels and goodness knows what all. Sim was
drivin' and he had a grin on him like a Chessy cat.

"Whoa!" says he, haulin' in the horses. "Ahoy,
Lot! Turn out there! Got a passenger for you."

Lot was so surprised he could hardly believe his
ears, though they was big enough to be believed.
He h'isted up the window screen and looked out.

"Hey?" he says, bewildered-like. "Did you
say a *passenger*?"

"That's what I said. A passenger for you.
Come on down."

"A passenger? For *me*?"

"Yes! yes! yes!" Simeon's patience was givin'
out, and no wonder. "Don't stay up there," he
snaps, "with your head stuck out of that window
like a poll-parrot's out of a cage. And don't keep
sayin' things over and over or I'll believe you *are* a
poll-parrot. Come down!" Then, leaning back
and hollerin' in behind the carriage curtains, he sung
out, "Hi, mister! here we be. You can get out
now."

The curtains shook a little mite and then, from
behind 'em, sounded a voice, a man's voice, but kind
of shrill and high, and with a quiver in the middle
of it.

"Are you sure this is the right place, driver?"
it says.

"Sartin sure. This is it."

"But are you certain those animals are perfectly
safe? They won't run away?"

The horses was takin' a nap, the two of 'em. Sim
grinned, wider'n ever, and winks up at the window.

"I'll do my best to hold 'em," he says. "If
I'd known you was comin' I'd have fetched an
anchor."

The curtains shook some more, as if the feller
inside was fidgetin' with 'em. Then the voice says
again and more excited than ever, "Well, why in
Heaven's name don't you unfasten this dreadful
door? How am I to get out?"

Simeon stood grinnin', ripped a remark loose under
his breath, jumped from the seat, and yanked
the door open. There was a full half minute afore
anything happened. Then out from that wagon
door popped a black felt hat with a brim like a small-sized
umbrella. Under the hat was a pair of thin,
grayish side-whiskers, a long nose, and a pair of specs
like full moons. The hat and the rest of it turned
towards the horses and the voice says:

"You're *perfectly* sure of those creatures you are
drivin'? Very good. Where is the step? Oh,
dear! where is the *step*?"

Sim reached in, grabbed a little foot with one of
them things they call a "gaiter" on it, hauled it
down and planted it on the step of the carriage.

"There!" he snaps. "There 'tis, underneath
you. Come on! Here! I'll unload you."

Maybe the passenger would have said somethin'
else, but he didn't have a chance. Afore he could
even think he was jerked out of that depot wagon
and stood up on the ground.

"There!" says Simeon. "Now you're safe and
no bones broken. Where do you want your dunnage;
in the house?"

I don't know what answer he got. Afore I could
hear it there was a gasp and a gurgle from Lot.
I turned to him. He was leaning out of the window
starin' down at the little man under the big hat.

"I believe—" he says, "I—I—\ *why*, it's
Cousin Lemuel!"

Cousin Lemuel looked around him, at the house,
at the woods, at the bay, at everything.

"Good heavens!" says he, in a sort of groan.—"Good
heavens! what an awful place!"

That's how he made port and that was his first
observation after landin'. He made consider'ble
many more durin' the next few days, but the drift
of 'em was all similar. He was a bird, Cousin
Lemuel was. His twittery nerves had twittered so
much durin' the past month or so that his doctors—he
had seven or eight of 'em—had got tired of the
chirrup, I cal'late, had held officers' counsel, and
decided he must be got rid of somehow. They
couldn't kill him, 'cause that was against the law, so
they done the next best and ordered him to the seashore
for a complete rest; at least, he said the rest
was to be for him, but I judge 'twas the doctors that
needed it most. He wouldn't go to a hotel—hotels
were horrible,—but he happened to think of relation
Lot down in South Ostable and headed for there.
Whether or not Lot could take him in, or wanted
to, didn't trouble him a mite! *He* wanted to come
and that was sufficient! He never even took the
trouble to write that he was comin'. When he once
made up his mind to do a thing, and got sot on it,
he was like the laws of the Medes and Possums—or
whatever they was—in Scripture; you couldn't
upset him in two thousand years. It got to be a
"matter of principle" with him—he was always
tellin' about his matters of principle—and when the
"principle" complication struck, that settled it. Oh,
Cousin Lemuel was a bird, just as I said.

And Lot, of course, didn't have gumption enough
to say he wasn't welcome. No, indeed; fact is, Lot
seemed to consider his comin' a sort of honor, as
you might say. If that retired bug-collector had been
the Queen of Sheba, he couldn't have had more fuss
made over him. The schooner-load of trunks and
satchels was carted aloft to the big room next to
mine,—Lot's room 'twas, but Lot soared to the
attic,—and Cousin Lemuel was carted there likewise.
He was introduced to me, and about the first
thing he said was, would I mind wearin' a dressin'-robe,
or a bath-sack, or somethin' to cover up my
game foot? the sight of the dreadful bandage affected
his nerves. I was sort of shy on sacks and dolmans
and such, but I done my best to please him with
a patchwork comforter.

I can't begin to tell you the things he did, or had
Lot do for him. Changin' the feather bed for a
pumped-up air mattress he'd fetched along—air
mattresses was a matter of principle with him—and
firin' the rag mats off the floor of his room, 'cause
the round-and-round braids made whirligigs in his
head—and so on. But I sha'n't forget that first
night in a hurry.

He was in and out of my room no less than fifteen
times, rigged out in some sort of blanket dress, fastened
with a rope amidships. He wore that over
his nightgown, and a shawl like an old woman's on
top of the blanket. His head was tied up in a silk
handkerchief; and his feet was shoved into slippers
that flapped up and down when he walked and
sounded like a slack jib in a light breeze. First off
he couldn't sleep 'cause the frogs hollered. Next,
'twas the surf that troubled him. Then the window
blinds creaked. And, at last, I'm blessed if he didn't
come flappin' and rustlin' in at half-past one to ask
what made it so quiet. I was desp'rate, and I told
him I was subject to nightmare, and had been known
to cripple folks that come in and woke me sudden
that way. He cleared out and I heard him pilin'
chairs and furniture against his door on the inside.
After that I managed to sleep till six o'clock. Then
he knocked and asked if I was thoroughly awake,
'cause if I was would I tell him what sort of weather
'twas likely to be, so's he could dress accordin'. His
risin' hour was nine,—more principle, of course,—but
he liked to know what to wear when he did
get up.

And he was just as bad all that day and the next.
I'd have quit and had the doctor take me back to the
Poquit House, but I didn't like to on Lot's account.
Poor Lot was all upset and needed some sane person
to turn to for comfort. And besides, although
he made me mad, I got consider'ble fun out of this
Lemuel man's doin's. He was such a specimen that
I liked to study him, same as he used to study a new
species of insect, when he had that particular craze.

He seemed to like me, too, in a way. Anyhow
he used to come in and talk to me pretty frequent.
He had three words that he used all the time—"awful"
and "dreadful" and "horrible." Everything
in the neighborhood fitted to them words,
'cordin' to his notion. And he had one question that
he kept askin' over and over: What should he do?
What was there to do in the dreadful place?

"Why don't you keep on collectin'?" I asked him.
"We're kind of scurce on postage stamps, and the
handwritin' supply is limited; though you never collected
anything like Lot's signature, I'll bet a cooky.
But there's bugs enough, land knows! Why don't
you go bug-huntin'?"

Oh, he was tired of insects. Never wanted to see
one again!

"Then you'll have to wear blinders when you go
past the salt-marsh," says I. "The moskeeters are
so thick there they get in your eyes. Why not take
a swim?"

Horrible! he loathed salt-water. He never
bathed in it, as a matter of—

I interrupted quick—"Then take a walk," says I.

Walking was a "bore."

"Well then," I says, "just do what the doctor
ordered—set and rest."

But settin' made his nerves worse than ever! "I
don't know what is the matter with me, Cap'n Snow,"
he says. "My physicians seemed to think I should
find what I needed here, but I don't!—I don't!
I am more depressed and enervated than ever."

"I know what you need," I said emphatic.

"Do you indeed? What, pray?"

"Somethin' to keep you interested," I told him.
"Your life's like a wharf timber that the worms
have been at—there's too many 'bores' in it. If
you could find somethin' bran-new to interest you,
you'd be lively enough. I'd risk the depression then—and
the enervation, too, whatever that is."

Oh, horrible! How could I joke about a matter
of life and death?

Well, so it went for the two days and in the
evenin' of the second day, Lot come tiptoein' into
my room. He was all nerved up. The next
mornin' was the time he'd planned to go to camp-meetin';
and how could he go now?

"Why not?" says I. "I'll be all right. Your
Aunt Lucindy's comin' to keep house, ain't she?"

"Yes—yes, she's comin'. But how can I leave
Cousin Lemuel? He won't want me to go, I'm
sure."

"So'm I," I says; "he'll kick as a matter of principle.
But if you're gone afore he knows it, he'll
*have* to like it—or lump it, one or t'other. See
here, Lot Deacon; you take my advice and clear out
to-morrow early, afore the bug-hunter's nerves twitter
loud enough to wake him. You can get our
breakfast and leave it on the table out here in the
hall. I can manage to hobble that far. Afore dinner
Aunt Lucindy'll be on deck."

He brightened up consider'ble. "I might do
that," he says. "And anyway Aunt Lucindy's likely
to be here afore breakfast. She's always terrible
prompt. But will Cousin Lemuel forgive me, do
you think?"

"I don't know," says I. "But I will, provided
you don't say 'terrible' again. Now clear out and
don't let me see you till camp-meetin's over. And
say," I called after him, "just ask one of your spirit
chums what's good for nerve twitters."

Next mornin' was sort of dark and cloudy, so
probably that accounts for my oversleepin'. Anyhow
'twas after seven o'clock when Cousin Lemuel,
blanket and shawl and slippers, full undress uniform,
comes flappin' into my room. I woke up and
stared at him. He was pale, and tremblin' all over.

"What's the matter now?" says I.

"Hush!" he whispers, fearful. "Hush! somethin'
awful has happened. My cousin Lot is insane."

"*What?*" I sung out, settin' up in bed.

"Hush! hush!" says he. "It is horrible. Insanity
is hereditary in our family. What shall we
do?"

"Insane—rubbish!" says I, havin' waked up a
little more by this time. "What makes you think
he's insane?"

He held up a shakin' hand. "Listen!" he whispers.
"He has been makin' dreadful noises for
the past half-hour, and singin'—actually singin'—in
the strangest voice. Listen!"

I listened. Down below in the kitchen there was
a racket of pans and dishes and a stompin' as if a
menagerie elephant had broke loose from its moorin's.
Then somebody busts out singin', loud and
high:

   | "There's a land that is fairer than day,
   | And by faith we can see it afar."

"There, there!" says Lemuel. "Don't you
hear it? Would a sane man sing like that?"

I rocked back and forth in bed and roared and
laughed. "A sane man wouldn't," I says, "but a
sane *woman* might, if she had strong enough lungs.
That ain't Lot. Lot's gone to camp-meetin', to be
gone till to-morrow night. That's his wife's aunt,
Lucindy Hammond, from Denboro. She's goin' to
keep house for us till he gets back."




CHAPTER VII—THE FORCE AND THE OBJECT
====================================


Well, it took all of fifteen minutes for me
to drive the idea out of that critter's head
that his relative had gone loony. I was
hoppin' around on my sound foot tryin' to dress,
while I explained things. I had enough clothes on
to be presentable in white folks' society, when there
come a whoop up the back stairs.

"Good morn-in'!" whoops Aunt Lucindy.
"Breakfast is ready! Shall I fetch it up?"

"My soul!" squeals Cousin Lemuel, and bolts
for his own room. I buttoned my collar by main
strength and answered the hail.

"All hands on deck!" I sung out. "Fetch her
along."

There was a mighty stompin' on the stairs, and
then through the door marches as big a woman as
ever I see in my born days. 'Twa'n't only that she
was fleshy,—she must have weighed all of two hundred
and thirty,—but she was big, big as a small
mountain, seemed so, and was dressed in some sort
of curtain-calico gown that made her look bigger
yet. She was luggin' a tray heaped up with vittles
enough for a small ship's company.

"Good mornin'," says she, in a voice as big as
the rest of her, and as cheery as the fust sunshine
on a foggy day. She was smilin' all over, but there
was a square look to her chin—the upper one, for
she had no less than two and a half—that made
me think she could be the other thing if occasion
called for. "Good mornin'," says she. "Is this
Lemuel?"

"It ain't," says I. "Cousin Lemuel is in disability
just at present. My name's Snow."

"Oh, yes!" she hollers—every time she spoke
she hollered—"Oh, yes! Cap'n Zebulon Snow, of
course. I'm Mrs. Hammond. Here's your breakfast."

"Mine!" says I, lookin' at the heap of rations.
"You mean mine and Cousin Lemuel's."

"Oh, no, I don't," says she, still smilin', and
puttin' the tray down on the table, in the way she
did everything, with a bang; "I mean yours, Cap'n
Snow. Lemuel's is all ready, though, and I'll fetch
it right up. I know what men's appetites are; I've
had experience."

Afore I could think of an answer to this she swept
out of the door like a toy typhoon, the breeze from
her skirts settin' papers and light stuff flyin', and
was stompin' down the stairs, singin' "Sweet By and
By" at the top of her lungs. I looked at the tray
and scratched my head. My appetite ain't a hummin'-bird's,
by a considerable sight, but that breakfast
would have lasted me all day. As for Lemuel,
about all he did with food was find fault with it.
And just then in he comes.

"What's that?" says he, pointin' to the tray.

"That?" says I. "That's my breakfast.
Yours is just like it and it'll be right up."

He fidgeted with his specs and bent over to look.
His nose was anything but a pug, but I give you
my word you could almost see it turn up.

"Fried potatoes!" he says; "and fried fish!
and fried eggs! and griddle-cakes! Why—why
it's *all* fried! Horrible!"

"Ain't there enough?" I asks, sarcastic. "If
not, I presume likely there's more in the kitchen."

"Enough!" he fairly screamed it. "I never take
anything but a slice of very dry toast and a cup of
tea in the mornin'. It's a principle of mine. And
I never eat anything fried! I—I—"

"All right," says I, "you tell her so. Here she
is." And afore he could get out of the door she
sailed through it, luggin' another tray loaded like
the fust one. She slammed it down and turned to
the invalid, who was tryin' to hide his blanket dressin'-sack
behind a chair.

"Here is Lemuel!" she hollers. "It *is* Lemuel,
isn't it? I'm *so* glad to see you! I'm Lucindy,
Lot's auntie. In a way we're related, so we must
shake hands."

She reached over and took his little thin hand
in her big one and gave it a squeeze that made him
curl up like a fishin' worm.

"There!" says she, "now we're all acquainted
and sociable. Ain't that nice! You two set right
down and eat. I'll trot up again in a few minutes
to see how you're gettin' on. Sure you've got all
you want? All right, then." Out she went, singin'
away, and Cousin Lemuel flopped down in a chair.

"Good heavens!" he gasps, working the fingers
Aunt Lucindy had shook, to make sure they was all
there. "Good heavens!" says he.

"Yes," says I, "I agree with you."

"She calls me by my Christian name!" he says,
pantin', "and I never saw her before in my life!
And it—it didn't seem to occur to her that I was
not fully dressed. What shall I do?"

"Well," says I, "if you asked me I should say
you better make believe eat somethin'. What *I*
can't eat I'm goin' to heave out of the back window.
I'd ruther satisfy that woman than explain to her,
enough sight."

But he wouldn't eat, seemed to be in a sort of
daze, as you might say, and went flappin' back to
his own room. I tackled the breakfast.

It would take a week to tell you all that happened
that forenoon. My time's limited, so I'll
only tell a little of it. When Aunt Lucindy come
upstairs again and see his tray, not a thing on it
touched, she wanted to know why. I done my best
to explain, tellin' her Cousin Lemuel was afflicted
in the nerves, and about his tea and toast, and his
diff'rent kinds of medicines, and his doctors, and so
on, but she wouldn't listen to more'n half of it.

"The poor thing!" she says, "Lot told me some
about him. He's in error, ain't he. Horatio, my
husband that was, was in error, too, but he died of
it. That was afore I got enlightened. And you're
in error with your foot, Cap'n Snow, so Lot says.
Well, it's a mercy I'm here. The first thing I'll
do for you is to give you a cheerful thought. 'All's
right in the world.' You keep thinkin' that this
forenoon and I'll give you another after dinner. I
must get a thought for poor Lemuel, but he needs
a stronger one. I'll have one ready for him pretty
soon. Now I must do my dishes."

Soon's she cleared out this time I locked my door.
An hour or so later there was a snappish kind of
knock on it.

"Cap'n Snow! I say, Cap'n Snow," whispers
Lemuel, pretty average testy, "where is my tea and
toast? Did you tell that woman about my tea and
toast? I'm hungry."

"I told her," says I. "If you ain't got it, you
better tell her yourself."

"But I don't want to see the creature," he says.

"Neither do I; that is, I ain't partic'lar about
it. And I couldn't hop down-stairs if I was.
You'll have to do your own tellin'. I'm goin' to
read a spell."

My readin' didn't amount to much. He went
grumblin' back to his room, but I judge his longin'
for tea and toast got the better of his dread for the
"creature," 'cause pretty soon I heard him go down-stairs.
Aunt Lucindy's singin' and dish-clatterin'
stopped, and I heard consider'ble pow-wow goin'
on. Cousin Lemuel's voice kept gettin' higher and
shriller, but Aunt Lucindy's was just the same even
cheerfulness all the time. Then the ex-insect man
comes up the stairs again. I was curious, so I unlocked
the door.

"How was the toast?" I asked. His usual pale
face was bright red and he was a heap more energetic
than I'd ever seen him.

"She—she—that woman's crazy!" he sputters.
"She's insane; I told her so. I—"

"Hold on!" I interrupted. "Did you get the
toast?"

"I did not. She refused to give it to me. Actually
refused! She—she had that dreadful fried
breakfast on the back of the stove and told me to
sit right down and eat it—like a good fellow. A
good fellow—to me!—as if I was a dog! A dog,
by Jove! I explained—in spite of my just resentment
I endeavored to reason with her. I told her
the doctor had forbidden my eatin' a heavy breakfast.
I said that my nerves were shattered and
so on. And what do you suppose she said to me?
She had the brazen effrontery to tell me that I had
no nerves. Nerves were 'errors,' whatever that
means. All I had to do was to think that—that
those fried outrages were all right and they would
be. And when I—you'll admit I had a good reason—when
I lost my temper and expressed my
opinion of her she began to sing. And she kept on
singin'. *Such* singin'! Good heavens! Horrible!"

"Then you ain't had any breakfast?"

"I have not. But I will have it! I will! You
mark my words, I—"

He stopped. "The Sweet By and By" had
swung into the lower entry and was movin' up the
stairs. I expected to see Cousin Lemuel beat for
snug harbor, but no sir-ee! he stayed right where
he was, settin' up in his chair as straight as a ramrod.
Aunt Lucindy's treatment might not be
workin' exactly as she intended, the patient's nerves
might not be any better, but his *nerve* was improvin'
fast.

In she swept, smilin' like clockwork, as smooth
and as serene as a flat calm in Ostable cove. She
paid no attention to the way the little man glared
at her, but turned to me and says: "Well, Cap'n,"
she says, "have you cherished the thought I gave
you?"

"Um-hm," says I, "I've put it on ice. I cal'late
'twill keep over Sunday."

"I've thought up one for you, Lemuel, you poor
thing," she says, turnin' to the insect chaser. "It
is—"

"Woman," broke in Cousin Lemuel, "I'll trouble
you not to call me a poor thing. Where is my tea
and toast?"

She smiled at him, condescendin' but pitiful, same
as a cow might smile at a kitten that tried to scratch
it—if a cow could smile.

"Your breakfast is on the stove, all nice and
warm," she says. "You don't really want tea and
toast; you only think so. Cap'n Snow will tell you
how nice those fried potatoes are, and the codfish
and—"

"Confound your codfish, madam! I shall have
that tea and toast. I—I *must* have it. My system
demands it."

She shook her head. "Oh, no, it doesn't," says
she. "It will demand all the nice things I've cooked
for you if you only think so. Thought is all. Now
let me give you your cheerful thought for the day.
It is—"

"Confound your thoughts!" yells the nerve
sufferer, jumpin' out of his chair and makin' for the
door. "I always have tea and toast for breakfast,
and I intend to have it now."

I hate a fuss, so I tried to pour a little ile on the
troubled waters. "Now, Lemuel," says I, "don't
let's be stubborn. You—"

He whirled on me like a teetotum. "Stubborn!"
he snaps, "I was never stubborn in my life. This
is a matter of principle with me. That woman shall
give me my tea and toast."

Aunt Lucindy smiled, same as ever. "Oh, no, I
sha'n't," says she, "it would only encourage you in
your error and that I shall not permit. Please listen
to the thought I have for you. It is *such* a nice
one. 'Be true to your higher self and'—"

"Madam," shrieks Lemuel, "my thought about
you is that you're an old fat fool! There!" And
he rushed into the hall and the next second his door
slammed so it shook the house.

For just one minute I thought Aunt Lucindy was
goin' after him. Her smile stopped, her teeth
snapped together, she took one step towards the
door, and her big hands opened and shut. But that
one step was all she took. When she turned back
to me her face was red, but the smile had got busy
once more. She set down in the cane rocker—it
cracked, but it held—and says she:

"He's a little mite antagonistic, don't you think
so, Cap'n Snow?"

"Well," says I, "I should think you might call
it that without exaggeratin' much."

"Yes," says she, "but I don't mind. There was
a time when if anybody'd called me an old fat fool
I'd have—well, never mind. I'm above such
things now. Nothin' can make me cross any more.
Not even a sassy little, long-nosed shrimp like....
Ahem. Cap'n Snow, have you read 'The
Soarin' of Self'? It's a lovely book, an upliftin'
book."

I said I hadn't read it and she commenced to tell
me about it, repeatin' it by chapters, so to speak. I
couldn't make much out of it but a whirligig of
words, and when she was just beginnin' I thought
I heard Lemuel's door creak. However, I didn't
hear anything more, and she strung along and strung
along, about "soul" and "mental uplift" and
"high altitude of spirit" and a lot more. By and
by I commenced to sniff.

"Excuse me, marm," I says, "but seems to me
I smell somethin' burnin'. Have you got anything
on cookin'?"

*She* sniffed then. "No," says she, wonderin'.
"I can't remember anything." Then, with another
sniff, "But seems as if I smelt it, too. Like—like
bread burnin'. Hey? You don't s'pose—"

She put for down-stairs. Next thing I knew there
was the greatest hullabaloo below decks that you
ever heard. Then up the stairs comes Cousin Lemuel,
two steps at a jump, which, considerin' that his
usual gait had been a crawl, was surprisin' enough
of itself. He had a scorched slice of bread in each
hand and he stopped on the upper landin' and waved
'em.

"I've got the toast," he yells, triumphant, "and
I'm goin' to have the tea." Then he bolts into his
room and locked the door.

Up the stairs comes Aunt Lucindy. Her face
was so red that it looked as if somebody'd lit a fire
inside it, and her big hands was shut tight. She
marched straight to that locked door and hollers
through the keyhole.

"You—you little, dried-up critter!" she pants.
"Humph! I s'pose you've been sent to try my
faith, but you sha'n't shake it. No, sir! you nor
nobody else can shake it or make me lose my temper.
I'm perfectly calm and cheerful this minute.
I am! Ha, ha! Ha, ha!"

"I got my toast," hollers Cousin Lemuel from
inside. "And I'll have my tea, in spite of all the
New Thought cranks in this horrible hole!"

"Indeed you won't. I was prepared for a difficult
case when I came here. Cousin Lot told me
about your foolish 'nerves' and all the other errors
your selfishness has brought onto you. I made up
my mind to set you in the right path and I'm goin'
to do it."

"I'll have that tea."

"No, you sha'n't. When folks are in error I
never give in to 'em. That's my principle and I
stick to it."

When she said "principle" I pretty nigh fell
over. If *she'd* got the "principle" disease the case
was desperate. Anyhow, I thought 'twas about
time for somebody with a teaspoonful of common
sense to take a hand.

"See here," says I, "for grown-up folks this is
the most ridiculous doin's I ever heard of. Mrs.
Hammond, for the land sakes let him have his tea
and maybe we'll have peace along with it."

She turned to me. "Cap'n Snow," she says,
"speakin' as one who has learned to rise above their
baser self, and perfectly calm and good-tempered,
I advise you to mind your own business. I don't
care nothin' about the tea itself; it's the principle
I'm strivin' for, I tell you. Do you s'pose I'll let
that little withered-up, sassy, benighted scoffer—"

"There! there!" says I. Then I bent down to
the keyhole. "Lemuel," I says, "be a man and not
prize inmate in a feeble-minded home. You're not
an idiot. Apologize to this lady and, if you can't
get tea, take hot water."

The answer I got was hotter than any water he
was likely to get, enough sight. And there was
some "principle" in it, too.

"Well," says I, disgusted, "I'm durn glad that
I'm unprincipled. Fight it out amongst yourselves,
but don't you either of you dare come nigh me. I
mean that." And I went into my room and locked
*that* door.

For two hours I stayed there, readin' some and
thinkin' a whole lot more. Down-stairs Aunt Lucindy
was singin' at the top of her lungs—to show
how good her temper was, I presume likely—and
out in the upper hall Cousin Lemuel was tiptoein'
back and forth and yellin' at her that he'd have
his tea in spite of her, and passin' comments on her
music. I never knew two such stubborn critters in
my life, and I couldn't see any signs of either of 'em
givin' in, long as their principles held out.

I remembered a conundrum that, when I was a
young one in school, the teacher used to spring on
the big boys in the first class in arithmetic. 'Twas
somethin' like this:

"If an irresistible force runs afoul of an immovable
object, what's the result?"

The boys used to grin and say they didn't know.
Neither did I—then; but I was learnin' the answer
that very minute. When an irresistible force meets
an immovable object it's a matter of principle, and
the result is liable to be 'most anything. That was
the answer, and I was learnin' it by observation and
experience, same as the barefooted boy learned
where the snappin'-turtle's mouth was.

Now the force and the object was in the same
house with me, and the minute the doctor, or Jim
Henry Jacobs, or anybody else with a horse and
team, come to that house, they could take me away
with 'em. I'd contracted for quiet and rest, not
for a session in Bedlam.

Twelve o'clock struck and I begun to think of
dinner. I hobbled over to my door, unlocked it
and looked out. Cousin Lemuel's door was open,
too, but he wasn't in his room or in the hall either.
I wondered where on earth he could be. Next minute
I found out.

There was a whoop from the kitchen—Lemuel's
voice and brimmin' with pure joy. Then, somewhere
in the same neighborhood, began a most tremendous
thumpin' and bangin'. A "cast" horse in
a narrow stall was the only sounds I ever heard that
compared with it. It kept on and kept on, and
Lemuel was whoopin' and hurrahin' accompaniments.
Such a racket you never heard in your born
days.

Thinks I, "The critter's nerves have gone back
on him for good. He's really crazy and he's killin'
that poor mind-curer out of principle."

Somehow or other I hopped down them stairs on
my sound foot, draggin' t'other after me. Through
the dinin'-room I hobbled and into the kitchen.
There was a roarin' fire in the cookstove and in
front of that stove was Cousin Lemuel dancin' round
with a teapot in his hand. The cellar door opened
out of the kitchen. It was shut tight, and somebody
behind it was bangin' the panels till I expected
every second to see 'em go by the board. If they
hadn't been built in the days when they made things
solid they would have.

"What in the world—" I commenced. "You—Lemuel—whatever
your name is—what are
you doin'?"

He turned and saw me. His bald head was all
shinin' with the heat, his big round specs was almost
droppin' off the end of his long nose, and he sartin
did look like somethin' the cat brought in.

"What am I doin'?" he says. "Can't you see?
I'm gettin' my tea, same as I said I would. Ho!
ho!"

"Where's Aunt Lucinda?" I sung out. "You
loon, have you killed her?"

He laughed. "No, no!" he says. "She deserves
to be killed, but she's alive. She refused to
give me my tea; she refused to stop her horrible
singin'. She was utterly impossible and I got rid
of her. I crept down and watched until she went
into the cellar. Then I closed the door and locked
it. Cap'n Snow, I have never been treated as that
woman treated me in my life! It was a matter of
principle with me and I was obliged—"

He couldn't say any more because the poundin'
on the door broke out again louder than ever. I
headed for it and he got in front of me.

"She is absolutely unharmed, I assure you," he
says.

She sounded healthy, that was a fact. The names
she called that insect-hunter was a caution!

"Let me out!" she kept hollerin'. "You let
me out of this cellar, you miserable little good-for-nothin'!
If I ever get my hands on you I'll—"

"Ha! ha!" laughs Lemuel. "I couldn't make
her lose her temper, could I? Oh, no, she's perfectly
calm now! You're not in the cellar, madam,"
he calls to her, "you're in error. Thought can do
anything; think yourself out."

I looked at him. "Well," says I, "for a person
with twitterin' nerves, you—"

"D—n my nerves!" says he, which was the most
human remark he'd ever made in my hearin' and
proved that he wasn't beyond hopes. "You told
me that all I needed was somethin' to keep me interested.
Well, I've got it."

"You let me out!" whoops Aunt Lucindy.
"Cap'n Snow, if you're there, you let me out!"

I think maybe I would have let her out, but when
I heard what she intended doin' to Lemuel I thought
'twas too big a risk. I turned and hobbled through
the dinin'-room to the front outside door. And
there, just turnin' into the yard, was Jim Henry
Jacobs, with his horse and buggy. When he saw
me he almost fell off the seat. And maybe I wa'n't
glad to see him!

"You!" he says. "You! *walkin'!*"

"Yes," says I, "and in five minutes I'd have
been flyin', I cal'late. Don't stop to talk. Help
me into that buggy.... There! drive home
as fast as you can!"

"But what under the canopy is the row?" he
says.

"Row enough," says I. "I've been shut up
along with an irresistible force and an immovable
object, and I want to get away from 'em. Git dap."

We turned the horse's head. We had just left
the yard when he looked back. I looked, too. The
cellar had an outside entrance, a bulkhead door.
This door was bendin' and heavin' as if an earthquake
was under it. Next minute the staple flew,
the door slammed back, and Aunt Lucindy popped
out like a jack-in-the-box. She never paid no attention
to us, but made for the kitchen.

"Who—what is that?" gasps Jacobs.

"That," says I, "is the irresistible force."

There was a yell from the kitchen and then out
of the door flew Cousin Lemuel. *He* didn't stop
for us, either, but ran like a lamplighter to the fence,
fell over it, and dove head-fust into the woods.
After he was away out of sight we could hear the
bushes crackin'.

"And—and *what*," gasps Jim Henry, "was
*that*?"

"That," says I, "was the immovable object.
Drive on, for mercy sakes!"

----

Next day Lot came to see me at the Poquit House.
He was dreadful upset. Seems he hadn't stayed
his time out at camp-meetin'. One of the mediums
or spooks or somethin' over there told him there
was a destructive influence hoverin' over his house
and he'd hurried back to find out about it.

"Humph!" says I. "I should have said it
had quit hoverin' and had lit. How's Cousin
Lemuel?"

Seems Cousin Lemuel was at the hotel over to
Bayport. He'd telephoned for his trunks.

"And he told me," says Lot, wonderin' like, "to
tell Aunt Lucindy that he intended havin' tea and
toast three times a day now, as a matter of principle.
That's strange, isn't it?"

"Not to me 'tain't," says I. "And how's Aunt
Lucindy?"

"Aunt Lucindy's gone back to Denboro," he says.
"And she left word for Cousin Lemuel that she
should send him a 'thought'—whatever that is—every
day by mail from now on. And you'd ought
to have seen her face when she said it! But, Cap'n
Zeb, when are you comin' back to board with me?"

I shook my head. "Lot," says I, "I like you
fust-rate, but your relations are too irresistibly immovable.
I'm goin' to keep clear of 'em for the
rest of my life—as a matter of principle," I says,
chucklin'.




CHAPTER VIII—ARMENIANS AND INJUNS; LIKEWISE BY-PRODUCTS
=======================================================


You can imagine that Jim Henry and Mary
had a good deal of fun over my experience
with Lot and his tribe. They joked me
about it consider'ble. But I didn't mind. My foot
was all right again, or nearly so, and the extension
to the store had been finished and was workin' out
fine. We moved the mail room way back and that
give us lots of room on the main floor, and Mary
had a nice clean place, with plenty of air and light,
new sortin' table, new desks, and all that. As for
business, we done more that summer than we had
previous and it kept up surprisin' well through the
winter. I was happy and satisfied and Jacobs
seemed to be.

But he wa'n't. It took a whole lot to satisfy him
and, by the time another spring reached us and the
cottages begun to open I could see that he was gettin'
fidgety. One mornin' he come back from a
cruise amongst the cottagers—he always handled
their trade himself—and I could see that he was
about ready to bile over.

"Well," says I, "what's weighin' on your mind
now? Or is it your stomach? I'm willin' to bet
that I'm two pound heftier than I was afore I ate
them hot biscuits at our boardin' house this mornin';
and you got away with three more'n I did. Has
your ballast shifted, or what?"

He shook his head.

"Skipper," says he, "we're ruined by foreign
cheap labor."

"You're right," says I. "I heard that that
Dutch cook used to work in a cement factory, and
them biscuits prove it."

"Nothin' doin'," he says. "My noon lunch for
two years was 'Draw one with a plate of sinkers';
and when it comes to warm dough, I'm an immune.
That Poquit House cook could practice on me for
a week and never dent my nickel-steel digestion.
No. What I'm full of just now is embroidery."

I looked at him.

"See here, Jim Henry," says I, "you've got me
a mile offshore in a fog. Unless you've swallowed
your napkin, I don't see—"

"There! There!" he interrupted. "It's nothin'
I've swallowed, I tell you! It's somethin' I've
seen that I *can't* swallow. I can't swallow those tan-faced,
hook-nosed lace peddlers. It's only spring,
yet they are thicker round here already than lumps
of saleratus in those biscuit we've been talkin' about.
They're separatin' perfectly good easy marks from
money that belongs to us, and I'm gettin' mad. My
Turkish blood's risin', and there's likely to be another
Armenian massacre in this neighborhood pretty
soon."

I understood what he meant then. Every summer
for the last year or two the Cape has been
sufferin' from a plague of fellers peddlin' handmade
lace, and embroidery, and such. They're all shades
of color except white, and they talk all sorts of languages
except plain United States; but, no matter
what they look like or how they jabber, every last
one of them claims to be an Armenian, and to have
his hand satchel solid full of native-made tidies, and
tablecloths, and the like of that. I never run across
the Armenian flag on any of my v'yages, but if it
ain't a doily, then it ought to be.

And the prices they charge! Whew! A white
man would blush every time he named one; but these
fellers, bein' all complexions, from light tan Oxford
to dark rubber boot, are born to blush unseen, and
can charge four dollars for a crocheted necktie and
never crack, spot, nor fade.

Jim Henry was some on high prices himself; likewise,
he considered the summer cottagers and the
hotel folks as more or less our special property.
Therefore, you can understand how this Armenian
competition riled and disturbed him. And, as it
turned out, that very mornin' he'd gone to call on
Mrs. Burke Smythe, who was one of the Ostable
Store's best and most well-off customers, and found
her ankle-deep in lamp mats and centerpieces which
an Armenian specimen was diggin' out of a couple
of suit cases. And she'd told him that she couldn't
pay our bill for another month 'count of havin' spent
all her "household allowance" on the "loveliest set
of embroidered dress and waist patterns" and such
that ever was. There was the dress pattern.
Didn't he think it was a "dear"?

Well, Jim Henry give in to the "dear" part—she'd
paid sixty-four dollars for it—and come away
disgusted. These peddlers was takin' the coin right
out of our mouths, he vowed. What was we goin'
to do about it?

"Keep our mouths shut, I guess," says I. "I
can't see anything else."

But that wouldn't do for him. He went away
growlin', and for the next couple of days he hardly
said a word. I knew he was hatchin' some scheme
or other, and I took care not to scare him off the
nest. The third mornin', he came off himself,
fetchin' his brood with him.

"Skipper," says he, joyful, "I believe I've got it.
I believe I've got the idea that'll put those Armenians
in the discard. You listen to me."

I listened, and what he'd hatched was somethin'
like this: We—that is, the "Ostable Grocery,
Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes, and Fancy Goods
Store"—would sell embroidery and crocheted plunder,
and run the peddlers out of business. We'd
open a tidy department on our own hook. What
did I think of that?

Well, I didn't think much of it, and I told him so.

"Don't believe we can do it," says I.

"Why not?" says he. "We can charge as much
as they can, and that seems to be the main thing."

"That ain't it," I told him. "We can't get the
stuff to sell. Plenty of machine made, but the summer
folks won't have that, cheap or high. What
they wake up nights and cry for is the genuine, hand-manufactured
article; and, unless you buy it off the
peddlers themselves—which would be unprofitable,
to say the least—\ *I* don't see where you're goin' to
get it. Besides, if you could get it, sellin' it in a
store wouldn't do. 'Tain't romantic and foolish
enough. Take this Burke Smythe woman," says I;
"she's a fair sample. She could have got just as
nice, pretty dress patterns out of a fashion magazine,
or—"

"Great snakes!" he broke in. "You don't
think 'twas a *paper* pattern she paid sixty-four dollars
for, do you?"

"Never mind what 'twas," I says, dignified;
"'twould be all the same, paper or sheet iron. She
wouldn't care for it at all if she'd bought it in a
store. There's nothin' mysterious or romantic in
that. But here comes one of these liver-complected,
black-haired fellers, lookin' for all the world like a
pirate, and whispers in her ear he's got somethin'
in that carpetbag of his that nobody else has got,
and that'll make Mrs. General Jupiter Jones, or
some other of the Smythe bosom friends, look like
a last summer's scarecrow. And, as a favor to her,
he ain't showed it to Mrs. Jupiter—which is most
likely a lie, but never mind—and he'll sell it to
her at a sixty-four-dollar sacrifice, because—"

"Hold on!" he interrupts. "Cut it out! Break
away! Don't you s'pose I've thought of that?
Your old Uncle James Henry Jacobs, doctor of sick
businesses, wa'n't born yesterday by about thirty-eight
years. I ain't figgerin' to handle Armenian
stuff. See here, Skipper. What makes the summer
bunch so crazy to get hold of old clocks, and old
chains, and antique junk generally?"

"Well," says I, "for one thing, 'cause they *are*
antiques. For another, because they come from
right here on the Cape, and—"

"That's it," he sings out. "And that's enough.
Well, there's plenty of handmade embroideries and
laces, not to mention lamp mats and bed quilts, made
right here on the Cape, too. Last fall, the county
fair had a buildin' solid full of 'em. This is my
plan. Do stop your Doubtin' Thomas act, and
listen."

The plan was sort of simple but complicated.
Fust off, him and me was to see all the old ladies
and young girls in Ostable and the surroundin' country,
and get 'em to agree to sell their handmade
knittin' to us. If they wouldn't sell to us direct,
then we'd sell it for them on commission. We'd fit
up a room in the loft over the store, advertise it as
the "Colonial Curio Shop" or the "Pilgrim Mothers'
Exchange," or some such ridiculous or mysterious
name, stock it full of the truck the widows
and orphans had been knittin' or tattin' all winter,
drop a hint to the summer folks—and then set back
and take the money.

"It'll go, I tell you," he says, enthusiastic. "It's
a sure winner. Just say the word, Skipper, and we'll
start fittin' up the loft to-morrow mornin'."

"Well," says I, pretty doubtful, "if you're so
sure, Jim, I—"

"Sure!" he broke in. "Why wouldn't I be
sure? There's only one kind of people that can get
ahead of me in a business deal—and they don't
hail from Armenia. Skipper, here's where we hand
our peddlin' friends theirs, and then some."

Next mornin' he took the spare horse and started
out. When he got back that night, he had the bottom
of the wagon covered with bundles of knittin'
and handmade contraptions, and he made proclamations
that he hadn't begun to cover the available
territory. He'd seen I don't know how many single
females and widows who had the fancywork and
crochetin' habit; and they sold him everything they
had in stock, and promised more.

"They take to it like a duck to water," says he,
joyful. "They're all down on the peddlers, and
they're goin' to pitch in and supply the home market.
In another week you can't pass two houses in this
town without hearin' the merry click of the needle.
To-morrow I canvass Denboro and Bayport, and the
next day I tackle Harniss. By Monday we'll be
ready to fit up the loft."

And, sure enough, he was right. The amount
of stuff he fetched back in that wagon was surprisin'.
How the female population of Ostable County could
have turned out all that embroidery and found time
to cook meals and sweep, let alone make calls and
talk about their neighbors, beat me a mile. But
when he told me what he paid for the collection I
begun to understand. However, I didn't say nothin'.
'Twa'n't until he commenced to rig up the room over
the store that I spoke my thoughts.

"Why, Jim Henry!" I says. "What are you
thinkin' of? Puttin' panelin' on those walls! And
paperin' with that expensive paper! It must have
cost land knows how much a roll. And, for the
dear land sakes, what are those carpenters cuttin'
that hole in the upper deck for?"

"For stairs, of course," says he. "Think the
customers are goin' to fly up there? Don't bother
me, Skipper, I'm busy."

"Stairs!" I sings out. "Why, there's stairs already.
What's the matter with the steps leadin'
aloft from the back room? *We've* used them ever
since we've been here, and—"

"S-shh! S-shh!" says he, resigned but impatient.
"Cap'n, your business instinct is all right in some
things, like—like—well, I can't think what just
now, but never mind. You're a good feller, but
you're too apt to cal'late by last year's almanac.
You ain't as up to date as you might be. Do you
suppose Her Majesty Burke Smythe, and the rest
of the Royal Family we're settin' this trap for, will
take the trouble to hunt up that back room, and
fall over egg cases and kerosene barrels to find the
ladder to that loft? And climb the ladder after they
find it? No, no! We'll have a flight of stairs right
from the main part of this store, where they can't
help seein' 'em. And there'll be old-fashioned rag
mats on the landin's, and brass candlesticks with candles
in 'em at night, and—"

"Candles!" says I. "Well; that is the final
piece of lunacy! Why, I could light those stairs like
a glory with kerosene lamps while a body was tryin'
to get *sight* of 'em with a candle! I never heard
such nonsense."

But 'twas no use. What we must do was make
that loft "quaint," and old-fashioned, and the like
of that. I didn't understand—and so on.

"All right," says I, "maybe I don't; but I do
understand this: Judgin' by the amount of hard
cash you've spent for lace tuckers and doilies, and
the bill them stairs and panelin's and candlesticks'll
come to, I don't see a profit on the Pilgrim Curio
Mothers' Exchange in ten year big enough to cover
a five-cent piece."

He'd risk the profit. Besides, there was another
reason for the stairs, and such. To get to 'em all,
the rich folks would have to go right through the
store; and if they didn't buy anything upstairs they
would down, sure and sartin. He was figgerin' on
catchin' the transient trade, the automobile trade;
and all around the foot of the stairs we'd have
temptin' lunches put up and set out, and bottles of
ginger ale and boxes of cigars, and so forth, and so
on. He preached for half an hour, windin' up with:

"Anyhow, Skipper, if the curio shop should lose
money—which it won't—it will bring customers
to the Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes,
and Fancy Goods Store, which is the main thing;
that and keepin' the coin in the United States instead
of shippin' it to Armenia. The embroideries and
laces are by-products, as you might say; and if a
plant comes out even on its by-products, it's a payin'
proposition."

He had me there. I didn't know a by-product
from a salt herrin'; so I shut up.

The "Old Colony Women's Exchange and Curio
Room," which was the name he finally picked out,
opened at the end of a fortni't. Jacobs had advertised
it in the papers, and put signs for miles up and
down the main roads, let alone tellin' every well-off
summer woman within reachin' distance. And, almost
from the very start, it done well. The loft
was crowded 'most every afternoon; and sometimes
there'd be as many as three automobiles anchored
alongside our main platform.

At the end of the fust month, the Exchange had
cleared—cleared, mind you—over two hundred
dollars; and Jim Henry was crowin' over me like a
Shanghai rooster over a bantam. He'd had another
happy thought, and had added "antiques" to the
stock in the loft; and the prices he got for lame
chairs and rheumatic tables was somethin' scandalous.
But it wa'n't all joy. There was two things that
troubled him.

One of the things was that the supply of knittin'
and fancywork was givin' out. Likewise the "antiques."
Of course, there was some on hand. Aunt
Susannah Cahoon's yeller and black mittens, ear
lappets, and tippets hadn't sold, and wa'n't likely to;
and Abinadab Saint's alabaster whale-oil lamp with
the crack in it, that his Great-uncle Peleg brought
home from sea, hadn't been grabbed to any extent.
But these were the exceptions. 'Most all the good
stuff had gone; and, though Jacobs had raked the
county with a fine-tooth comb, as you might say, the
reg'lar dealers from Boston had raked it ahead of
him, and there wa'n't any "antiques" left.

There was several reasons for the shortage in
fancywork. One was that the knitters and tatters
couldn't turn it out fast enough; and, moreover,
the season for church fairs was settin' in, and the
heft of the females, bein' reg'lar members in good
standin', *had* to tack ship and go to helpin' their
meetin'-houses. So our stock was gettin' low, and
Jim Henry was worried.

The other thing that worried him was that we
couldn't get the right kind of help to sell the stuff.
He couldn't tend to it himself, bein' too busy otherwise.
Mary had the post-office department on her
hands. The clerk and the delivery boys wa'n't fitted
for the job at all; and, as for me, I couldn't sell a
blue sugar bowl without a cover for seven dollars
and take the money. I knew the one that bought
it was perfectly satisfied, but I couldn't do it; I ain't
built that way.

"It's no use, Jim Henry," says I. "I may be
foolish, but I have ideas about some things; and it's
my notion that sartin kinds of folks are fitted by
nature for sartin kinds of things. Now, Cape Codders
they're fitted for seafarin', and such; and New
Yorkers and Chicagoers, like you, are fitted for stock-brokin'
and storekeepin'; and Italians for hand organs,
and diggin' streets, and singin' in opera. And
when it comes to sellin' secondhand stuff or keepin'
a pawnshop, there's—"

"Rubbish!" he snaps. "A while ago, you'd
have said that the embroidery trade was cornered
by the Armenians. We've proved that's a fairy tale,
ain't we? I've got some ideas myself. I know the
kind of person I want to run that Exchange, and,
sooner or later, I'll find him—or her. Meantime,
we'll have to do the best we can; and I'll take it as
a favor if you'll let up on the hammer exercise."

I wa'n't sure what he meant by the "hammer
exercise"; but 'twas plain enough that them "by-products"
was a sore subject, and that he was worried.

However, he wa'n't the only worried lace dealer
in the neighborhood. The Old Colony Exchange
had made good in one direction, anyhow. It had
knocked the embroidery peddlin' business higher'n a
kite. Where there used to be a dozen suitcase
luggers paradin' through the town, now you scarcely
sighted one; and that one looked pretty sick and
discouraged. The home market had smashed foreign
competition for the time bein'; that much was pretty
sure. But our stock kept gettin' lower and lower,
and the auto crowds begun to go by now instead of
stoppin'. And the few that did stop hardly ever
bought anything unless Jim Henry himself was there
to hypnotize 'em into it.

One mornin' I came to the store pretty late, and
found our clerk talkin' to a dark-complected chap
with curly hair and a suitcase. I didn't shove my
bows into the talk; but, when 'twas over, I asked
the clerk what the critter wanted. He laughed.

"Oh, he's the last survivor of the peddlin' crew,"
he says. "He ain't sold a thing, and he's goin'
back to Boston right off. I told him he might as
well. He asked a lot of questions about the Exchange,
and I took him upstairs and showed him
around."

"You did?" says I. "What for?"

"Oh, just to let him see what he was up against,
that's all. He was a pretty decent feller—some
of them Armenians ain't so bad—and I pitied him.
He was awful discouraged. He'd heard Mr.
Jacobs had been tryin' to hire a salesman for up
there; and he hinted that he'd kind of like the
job."

"Did, hey?" says I. "Well, it's a good thing
for you and him that Mr. Jacobs didn't catch you.
He'd sooner have a snake on the premises than one
of them peddlers. What else did he say? Anything?"

Why, yes. It developed that he'd said a good
deal. Asked where we got our stuff, and so on. I
judged 'twas a providence that I come in when I
did, or that clerk would have told every last word
he knew. I didn't say anything to Jim Henry. No
use frettin' him unnecessary.

Three days after that the Injun showed up. I
don't know as you know it, but there are a few
Injuns left on the Cape—half-breeds, or three-quarters,
they are mostly; and they live up around
Cohasset Narrows, or off in the woods in those latitudes.
This one was an old feller, black-haired, of
course, and kind of fleshy, with a hook nose and skin
the color of gingerbread. I heard talk upstairs in
the Exchange; and, when I went aloft, I found him
and Jim Henry settin' among the by-products, and
as confidential as a couple of rats in a schooner's
hold. Soon as Jacobs seen me, he sung out for me
to heave alongside.

"Look at that, Cap'n Zeb," he says. "What do
you think of that?"

I took what he handed me, and looked at it.
'Twas a piece of handmade lace—a centerpiece, I
believe they call it—and 'twas mighty well done.

"Think of it?" says I. "Well, I ain't much of
a judge, but I'd call it a pretty slick article. Who
made it?"

The old black-haired chap answered.

"My sister," he says. "She make 'em. Make
'em plenty."

"Bully for her!" says I. "She's the lady we've
been lookin' for. Maybe she make some more;
hey?"

He grinned; and Jacobs mentioned for me to
clear out; so I done it. He and old Gingerbread
Face stayed aloft in that Exchange for upward of
an hour; and, when they came down, Jim Henry
went with him as fur as the door. When the
stranger had gone, Jim turns to me and stuck out
his hand.

"Skipper," says he, grinnin' like a punkin lantern,
"shake! I've got it."

"What have you got?" I asked. I was a little
mite provoked at bein' sent below so unceremonious.
"What have you got—Asiatic cholery? Thought
you wouldn't have nothin' to do with Armenians."

"Armenians be hanged!" says he. "That's no
Armenian. He's an Indian, a full-blooded Indian,
or pretty near it. And his family is about the only
full-bloods left. There's a colony of them up the
Cape a ways; and it seems that they pick berries in
the summer, and put in their winters turnin' out
stuff like that centerpiece. He heard about the
Exchange, and he's come way down here to see if we
bought such things. I told him we bought 'em with
bells on, and he'll be back here to-morrow with another
load."

Sure enough, he was, load and all; and 'twould
have astonished you to see what fust-class fancywork
his sister and the rest of the squaws turned out.
Jacobs bought the whole lot, and ordered more; said
he'd take all the tribe could scare up; and old Gingerbread—his
American name, so he said, was
Rose, Solomon Rose—went away happy. When
I found what Jim Henry had paid him for the
plunder, I didn't blame Rose for bein' joyful.

But Jacobs didn't care. He was all excitement
and hurrah again. He had a new addition made
to the Exchange sign. 'Twas "The Old Colony
Women's Exchange, Curio Room, and Indian Exhibit"
now; and inside of two days the Burke
Smythes and their friends was callin' reg'lar, the
auto parties was rollin' up to the door, and the money
was rollin' in. Injun embroidery was somethin'
new; and the summer gang snapped at it like bullfrogs
at a red rag.

Then that partner of mine was seized violent with
another rush of ideas to the head. I'm blessed if
he didn't hire old Rose—the "Last of the Mohicans,"
he called him, among other ridiculous and
outlandish names—to spend his days in that Injun
Exchange loft. Paid him ten dollars a week, he
did, just to set there and look the part. 'Twas
a sinful waste of money, 'cordin' to my notion; but
Jim Henry shut me up like a huntin'-case watch—with
a snap.

"Who said he could sell?" he wanted to know.
"I didn't, did I? I don't know that he can't—he's
shrewd enough when it comes to sellin' us the stuff
he brings with him; but if he don't sell a fifty-cent
article—"

"Which he won't," I interrupted; "for there's
nothin' less than two-seventy-five *in* the robbers' den,
and you know it. How you have the face to
charge—"

"Will you be quiet?" he wanted to know. "As
I say, whether he sells or not, he's wuth his wages
twice over. Can't you understand? Just oblige me
by rubbin' your brains with scourin' soap or somethin',
and *try* to understand. All the auto bunch
ain't lambs; some of them—the males especially—are
a fairly cagey collection; and there's been doubts
expressed concernin' the genuineness of our Injun
exhibit. But with old Uncas—with the Last of the
Mohicans himself right on deck as a livin' guarantee,
why, we could sell clam-shells as small change from
Sittin' Bull's wampum belt, and never raise a sacrilegious
question even from a Unitarian freethinker.
It's a cinch."

"See here, Jim Henry," says I, "if this thing's
a fraud, I won't have anything to do with it."

"Neither will I," says he, emphatic. "Frauds
don't pay, not in the long run. But grandmother's
genuine antiques and the A-number-one, Simon-pure
embroideries of the noble red man—or woman—pay,
and don't you forget it."

They did pay; and old Mohican himself was a
payin' investment, too, in spite of my doubts and
Jeremiah prophesyin'. He made a ten-strike with
every female that hit that loft. They said he was
so "quaint," and "odd," and "pathetic." Mrs.
Burke Smythe vowed there was somethin' "big" and
"great" about him—meanin' his nose or his boots,
I presume likely—and, somehow or other, though
he didn't look like a salesman, he sold. And every
week or so he'd take a day off and go back home,
to return with a fresh supply of tidies, and lace, and
gimcracks. I changed my mind about Injuns. I
see right off that all the yarns I'd read about 'em
was lies. They didn't murder nor scalp their enemies—they
smothered 'em with lamp mats.

And 'twa'n't fancywork alone that the Rose critter
fetched back from these home v'yages of his. He
struck an "antique" vein somewheres in the reservation;
and not a week went by that he didn't resurrect
an old bedstead or a table or a spinnin' wheel or
somethin', and fetched 'em down in an old wagon
towed by an old white horse. The "children of the
forest"—which was another of Jim Henry's names
for the Injuns and half-breeds—didn't give up
these things for nothin'; far from it. We had to
pay as much as if they was made of solid silver;
but we sold 'em at gold prices, so that part was all
right.

And every other day Jacobs would ask me what
I thought of "by-products" now. As for Armenian
competition, it was dead. There wa'n't any.

Well, three more weeks drifted along, and the
summer season was 'most over. Then, one Tuesday
mornin', old Rose, the Mohican, didn't show
up. He'd gone away on Friday cal'latin' to be back
Monday with a fresh lot of "antiques" and centerpieces;
but he wa'n't. And Tuesday and Wednesday
passed, and he didn't come. Jim Henry was
awful worried. We needed more stock, and we
needed our Injun curio; and nothin' would do but I
must turn myself into a relief expedition and hunt
him up.

"Somethin's happened, sure," says Jacobs.
"He's never missed his time afore. Those fellers
pride themselves on keepin' their word—you read
Cooper, if you don't believe it—and he's sick or
dead; one or the other."

"Dead nothin'!" says I. "He's too tough to
kill, and nothin' would make him sick but soap and
water, which ain't one of his bad habits by a consider'ble
sight. However, if it'll make you any
easier, I'll take the mornin' train and locate him if
I can."

"Go ahead," says he. "I'd do it myself, but I
can't leave just now. Go ahead, Skipper, and don't
come back till you've got him, or found out why he
isn't on hand."

So I took the mornin' train and set out to locate
the noble red man.




CHAPTER IX—ROSES—BY ANOTHER NAME
================================


But locatin' him wa'n't such an easy matter.
All we knew was he lived somewheres in
Wampaquoit, and Wampaquoit is ten miles
from nowhere, in the woods up around Cohasset
Narrows. I got off the train at the Narrows depot,
and, after considerable cruisin' and bargainin',
I hired a horse and buggy, and started to drive over.
I lost my way and got onto a wood road. Don't
ask me about that road. I don't want to talk about
it. I'd been on salt water for a good many years,
and I'd seen some rough goin', but rockin' and
bouncin' over that wood road come nigher to makin'
me seasick than any of my Grand Banks trips. Narrow!
And grown over! My land! I had to
stoop to keep from bein' scraped off the seat; and,
whenever I'd straighten up to ease my back, a pine
branch would fetch me a slap in the face that you
could hear half a mile.

As for my language, you could hear that *two*
miles. That road ruined my moral reputation, I'm
afraid. They had a revival meetin' in the Narrows
meetin'-house the follerin' week, but whether 'twas
on my account or not I don't know.

However, I made port after a spell—that is, I
run afoul of a house and lot in a clearin' sort of;
and I asked a black-lookin' male critter, who was
asleep under a tree, how to get to Wampaquoit. He
riz upon one elbow, brushed the mosquitoes away
from his mouth, and made answer that 'twas Wampaquoit
I was in.

"But the town?" says I. "Where's the town?"

Well, it appeared that this was the town, or part of
it. The rest was scattered along through the next
three or four miles of wilderness. Where was the
center? Oh, there wa'n't any. There was a schoolhouse
and a meetin'-house, and a blacksmith's, and
such, on the main road up a piece, that was all.

"But where do the Injuns live?" I wanted to
know. "The knittin' women, the Lamp Mat
Trust—where does it—she—they, I mean,
live?"

He couldn't seem to make much out of this; and
by and by he went into the house and fetched out his
wife. She was about as black as he was; and I
cal'lated they was a Portygee family; but, no, lo and
behold you, it turned out they was Injuns themselves!
But they never heard of anybody named Rose, nor
of anybody that knit centerpieces, nor of an "antique,"
nor anything. I give it up pretty soon, for
my temper was beginnin' to heat up the surroundin'
air, and the mosquitoes seemed to think I was "Old
Home Week," and come for miles around and
brought their relations. I give up and drove away
over a fairly decent road this time, till I found another
house. But this was just the same; Injuns in
plenty—'most everybody was part Injun—but nobody
had heard of our special Mohican nor of an
"antique." And, which was queerer still, they
never heard of anybody around that done knittin'
or crochetin' or lace makin', or had sold any, if they
did do it. And they didn't any of 'em talk story-book
Injun dialect, same as Uncas did. They used
pretty fair United States.

Well, to bile this yarn of mine down, I rode
through those woods and around the settlement
most of that afternoon. Then I was ready to give
up, and so was my old livery-stable horse. He'd
gone dead lame, and 'twould have been a sin and a
shame to make him walk a step farther. I took
him to the blacksmith's shop, and left him there. I
pounded mosquitoes, and asked the blacksmith some
questions, and he pounded iron and wanted to ask
me a million; but neither of us got a heap of satisfaction
out of the duet.

Two things seemed to be sure and sartin. One
was that Solomon Uncas Rose, the "child of the
forest" and chief of the tattin' tribe, was mistook
when he give Wampaquoit as his home town; and
t'other that, much as I wanted to, I couldn't get
out of that town until evenin'. My horse wa'n't fit
to travel, and I couldn't hire another, not until after
the blacksmith had had his supper. Then he'd
hitch up and drive me back to the Narrows.

But luck was with me for once. Up the road
came bumpin' a nice-lookin' mare and runabout
wagon, with a pleasant-faced, gray-haired man on
the seat. The mare pulled up at the blacksmith's
house, and the man got down and went inside.

"Who's that?" says I. "And what's he done
to be sentenced to this place?"

"Doctor," says the blacksmith, with a grunt—he
was one-quarter Injun, too. "Comes from West
Ostable. My wife's sick."

"I sympathize with her," says I. "I'm sick,
too—homesick. Maybe this doctor'll help me
out. What I need is a change of scene; and I need
it bad."

So, when the doctor come out of the house, I
hailed him, and asked him if he'd do a kindness to a
shipwrecked mariner stranded on a lee shore.

"Why, what's the matter?" says he, laughin'.

"Matter enough," I told him. "I want to go
home. Besides, a merciful man is merciful to the
beasts; and if I stay here much longer these mosquitoes'll
die of rush of my blood to their heads.
I understand you come from West Ostable, Doctor;
but if 'twas Jericho 'twould be all the same. I
want you to let me ride there with you. And you
can charge anything you want to."

That doctor was a fine feller. He laughed some
more, and told me to jump right in. Said he'd got
to see one more patient on his way back; but, if I
didn't mind that stop, he'd be glad of my company.
So I told the blacksmith to keep my horse and buggy
overnight, and when I got to West Ostable I'd
telephone for the livery folks to send for 'em.
Then I got into the doctor's runabout, and off we
drove.

We did consider'ble talkin' durin' the drive; but
'twas all general, and nothin' definite on my part.
'Course, he was curious to know what I was doin'
'way over there; but I said I come on business, and
let it go at that. I was beginnin' to have some
suspicions, and I cal'lated not to be laughed at if I
could help it. So we drove and drove; and, by and
by, when I judged we must be pretty nigh to West
Ostable, he turned the horse into a side road, and
brought him to anchor alongside of an old ramshackle
house, with a tumble-down barn and out-buildin's
astern of it.

"Now, Cap'n," he says, "I'll have to ask you to
wait a few minutes while I see that last patient of
mine. 'Twon't take long."

"Patient?" says I. "Good land! Does anybody
*live* in this fag end of nothin'ness?"

"Yes," says he. "'Twas empty for years, but
now a couple of fellers live here all by themselves.
Foreigners of some kind they are. Been here for
a month or more. One of 'em let a packin' case
fall on his foot, and—"

"I sympathize with him," says I. "The same
thing happened to me a spell ago. But a packin'
case! Cranberry crate, you mean, I guess."

"Maybe so," he says. "I didn't ask. But
'twas somethin' heavy, anyhow. Nobody seems to
know much about these chaps or what they do.
Well, be as comfort'ble as you can. I'll be back
soon."

He took his medicine satchel and went into the
house. Soon's he was out of sight, I climbed out
of the buggy and started explorin'. I was curious.

I wandered around back of the house. Such a
slapjack place you never see in your life! Windows
plugged with papers and old rags, shingles off the
roof, chimneys shy of bricks—'twas a miracle it
didn't blow down long ago. Whoever the tenants
was, they was only temporary, I judged, and willin'
to take chances.

From somewheres out in the barn I heard a
scratchin' kind of noise, and I headed for there.
The big door was open a little ways, and I squeezed
through. 'Twas pretty dark, and I couldn't see
much for a minute; but soon as my eyes got used to
the gloominess, I saw lots of things. That barn
was half filled with boxes and crates, some empty
and some not. There was a horse in the stall—an
old white horse—and standin' in the middle of
the floor was a wagon heaped with things, and covered
with a piece of tarpaulin. I lifted the tarpaulin.
Underneath it was a spinnin' wheel, an old-fashioned
table, two chairs, and a basket. There
was embroidery and fancywork in the basket.

Then I took a few soundin's among the full
boxes and crates standin' round. I didn't do much
of this, 'cause the scratchin' noise kept up in a room
at the back of the barn, and I wa'n't anxious to disturb
the scratcher, whoever he was. But I saw a
plenty. There was enough bran-new "antiques"
and "genuine" Injun knittin' work in them crates
and boxes to stock the "Colonial Exchange" for
six weeks, even with better trade than we'd had.

I'd seen all I wanted to in *that* room, so I tiptoed
into the other. A feller was in there, standin'
back to me, and hard at work. He was sandpaperin'
the polish off a mahogany sewin' table; the
kind Mrs. Burke Smythe called a "find," and had
in her best front parlor as an example of what our
great-granddads used to make, and we wa'n't capable
of in these cheap and shoddy days. There was
another "find" on the floor side of him, a chair
layin' on its side. Pasted on the under side of the
seat was a paper label with "Grand Rivers Furniture
Manufacturing Company" printed on it. I
judged that the hand of Time hadn't got to work
on that chair yet, but it would as soon as it had antiqued
the table.

I watched the mellowin' influence gettin' in its
licks—much as twenty year passed over that table
in the three minutes I stood there—and then I
spoke.

"Hello, shipmate!" says I. "You're busy,
ain't you?"

He jumped as if I'd stuck a sail needle in him,
the table tipped over with a bang, and he swung
around and faced me. And I'm blessed if he wa'n't
that Armenian critter; the one that the clerk had
talked to—the "last survivor of the peddlin'
crew."

I was expectin' 'most anything to happen, and I
was kind of hopin' it would. My fists sort of shut
of themselves. But it didn't happen. I knew the
feller; but, as luck would have it, he didn't recognize
me. He swallered hard a couple of times, and
then he says, pretty average ugly:

"Vat d'ye want?"

"Oh, nothin'," says I. "I just drove over with
the doctor, and I cruised 'round the premises a little,
that's all. You must do a good business here.
Make this stuff yourself?"

"No," he snapped.

I could see that he was dyin' to chuck me out, and
didn't dast to. I picked up the chair and looked at
it.

"Humph!" I says. "Grand Rivers Company,
hey? Buy of them, do you?"

"Yes," says he.

"And this?" I took a centerpiece out of one
of the boxes. "This come from Grand Rivers,
too?"

"No," says he. "Boston. Is dere anything
else you vant to know?"

"Guess not. You the sick man?"

"No; mine brudder."

"Your brother, hey? Let's see. I wonder if I
don't know him. Kind of tall and thin, ain't he?"

He sniffed contemptuous.

"No," says he, "he's short and fat."

"Beg your pardon," says I, "guess I was mistook.
Well, I must be gettin' back to the buggy;
the doctor's prob'ly waitin' for me. Good day, mister."

He never said good-by; but I saw him watchin'
me all the way to the gate. I climbed into the
buggy, and set there till he went back into the barn;
then I got down and hurried to the front of the
house. The door wa'n't fastened, and I went in.
I met the doctor in the hall. He was some surprised
to see me there.

"Hello, Doc!" says I. "Where's your patient?"

"In there," says he, pointin' to the door astern
of him. "But—"

"How's he gettin' along?" I wanted to know.

"Why, he's better," he says. "He's practically
all right. I wanted him to get up and walk, but he
wouldn't."

"Wouldn't, hey?" says I. "Humph! Well,
maybe he wouldn't walk for you; but I'll bet *I* can
make him *fly*."

Before he could stop me, I flung that door open
and walked into that room. The sufferer from
fallin' packin' boxes was settin' in one chair with
his foot in another. I drew off, and slapped him
on the shoulder hard as I could.

"Hello, Sol Uncas Mohicans!" I sung out.
"How's genuine antique lamp mats these days?"

For about two seconds he just set there and
looked at me, set and glared, with his mouth open.
Then he let out a scream like a scared woman,
jumped out of that chair, and made for the kitchen
door, lame foot and all. I headed him off, and he
turned and set sail for the one I'd come in at. He
reached the front hall just ahead of me; but my
boot caught him at the top step and helped him
*some*. He never stopped at the gate, but went
head-first into the woods whoopin' anthems.

The sandpaperin' chap came runnin' out of the
barn, and I took after him; but he didn't wait to see
what I had to say. He dove for the woods on his
side. We had the premises to ourselves, and I went
back and picked up the doctor, who'd been upset
by the "child of the forest" on his way to the ancestral
tall timber.

"What—what—what?" gasps the medical
man. "For Heaven sakes! Why, he wouldn't *try*
to walk when I asked him to. *How* did you do
that?"

"Easy enough," says I. "'Twas an old-fashioned
treatment, but it helps—in some cases. Just
layin' on of hands, that's all. Now, Doc, afore you
ask another question, let me ask you one. Ain't
that critter's name Rose?"

He was consider'ble shook, but he managed to
grin a little.

"No," says he, "but you've guessed pretty near
it."

Then he told me what the name was.

I rode back to West Ostable with that doctor and
took the evenin' train home. Jim Henry was
waitin' for me on the store platform when I got out
of the depot wagon.

"Well?" he wanted to know. "Did you find
him?"

"Humph!" says I. "I did find the lost tribes,
a couple of members of 'em, anyway."

"What do you mean by that?" says he.

"Come somewheres where 'tain't so public and I'll
tell you."

So we went back into the back room and I told
him my yarn. He listened, with his mouth open,
gettin' madder and madder all the time.

"Now," says I, endin' up, "the way I look at it
is this. I've been thinkin' it out on the cars and I
cal'late we'll have to do this way. We ain't crooks—that
is, we didn't mean to be—and now we
know all our 'antiques' are frauds and our 'Injun
curios' made up to Boston, we must either shut up
the 'Exchange' or go back to home products.
We'll have to keep mum about those we have sold,
because most of 'em have been carted out of town
and we don't know where to locate the buyers.
But, for my part, bein' average honest and meanin'
to be square, I feel mighty bad. What do you
say?"

He said enough. He felt as bad as I did about
stickin' our customers, but what seemed to cut him
the most was that somebody had got ahead of him in
business.

"Think of it!" says he. "Skipper, we're
gold-bricked! Cheated! Faked! Done! Think of it!
If I could only get my hands on that—"

"Hold on a minute," says I. "Better think the
whole of it while you're about it. We set out to
drive those peddlers out of what was *their* trade.
If they was smart enough to turn the tables and
make a good profit out of sellin' us the stuff, I don't
know as I blame 'em much. It was just tit for tat—or
so it seems to me now that I've cooled off."

"Maybe so," says he; "but it hurts my pride just
the same. James Henry Jacobs, doctor of sick
businesses, beat by a couple of peddlers from Armenia!"

"Hold on again," I says. "I ain't told you
their real name yet."

"Their name?" he says. "I know it already.
It's Rose."

"Not accordin' to that West Ostable doctor, it
ain't. The name they give *him* was Rosenstein."

He looked at me for a spell without speakin'.
Then he smiled, heaved a long breath, and reached
over and shook my hand.

"Whew!" says he. "Skipper, I feel better.
Richard's himself again. To be beat in a business
deal by Roses is one thing—but by Rosensteins is
another. You can't beat the Rosensteins in business."

"Not in the secondhand and by-productin'
business you can't," says I. "Them lines belong to
'em. We hadn't any right to butt in."

And we both laughed, good and hearty.

"But," says I, after a little, "what'll we do with
that curio room, anyway? Give it up?"

"Not much!" says he, emphatic. "I guess
we'll have to give up the antiques; but we've got the
winter ahead of us, Skipper, and the Ostable County
embroidery crop flourishes best in cold weather.
We'll start the old ladies knittin' again and have a
fairly good-sized stock when the autos commence
runnin' once more. Give up the Colonial Pilgrim
Mothers? I should say not!"

"All right," I says, dubious. "You may be
right, Jim; you generally are. But I'm a little
scary of this by-product game. It'll get us into serious
trouble, I'm afraid, some day. It's easier to
steer one big craft, than 'tis to maneuver a fleet of
little ones."

He sniffed, scornful. "As I understand it,
Cap'n Zeb," he says, "this business of yours was in
a pretty feeble condition when you called me in to
prescribe."

"No doubt of that, Jim, but—"

"Yes. And it's a healthy, growin' child now."

"Yes. It sartin is."

"Then, if I was you, I'd take my medicine and
be thankful. Time enough to complain when you
commence to go into another decline. Ain't that
so?"

I didn't answer.

"Isn't it so?" he asked again.

"Maybe," I said; "but it may be a fatal disease
next time; and it's better to keep well than to be
cured—and a lot cheaper."

He said I was a reg'lar bullfrog for croakin',
and hinted that I was in the back row of the primer
class so fur's business instinct went. I had a feelin'
that he was right, but I had another feelin' that *I*
was right, too. However, there was nothin' to do
but keep quiet and wait the next development.
Afore Christmas the development landed with both
feet.

I'd heard the news twice already that mornin'.
Fust at the Poquit House breakfast table, where
'twas served along with the chopped hay cereal and
warmed over and picked to pieces, as you might
say, all through the b'iled eggs and spider-bread,
plumb down to the doughnuts and imitation coffee.
Then I'd no sooner got outdoor than Solon Saunders
sighted me, and he 'bout ship and beat acrost the
road like a porgie-boat bearin' down on a school of
fish. He was so excited that he couldn't wait to
get alongside, but commenced heavin' overboard his
cargo of information while he was in mid-channel.

"Did you hear about the Higgins Place bein'
rented, Cap'n Snow?" he sung out. "It's been
took for next summer and—"

"Yes, yes, I heard it," says I. "Fine seasonable
weather we're havin' these days. Don't see
any signs of snow yet, do you?"

If he'd been skipper of a pleasure boat with a
picnic party aboard he couldn't have paid less attention
to my weather signals.

"It's been hired for an eatin'-house," he says,
puffin' and out of breath. "A man by the name of
Fred from Buffalo, has hired it, and—"

"Fred, hey?" I interrupted. "Humph! 'Cordin'
to the proclamations *I* heard he cruises under the
name of George—Eben George—and he hails
from Bangor."

"No, no!" he says, emphatic. "His name's
Edgar Fred and it's Buffalo he comes from. Henry
Williams told me and he got it from his wife's aunt,
Mrs. Debby Baker, and her cousin by marriage told
her. She is a Knowles—the cousin is—married
one of the Denboro Knowleses—and *she* got it
from Peleg Kendrick's nephew whose stepmother
is related to the woman that used to do old Judge
Higgins's cookin' when he was alive. So it come
straight, you see."

"Yes," I says, "about as straight as the eel went
through the snarled fish net. All right. I don't
care. How's your rheumatiz gettin' on, Solon?"

I thought that would fetch him, but it didn't.
Gen'rally speakin', he'd talk for an hour about his
rheumatiz and never skip an ache; but now he was
too much interested in the Higgins Place even to
catalogue his symptoms.

"It's some better," he says, "since I tried the
Electric Ointment out of the newspaper. But,
Cap'n Zeb, did you know that this Fred man was
goin' to start a swell dinin'-room for automobile
folks? He is. He's had all kinds of experience in
them lines. He's goin' to have foreign help and
a chief Frenchman to do the cookin' and—and I
don't know what all."

"I guess that's right," says I. "Well, I don't
know what all, either, and I ain't goin' to worry.
We'll see what we shall see, as the blind feller said.
Hello! there's the minister over there and I'll bet he
ain't heard a word about it."

That done the trick. Away he put, all sail set, to
give the minister the earache, and I went on down
to the store. And there was Jacobs talkin' to a
man I'd never seen afore and both of 'em so interested
they scarcely noticed me when I come in.

He was a kind of ordinary-lookin' feller at fust
sight, the stranger was, sort of a cross between a
parson and a circus agent, judgin' by his get-up.
Pretty thin, with black hair and a black beard, and
dressed all in black except his vest, which was
thunder-storm plaid. I'd have cal'lated he was in
mournin' if it hadn't been for that vest. As 'twas he
looked like a hearse with a brass band aboard. Both
him and Jacobs was smokin' cigars, the best ten-centers
we carried in stock.

"Mornin'," says I, passin' by 'em. Jim Henry
looked up and saw me.

"Ah, Skipper," says he; "glad to see you.
Come here. I want to make you acquainted with
Mr. Edwin Frank, who is intendin' to locate here
in Ostable. Mr. Frank, shake hands with my partner,
Cap'n Zebulon Snow."

We shook, the band wagon hearse and me, and I
felt as if I was back aboard the old *Fair Breeze*,
handlin' cold fish. Jim Henry went right along explainin'
matters.

"Mr. Frank," he says, "has had a long experience
in the restaurant and hotel line and he believes
there is an openin' for a first-class road-house
in this town. He has leased the—"

Then I understood. "Why, yes, yes!" I interrupted.
"I know now. You're Mr. Eben Edgar
Fred George from Buffalo and Bangor, ain't you?"

Then *they* didn't understand. When I explained
about the boardin'-house talk and Solon Saunders'
"straight" news, Jacobs laughed fit to kill and even
Mr. Fred George Frank pumped up a smile. But
his pumps was out of gear, or somethin', for the
smile looked more like a crack in an ice chest than
anything human. However, he said he was glad
to see me and I strained the truth enough to say I
was glad to meet him.

"So you've hired the Higgins Place, Mr. Frank,"
I went on. "Well, well! And you're goin' to
make a hotel of it. If old Judge Higgins don't turn
over in his grave at that, he's fast moored, that's
all."

I meant what I said, almost. Judge Higgins, in
his day, had been one of the big-bugs of the town
and his place on the hill was one of the best on the
main road. It set 'way back from the street and
the view from under the two big silver-leaf trees by
the front door took in all creation and part of Ostable
Neck, as the sayin' is. The Judge had been
dead most eight year now, and, bein' a three times
widower without chick nor child, the estate was all
tied up amongst the heirs of the three wives and
was fast tumblin' to pieces. It couldn't be sold, on
account of the row between the owners, but it had
been let once or twice to summer folks. To turn it
into a tavern was pretty nigh the final come-down,
seemed to me.

But Jim Henry Jacobs wa'n't worryin' about
come-downs. He never let dead dignity interfere
with live business. He didn't shed a tear over the
old place, or lay a wreath on Judge Higgins's tomb.
No, sir! he got down to the keelson of things
in a jiffy.

"Skipper," he says, sweet and plausible as a dose
of sugared soothin'-syrup. "Skipper," he says,
"Mr. Frank's proposition is to open, not a hotel
exactly, but a first-class, up-to-date road-house and
restaurant. As progressive citizens of Ostable, as
business men, wide-awake to the town's welfare, that
ought to interest you and me, on general principles,
hadn't it?"

I judged that this was only Genesis, and that Revelation
would come later, so I nodded and said I
cal'lated that it had—on general principles.

"You bet!" he goes on. "It does interest us.
Speakin' personally, I've long felt that there was a
place in Ostable for a dinin'-room, run to bag—to
attract, I mean—the wealthy, the well-to-do transient
trade. Why, just think of it!" he says,
warmin' up, "it's winter now. By May or June
there'll be a steady string of autos runnin' along this
road here, every one of 'em solid full of city people
and all hungry. Now, it's a shame to let those
good things—I mean hungry gents and ladies, go
by without givin' 'em what they want. If I hadn't
had so many things on my mind, if the Ostable
Store's large and growin' business hadn't took my
attention exclusive, I should have ventured a flyer
in that direction myself. But never mind that; Mr.
Frank here has got ahead of me and the job's in
better hands. Mr. Frank is right up to the minute;
he's abreast of the times and he—by the way, Mr.
Frank, perhaps you wouldn't mind tellin' my partner
here somethin' about your plans. Just give him
the line of talk you've been givin' me, say."

Mr. Frank didn't mind. He had the line over
in a minute and if I'd been cal'latin' that he was a
frosty specimen with the water in his talk-b'iler
froze, I got rid of the notion in a hurry. He
smiled, polite, and begun slow and deliberate, but
pretty soon he was runnin' twenty knots an hour.
He told about his experience in the eatin'-house line—he'd
been everything from hotel manager to club
steward—and about how successful he'd been and
how big the profits was, and what his customers said
about him, and so on. Afore a body had a chance
to think this over—or to digest it, long's we're
talkin' about eatin'—he was under full steam
through Ostable with the Higgins Place loaded to
the guards and beatin' all entries two mile to the
lap. He'd never seen a better openin'; his experience
backed his judgment in callin' it the ideal
location and opportunity, and the like of that. He
talked his throat dry and wound up, husky but
hurrahin', with somethin' like this:

"Cap'n Snow," he says, "you and Mr. Jacobs
must understand that I know what I'm talkin' about.
This enterprise of mine will be the very highest
class. French chef, French waiters, all the delicacies
and game in season. A country Delmonico's,
that's the dope—ahem! I mean that is the reputation
this establishment of ours will have; yes."

I judged that the "dope" had slipped out unexpected
and that the miscue jarred him a little mite,
for he colored up and wiped his forehead with a red
and yellow bordered handkerchief. I was jarred,
too, but not by that.

"Establishment of *ours*?" I says, slow. "You
mean yours, of course."

He was goin' to answer, but Jim Henry got ahead
of him.

"Sure! of course, Skipper," he says. "That's
all right. There!" he went on, gettin' up and takin'
me by the arm. "Mr. Frank's got to be trottin'
along and we mustn't detain him. So long, Mr.
Frank. My partner and I will have some conversation
and we'll meet again. Drop in any time.
Good day."

I hadn't noticed any signs of Frank's impatience
to trot along, but he took the hint all right and got
up to go. He said good-by and I was turnin' away,
when I see Jim Henry wink at him when they
thought I wa'n't lookin'. I was suspicious afore;
that wink made me uneasy as a spring pullet tied to
the choppin'-block.




CHAPTER X—THE SIGN OF THE WINDMILL
==================================


Eben George Edgar Edwin Delmonico
Frank went out, dabbin' at his
forehead with the red and yellow handkerchief.
Jacobs kept his clove hitch on my arm and
led me out to the settee on the front platform.

"Set down, Skipper," he says, cheerful and
more'n extra friendly, seemed to me. "Set down,"
he says, "and enjoy the December ozone."

We come to anchor on the settee and there we
set and shivered for much as five minutes, each of
us waitin' for the other to begin. Finally Jim
Henry says, without lookin' at me:

"Well, Skipper," he says, "that chap's sharp all
right, ain't he?"

"Seems to be," says I, not too enthusiastic.

"Yes, he is. If I'm any judge of human nature—and
I hand myself *that* bouquet any day in the
week—he knows his business. Don't you think
so?"

"Maybe," I says. "But what business of ours
his business is I don't see—yet. If you do, bein'
as you and me are supposed to be partners, perhaps
you wouldn't mind soundin' the fog whistle for my
benefit. I seem to have lost my reckonin' on this
v'yage. Why should we be interested in this Frank
man and his eatin'-house?"

He laughed, louder'n was necessary, I thought, and
slapped me on the shoulder.

"You don't see where we come in, hey?" he says.
"Well, I do. A dinin'-room like that one of his
will need a good many supplies, won't it? And, if
I can mesmerize him into patronizin' the home
market, the Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and
Shoes and Fancy Goods Emporium will gain some,
I shouldn't wonder. Hey, pard! How about
that?" And he slapped my shoulder again.

I turned this over in my mind. "Humph!" I
says. "I begin to see."

"You bet you do!" he says, laughin'. "The
amount of stuff I can sell that restaurant will—"

But I broke in here. I remembered that wink
and I didn't believe I was clear of the choppin'-block
yet.

"Hold on!" says I. "Heave to! And never
mind poundin' my starboard shoulder to pieces,
either. I said I *begun* to see; I don't see clear yet.
How did you and he come to get together in the
fust place? Did you go and hunt him up? or did
he come in here to see you?"

He kind of hesitated. "Why," he says, "he
come into the store, and—"

"Did he happen in, or did he come to see you
a-purpose?"

"He—I believe he came to see me. Then he
and I—"

"Heave to again! He didn't come to see you
to beg the favor of buyin' goods of you, 'tain't
likely. Jim Jacobs, answer me straight. There's
somethin' else. That feller wants somethin' of you—or
of us. Now what is it?"

He hesitated some more. Then he upset the
woodpile and let out the darky.

"Well," he says, "I'll tell you. I was goin' to
tell you, anyway. Frank's all right. He's got a
good idea and he's got the experience to put it into
practice; but he's somethin' the way old Beanblossom
was afore you took a share in this store—he needs
a little more capital."

I swung round on the settee and looked him square
in the eye.

"I—see," I says, slow. "Now—I see! He's
after money and he wants us to lend it to him. I
might have guessed it. Well, did you say no right
off? or was you waitin' to have me say it? You
might have said it yourself. You knew I'd back
you up."

Would you believe it? he got as red as a beet.

"I didn't say anything," he says. "Don't go off
half-cocked like that. What's the matter with you
this mornin'? He don't want to borrer money. He
wants more capital in the proposition—wants to
float it right. And he's been inquirin' around and
has found that you and me are the two leadin' business
men in the place and has come to us first. It's
more a favor on his part than anything else. He
offers to let us have a third interest between us; you
put in a thousand and I do the same. Why, man,
it's a cinch! It's a chance that don't come every day.
As I told you, I've had the same notion in my head
for a long time. A summer dinin'-room like that in
this town is—"

"Wait!" I interrupted. "What do you know
about this Frank critter? Where'd he come from?
Who is he?"

"He comes from Pittsburg. That's the last place
he was in. And he's got his pockets full of references
and testimonials."

"Humph! Anybody can get testimonials.
Write 'em himself, if there wa'n't any other way.
I had a second mate once with more testimonials
than shirts, enough sight, and he—"

"Oh, cut it out! Besides, I don't care where he
comes from. He's sharp as a steel trap; that much
I can tell with one eye shut. And he's run dinin'-rooms
and hotels; that I'll bet my hat on. That's
all we need to know. A road-house in this town is a
twenty per cent proposition durin' the summer
months. It's the chance of a lifetime, I tell you."

"Maybe so. But how do you know the feller's
honest?"

"I don't care whether he's honest or not. It
doesn't make any difference. If I wa'n't here to
keep my eye peeled, it might be; but I'll be here
and if he gets ahead of me, he'll be movin' to some
extent. Someone else'll grab the chance if we don't.
I'm for it. What do you say?"

I shook my head. "Jim," says I, "I can see
where you stand. You're so dead sartin that an
eatin'-house of that kind'll pay big, that you're blind
to the rest of it. Now I don't pretend to be a judge
of human nature like you—leavin' out Injun and
Rosenstein human nature, of course—nor a doctor
of sick businesses, which is your profession. But my
experience is—"

He stood up and sniffed impatient.

"Cut it out, I tell you!" he says, again. "This
ain't an experience meetin'. Will you take a flyer
with me in that road-house, or won't you?"

"Way I feel now, I won't," says I, prompt.

He turned on his heel, took a step towards the
door and then stopped.

"Well," he says, "you think it over till to-morrer
mornin' and then let me know. Only, you mark my
words, it's a chance. And, with me to keep my eye
on it, there's no risk at all."

So that's the way it ended that day. And half
that night I laid awake, feelin' meaner'n dirt to say no
to as good a partner as I had, and yet pretty average
sure I was right, just the same.

In the mornin' my mind was still betwixt and between.
I went down to the store and walked back
to the post-office department. I looked in through
the little window and saw Mary Blaisdell inside,
sortin' the outgoin' letters. The sunshine, streamin'
in from outside, lit up her hair till it looked like one
of them halos in a church picture. Seems to me I
never saw her look prettier; but then, every time I
saw her I thought the same thing. A good-lookin'
woman and a good woman—yes, and capable.
That she'd lived so many years without gettin' married,
was one of the things that made a feller lose
confidence in the good-sense of humans. The chap
that got her would be lucky. Then I caught a
glimpse of myself in the lookin'-glass where customers
tried on hats, and decided I'd better stop
thinkin' foolishness or somebody would catch me at
it and send me to the comic papers.

"Mornin', Mary," says I. "Has Mr. Jacobs
come aboard yet?"

She turned and came to her side of the window.

"Yes," she says, "he was here. He's gone out
now with that Mr. Frank. I believe they've gone
up to the old Higgins Place."

"Um-hm," says I. "Well, Mary, just between
friends, I'd like to ask you somethin'. Do you like
that Frank man's looks?"

She wa'n't expectin' that and she didn't know how
to answer for a jiffy. Then she kind of half laughed,
and says: "No, Cap'n Zeb, since you ask me, I—I
don't. I don't like him. And I haven't any good
reason, either."

I nodded. "Much obliged, Mary," says I.
"And, since you ain't asked me, I'll tell you that *I*
don't like him. And my reason's about as good as
yours. Maybe it's his clothes. A man, 'cordin'
to my notion, has a right to look like a horse jockey,
if he wants to; and he's got a right to look like an
undertaker. But when he looks like a combination
of the two, I—well, I get skittish and begin to shy,
that's all. It's too much as if he was baited to trap
you dead or alive."

Then Jim Henry come in and when, an hour or
so later, he got me one side and asked me if I'd
made up my mind about investin' in Frank's road-house,
I answered prompt that my mind was made up
and the answer was still no. He was disapp'inted,
I could see that, and pretty mad.

"Humph!" says he. "Skipper, you're all right
except for one fault—you're as 'country' as they
make 'em, and they make 'em pretty narrer sometimes.
Well, you've had the chance. Don't ever
tell me you haven't."

"I won't," says I, and we didn't mention the subject
for a long time. Then—but that comes later.
However, I judged that Frank had found folks in
Ostable who wa'n't as narrer and "country" as I
was, for, inside of a week, the carpenters was busy
on the Higgins Place. They built on great, wide
piazzas; they knocked out partitions between rooms;
they made the house pretty much over. In March
loads of fancy furniture came from Boston. At
last a windmill three feet high—made to look like
a little copy of the old Cape windmills our great-granddads
used to grind grist in, with sails that
turned—was set up in the front yard, and on a
post by the big gate was swingin' a fancy notice
board, with a gilt windmill painted on that, and the
words in big letters:

.. class:: center

   | THE SIGN OF THE WINDMILL.
   |
   | MEALS AT ALL HOURS.
   |
   | :small-caps:`Steaks, Chops, Game, Etc.`
   | :small-caps:`Table D'hote Dinner Each Day at 1.15.`
   |
   | *Special Accommodations for Auto Parties.*

That was it, you see. "The Sign of the Windmill"
was the name of the new road-house.

But that wa'n't all the advertisin', by a consider'ble
sight. There was signs all up and down the
main roads, with hands p'intin' in the "Windmill"
direction. And there was ads in the Cape papers
and in the Boston papers, too. I swan, I didn't
believe anybody but Jim Henry Jacobs could have
engineered such advertisin'! And there was a
black-lookin' critter with the ends of his mustache
waxed so sharp you could have sewed canvas with
'em—he was the French chef—and three foreign
waiters, and a dark-complected fleshy woman who
seemed to be a sort of general assistant manager and
stewardess, and—and—goodness knows what
there wa'n't. There was so many kinds of hired
help that I couldn't see where Frank himself come
in—unless he was the spare "windmill," which,
judgin' by his gift of gab, I cal'late might be the
fact.

"The Sign of the Windmill" bought all its groceries
and general supplies at the store, which, considerin'
that we'd turned down the "chance" to be
part owners, seemed sort of odd to me, 'cause Frank
didn't look like a feller who'd forgive a slight like
that. But I judged Jim Henry had hypnotized him,
as he done other difficult customers, and so I said
nothin'. The auto season opened and our weekly
bills with that road-house was big ones, but they was
paid every week, and I hadn't any kick there,
either.

As for the business that dinin'-room done, it was
surprisin', particularly Saturdays and Sundays, when
there'd be twenty or more autos in the front yard
and more a-comin'. The table d'hote dinner at 1.15
was so well patronized that folks had to wait their
turns at table and later, on moonlight nights, the old
house was all lighted up and you could hear the noise
of dishes rattlin' and the laughin' and singin' till
after eleven o'clock. And our bills with the "Sign
of the Windmill" kept gettin' bigger and bigger.

But though the auto parties was thick and the
patronage good, still there was some dissatisfaction,
I found out. One big car stopped at the store on a
Saturday afternoon and the boss of it talked with
me while the women folks was inside buyin' postcards
and such.

"Well," says I, to the owner of the car, a big,
fleshy, good-natured chap he was, "well," says I,
"I cal'late you've all had a good dinner. Feed you
fust-class up there at the Windmill place, don't
they?"

He sniffed. "Humph!" says he, "the food's
all right. It ought to be, at the price. Is the proprietor
of that hotel named Allie Baby?"

"Allie which?" I says, laughin'. "No, no, his
name's Frank. Edwin George Eben etcetery Frank.
What made you think 'twas Allie?"

"'Cause he's a close connection of the Forty
Thieves," he says, sharp. "He'd take a prize in
the hog class at a county fair, that chap would.
What's the matter with him? Does he think he's
runnin' a get-rich-quick shop? Two weeks ago I
paid a dollar and a half for a dinner there, and that
was seventy-five cents too much. Now he's jumped
to two-fifty and the feed ain't a bit better."

"Two dollars and a half for a *dinner*!" says I.
"Whew! The cost of livin' *is* goin' up, ain't it?
What do they give you? Canary birds' tongues on
toast? Any shore dinner ever I see could be cooked
for—"

He interrupted. "Shore dinner nothin'!" he
snorts. "I wouldn't kick at the price if I got a good
shore dinner. But what we got here is a poor imitation
of a country Waldorf. Everybody's kickin',
but we all go there because it's the best we can find
for twenty miles. However, I hear another place
is to be started in Denboro and if *that* makes good,
your Forty Thief friend will have to haul in his
horns. He'll never get another cent from me, or a
hundred others I know, who have been his best customers.
We're all waitin' to give him the shake
and it looks as if we should be able to do it. We
motorin' fellers stick together and, if the word's
passed along the line, the "Sign of the Windmill"
will be a dead one, mark my words."

I marked 'em, and when, by and by, I heard that
the Denboro dinin'-room was open and doin' a good
business, I underscored the mark.

This was about the middle of June. A week
later Jim Henry got the telegram about his younger
brother out in Colorado bein' sick and wantin' to see
him bad. He hated to go, but he felt he had to,
so he went.

I said good-by to him up at the depot and told him
not to worry a mite. "I'll look out for everything,"
I says. "Course I'll miss you at the store, but
I'll write you every day or so and keep you posted,
and you can give me business prescriptions by
mail."

"That's all right, Skipper," says he, "I know the
store'll be took care of. But there's one thing that—that—"

"What's the one thing?" I asked. "Overboard
with it. My shoulders are broad and I won't mind
totin' another hogshead or so."

He hesitated and it seemed to me that he looked
troubled. But finally he said he'd guessed 'twas
nothin' that amounted to nothin' anyway and he'd
be back in a couple of weeks sure. So off he went
and I had a sort of Robinson Crusoe desert island
feelin' that lasted all that day and night.

It lasted longer than that, too. I didn't hear
from him for ten days. Then I got a note sayin'
his brother had scarlet fever—which seemed a fool
disease for a grown-up man to have—and was pretty
sick. I wrote to him for the land sakes to be careful
he didn't get it himself, and the next news I heard
was from a doctor sayin' he *had* got it. After that
the bulletins was infrequent and alarmin'.

I'd have put for Colorado in a minute, but I
couldn't; that store was on my shoulders and I
couldn't leave. I telegraphed not to spare no
expense and to write or wire every day. 'Twas all
I could do, but I never spent such a worried time
afore nor since. I was worried, not only about my
partner, but about the business he'd put in my charge.
There was new developments in that business and
they kept on developin'.

'Twas the "Sign of the Windmill" that was troublin'
me. As I told you, the weekly bills for that
eatin'-house was big ones, but the fust three or four
had been paid on the dot. Now, however, they
wa'n't paid and they was just as big. Frank's
account on our books kept gettin' larger and larger
and, not only that, but anybody could see that the
Windmill wa'n't doin' half the trade it begun with.
There was more auto parties than ever, but the heft
of 'em went right on by to the new road-house in
Denboro. I remembered what the fleshy man told
me and I judged that the word had been passed to
the motorin' crew, just as he prophesied.

I went up to see Frank and had a talk with him.
I found him in his office, settin' at a fine new roll-top
desk, with the dark-complected stewardess alongside
of him. She seemed to be helpin' him with his letters
and accounts, which looked odd to me, and she
glowered at me when I come in like a cat at a stray
poodle. She didn't get up and go out, neither, till
he hinted p'raps she'd better, and even then she
whispered to him mighty confidential afore she went.
'Twas a queer way for hired help to act, but 'twa'n't
none of my affairs, of course.

He was cordial enough till he found out what I
was after and then he chilled up like a freezer full
of cream. He was in the habit of payin' his bills,
he give me to understand, and he'd pay this one when
'twas convenient. If I didn't care to sell the Windmill
goods, that was my affair, of course, but his
relations with my partner had been so pleasant that—and
so forth and so on. I sneaked out of that
office, feelin' like a henroost-thief instead of an honest
man tryin' to collect an honest debt. I'd bungled
things again. Instead of makin' matters better, I'd
made 'em worse; come nigh losin' a good customer
and all that. What business had an old salt herrin'
like me to be in business, anyhow? That's how I
felt when I was talkin' to him, and how I felt
when I shut that office door and come out into the
dinin'-room.

But the sight of that dinin'-room, tables all vacant,
and two waiters where there had been four, fetched
all my uneasiness back again. If ever a place had
"Goin' down" marked on it 'twas the "Sign of the
Windmill." I stewed and fretted all the way to the
store and when I got there I found that another big
order of groceries and canned goods had been delivered
to the eatin' house while I was gone.

The next week'll stick in my mind till doomsday,
I cal'late. Every blessed mornin' found me vowin'
I'd stop sellin' that Windmill, and every night found
more dollars added to the bill. You see, I didn't
know what to do. If I'd been sole owner and sailin'
master, I'd have set my foot down, I guess; but
there was Jim Henry to be considered. I wrote a
note to the Frank man, but he didn't even trouble
to answer it.

Saturday noon came round and, after the mail was
sorted, I wandered out to the front platform and
set there, blue as a whetstone. The gang of summer
boarders and natives, that's always around mail
times, melted away fast and I was pretty nigh alone.
Not quite alone; Alpheus Perkins, the fish man, was
occupyin' moorin's at t'other end of the platform
and he didn't seem to be in any hurry. By and by
over he comes and sets down alongside of me.

"Cap'n Zeb," he says, fidgety like, "I s'pose
likely you've been wonderin' why I don't pay your
bill here at the store, ain't you?"

I hadn't, havin' more important things to think
about, but now I remembered that he did owe consider'ble
and had owed it for some time. Alpheus
is as straight as they make 'em and usually pays his
debts prompt.

"I know you must have," he went on, not waitin'
for me to answer. "Well, I intended to pay long
afore this, and I will pay pretty soon. But I've had
trouble collectin' my own debts and it's held me back.
If I could only get my hands on one account that's
owin' me, I'd be all right. Say," says he, tryin' hard
to act careless and as if 'twa'n't important one way
or t'other: "Say," he says, "you know Mr. Frank,
up here at the hotel, pretty well, don't you?"

For a minute or so I didn't answer. Then I
knocked the ashes out of my pipe and says I, "Why,
yes. I know him. What of it?"

"Oh, nothin' much," he says. "Only I was told
he was a partic'lar friend of yours and Mr. Jacobs's
and—and—"

"Who told you he was our partic'lar friend?"
I asked.

"Why, he did. I was up there yesterday, just
hintin' I could use a check on account. Not pressin'
the matter nor tryin' to be hard on him, you
understand; course he's all right; but I was mighty short
of ready cash and so—"

"Hold on, Al!" I said, quick. "Wait! Does
the 'Sign of the Windmill' owe you a bill?"

"Pretty nigh a hundred dollars," says he. "I've
supplied 'em with fish and lobsters and clams and such
ever since they started. Fust month they paid me
by the week. After that—"

"Good heavens and earth!" I sung out. "My
soul and body! And—and, when you asked for
it, this—this Frank man told you he'd pay you when
'twas convenient, same as he paid Jacobs and me,
who was his friends and was quite ready to do business
that way."

He actually jumped, I'd surprised him so.

"Hey?" he sung out. "Zeb Snow, be you a
second-sighter? How did you know he told me
that?"

I drew a long breath. "It didn't take second
sight for that," I says. "I was up there last Monday
and he told me the same thing, only 'twas you
and Ed Cahoon who was his friends then."

He let that sink in slow.

"My godfreys domino!" he groaned. "My
godfreys! He—he told—Why! why, he must
be workin' the same game on all hands!"

"Looks like it," says I, and, thinkin' of Jim
Henry, poor feller, sick as he could be, and the business
he'd left me to look out for, my heart went
down into my boots.

Perkins set thinkin' for a jiffy. Then he got up
off the settee.

"The son of a gun!" he says. "I'll fix him!
I'll put my bill in a lawyer's hands to-night."

"No, you won't," I sung out, grabbin' him by the
arm. "You mustn't. He owes the Ostable Store
four times what he owes you, and it's likely he owes
Cahoon and a lot more. The rest of us can't afford
to let you upset the calabash that way. You might
get yours, though I'm pretty doubtful, but where
would the rest of us come in. You set down, Alpheus.
Set down, and let me think. Set down, I tell you!"

When I talk that way—it's an old seafarin' habit—most
folks usually obey orders. Alpheus set.
He started to talk, but I hushed him up and, havin'
filled my pipe and got it to goin', I smoked and
thought for much as five minutes.

"Hum!" says I, after the spell was over, "the
way I sense it is like this: This ain't any fo'mast
hand's job; and it ain't a skipper's job neither. It's
a case for all hands and the ship's cat, workin'
together and standin' by each other. We've got to
find out who's who and what's what, make up our
minds and then all read the lesson in concert, like
young ones in school. This Frank Windmill critter
owes you and he owes me; we're sartin of that.
More'n likely he owes Ed Cahoon for chickens and
fowls and eggs, and Bill Bangs for milk, and Henry
Hall for ice, and land knows how many more.
S'pose you skirmish around and find out who he does
owe and fetch all the creditors to the store here
to-morrer mornin' at eleven o'clock. It'll be church
time, I know, but even the parson will excuse us for
this once, 'specially as the 'Sign of the Windmill' is
supposed to sell liquor and he's down on it."

We had consider'ble more talk, but that was the
way it ended, finally. I went to bed that night, but
it didn't take; I might as well have set up, so fur's
sleep was concerned. All I could think of was
poor, sick Jim Henry and the trust he put in me.




CHAPTER XI—COOKS AND CROOKS
===========================


I was at the store by quarter of eleven, but the
gang of creditors was there to meet me, seven
of 'em altogether. Cahoon, the chicken man,
and Bangs, the milk man, and Hall, the ice man,
and Alpheus, and Caleb Bearse, who'd been supplyin'
meat to that road-house, and Peleg Doane, who'd
done carpenterin' and repairs on it, and Jeremiah
Doane, his brother, who'd painted the repaired
places. Seven was all the creditors Perkins could
scare up on short notice, though he cal'lated there
was more.

"There's one more, anyway," says Bill Bangs.
"That dark-complected woman—the one you call
the stewardess, Cap'n Zeb—was sick a spell ago
and Frank told Doctor Goodspeed he'd be responsible
for the bill. I see the doc this mornin' and
he's with us. Says he may be down later."

They elected me chairman of the meetin' and we
started deliberatin'. The debts amounted to quite
a lot, though the Ostable Store's was the biggest.
Some was for doin' one thing and some another, but
we all agreed we must see Colcord, the lawyer, afore
we did much of anything. While we was still pow-wowin',
somebody knocked at the door. 'Twas
Doctor Goodspeed, on the way to see a patient.

"Well," says he, "how's the consultation comin'
on? Judgin' by your faces, I should imagine 'twas
a autopsy. Time to take desperate measures, if you
asked *me*. I never did believe that Frank chap was
anything but a crook, so I'm not surprised. I'm
with you in spirit, boys, though I can't stop. However,
here's a couple of pieces of information which
may interest you: One is that 'The Sign of the
Windmill's' account was overdrawn yesterday at the
bank and the bank folks sent notice. T'other is that
Lawyer Colcord is out of town for a couple of days,
so you can't get him. Otherwise than that, the
patient is normal. By, by. Life's a giddy jag of
joy, isn't it?"

He grinned and shut the door with a bang. The
eight of us looked at each other. Then Alpheus
Perkins riz to his feet.

"Humph!" says he. "Account overdrawn,
hey? Well, maybe that Windmill ain't made
enough to pay its bills, but it's been takin' in consider'ble
cash. If it ain't at the bank, where is it?
I'm goin' to find out. And if I can't get a lawyer
to help me, I'll do without one. That Frank critter's
store clothes are wuth somethin', and, if I can't
get nothin' more, I'll rip *them* right off his back.
So long, fellers. Keep your ear to the ground and
you'll hear somethin' drop."

He headed for the door, but he didn't go alone.
The rest of us got there at the same time, and I—well,
I wouldn't wonder if 'twas me that opened it.
I was desperate, and I've commanded vessels in my
time.

Anyhow, 'twas me that led the procession up the
front steps of the "Sign of the Windmill" and into
the dinin'-room. The two waiters was busy. They
had five of the tables set end to end and covered with
cloths, and they was layin' plates and knives and
forks for a big crowd. 'Twas plain that special
customers was expected.

"Mr. Frank in his office?" says I, headin' for the
skipper's cabin. The waiters looked at each other
and jabbered in some sort of foreign lingo.

"No, sare," says one of 'em. "No, sare.
Meester Frank, he is away—out."

"Away out, hey?" says I. "You're wrong, son.
We're the ones that are out, but we ain't goin' to
be out another cent's wuth. Come on, boys, we'll
find him."

You can see I was mighty mad, or I wouldn't have
been so reckless. I walked acrost that dinin'-room
and flung open the office door. Frank himself wa'n't
there, but who should be settin' at his roll-top desk,
but the fleshy, dark-complected stewardess woman.
She glowered at me, ugly as a settin' hen.

"This is a private room," she snaps.

"I know, ma'am," says I; "but the business we've
come on is sort of private, too. Come in, boys."

The seven of 'em come in and they filled that
office plumb full. The stewardess woman's black
eyes opened and then shut part way. But there was
fire between the lashes.

"What do you mean by comin' in here?" says
she. "And what do you want?"

The rest of the fellers looked at me, so I answered.

"Ma'am," says I, "we don't want nothin' of you
and we're sorry to trouble you. We've come to see
Mr. Frank on a matter of business, important business—that
is, it's important to us."

"Mr. Frank is out," says she. "You must call
again. Good day."

She turned back again to the desk, but none of
us moved.

"Out, is he?" says I. "Well then, I cal'late
we'll wait till he comes in."

"He is out of town. He won't be in till to-morrer,"
she snaps.

I looked 'round at the rest of the crowd. Every
one of 'em nodded.

"Well, then, ma'am," I says, "I cal'late we'll
stay here and wait till to-morrer."

That shook her. She got up from the desk and
turned to face us. If I'm any judge of a temper
she had one, and she was holdin' it in by main
strength.

"You may tell me your business," she says. "I
am Mr. Frank's—er—secretary."

So I told her. "We've waited for our money
long as we can," says I. "None of us are well-off
and every one of us needs what's owin' him. We've
called and we've wrote. Now we're goin' to stay
here till we're paid. Of course, ma'am, I realize
'tain't none of your affairs, and we ain't goin' to
make you any more trouble than we can help. We'll
just set down on the piazza or in the dinin'-room or
somewheres and wait for your boss, that's all."

I said that, 'cause I didn't want her to think we
had anything against her personal. I cal'lated
'twould smooth her down, but it didn't. She looked
as if she'd like to murder us, every livin' soul.

"You get out of here!" she screamed, her hands
openin' and shuttin'. "You get right out of here
this minute!"

"Yes, ma'am," says I, "we'll get out of your
office, of course. Further'n that you'll have to excuse
us. We're goin' to stay right in this house till
we see Mr. Frank."

"I'll put you out!" she sputtered. "I'll have
the waiters put you out."

I thought of them two puny lookin' waiters and,
to save me, I couldn't help smilin'. You'd think
she'd have seen the ridic'lous side of it, too, but
apparently she didn't, for she bust right through
between Alpheus and me and rushed into the dinin'-room.

"Boys," says I, to the crowd, "maybe we'd better
step out of here. We may need more room."

She was in the dinin'-room talkin' foreign language
in a blue streak to the waiters. They was
lookin' scared and spreadin' out their hands and
hunchin' their shoulders.

"Ma'am," says I, "if I was you I wouldn't do
nothin' foolish. We ain't goin' and we won't be
put out, but, on the other hand, we won't make any
fuss. We'll just set down here and wait for the
boss, that's all. Set down, boys."

So all hands come to anchor on chairs around that
dinin'-room and grinned and looked silly but determined.
The stewardess glared at us some more
and then rushed off upstairs. In a minute she was
back with her hat on.

"You wait!" says she. "You just wait! I'll
put you in prison! I'll—Oh—" The rest of it
was French or Italian or somethin', but we didn't
need an interpreter. She shook her fists at us and
run down the front steps and away up the road.

"Well, gents all," says I, "man born of woman
is of few days and full of trouble. To-day we're
here and to-morrer we're in jail, as the sayin' is.
Anybody want to back out? Now's the accepted
time."

Nobody backed. The two waiters went on with
their table settin' and we set and watched 'em.
'Twas the queerest Sunday mornin' ever I put in.
By and by Alpheus got uneasy and wandered away
out towards the kitchen. In a few minutes back
he comes, b'ilin' mad.

"Say, fellers," he sung out. "Do you know
what's goin' on here? There's a party of thirty
folks comin' in automobiles for dinner. They're
gettin' the dinner ready now. And if we don't stop
'em, they'll be fed with our stuff, the grub we've
never got a cent for. I don't know how you feel,
but *I've* got ten dollar's wuth of clams and lobsters
in this eatin'-house that ain't goin' to be used unless
I get my pay for 'em. You can do as you please,
but I'm goin' to stay in that kitchen and watch them
lobsters and things."

And out he put, headed for the kitchen. The
rest of us looked at each other. Then Caleb Bearse
rose to his feet.

"Well," says he, determined, "there's a lot of
chops and roastin' beef and steaks out aft here that
belong to me. None of *them* go to feed auto folks
unless I get my pay fust."

And *he* started for the kitchen. Then up gets
Ed Cahoon and follers suit.

"I've got six or eight fowl and some eggs aboard
this craft," he says. "I cal'late I'll keep 'em company."

The rest of us never said nothin', but I presume
likely we all thought alike. Anyhow, inside of three
minutes we was all out in that kitchen and facin' as
mad a chief cook and bottle washer as ever hailed
from France or anywheres else. You see, 'twas
time to put the lobsters and clams and all the rest
of the truck on the fire and we wa'n't willin' to see
'em put there.

The chief or "chef," or whatever they called
him, fairly hopped up and down. The madder he
got the less English he talked and the less everybody
else understood. Bill Bangs done most of the
talkin' for our side and he had the common idea that
to make foreigners understand you must holler at
'em. Some of the other fellers put in their remarks
to help along, all hollerin' too, and such a riot you
never heard outside of a darky camp-meetin'.
While the exercises was at their liveliest the telephone
bell rung. After it had rung five times I
went into the other room to answer it. When I
got back to that kitchen I got Alpheus to one side
and says I:

"Al," I says, "this thing's gettin' more
interestin' every minute. That telephone call was from
the man that's ordered the big dinner here to-day.
There's thirty-two in his party and they've got as
far as Cohasset Narrows already. They'll be here
in an hour and a half. He 'phoned just to let me
know they was on the way."

"Humph!" says he. "What did he say when
you told him there wouldn't be no dinner?"

"He didn't say nothin'," says I, "because I didn't
tell him. The wire was a bad one and he couldn't
hear plain, so he lost patience and rung off. Said
I could tell him whatever I wanted to say when him
and his party got here. *I* don't want to tell him
anything. You can explain to thirty-two hungry
folks that there's nothin' doin' in the grub line, if
you want to—I don't."

"Humph!" he says again. "I ain't hankerin'
for the job. What had we better do, Cap'n Zeb,
do you think?"

"Well," says I, "I cal'late we'd better shorten
sail and haul out of the race, for a spell, anyhow.
At any rate we'd better clear out of this kitchen and
leave that chef and the rest to get the dinner. I
know it's our stuff that'll go to make that dinner, but
I don't see's we can help it. A few dollars more
won't break us more'n we're cracked already."

But he waved his hand for me to stop. "No
question of a few dollars is in it. It's no use," he
says, solemn; "you're too late. The Frenchman's
quit."

"Quit?" says I.

"Um-hm," says he. "Bill Bangs told him that
we fellers had took charge of this road-house and
he and the rest of the kitchen help quit right then
and there. They're out in the barn now, holdin'
counsel of war, I shouldn't wonder. Bill seems to
think he's done a great piece of work, but I don't."

I didn't either; and, after I'd hot-footed it to the
barn and tried to pump some reason and sense into
that chef and his gang, I was surer of it than ever.
They wouldn't listen to reason, not from us. They
wanted to see the boss, meanin' Mr. Frank. He
was the one that had hired 'em and they wouldn't
have anything to say to anybody else.

I come back to the kitchen and found the boys
all settin' round lookin' pretty solemn. My joke
about the jail wa'n't half so funny as it had been.
Bill Bangs, who'd been the most savage outlaw of
us all, was the meekest now.

"Say, Cap'n," he says to me, nervous like,
"hadn't we better clear out and go home? I don't
want to see them auto people when they get here.
And—and I'm scared that that stewardess has gone
after the sheriff."

"I presume likely that's just where she's gone,"
says I.

"Wh-what'll we do?" says he.

"Don't know," says I. "But I do know that
the time for backin' out is past and gone. We
started out to be pirates and now it's too late to
haul down the skull and cross-bones. We've got to
stand by our guns and fight to the finish, that's all I
see. If the rest of you have got anything better to
offer, I, for one, would be mighty glad to hear
it."

Everybody looked at everybody else, but nobody
said anything. 'Twas a glum creditors' meetin',
now I tell you. We set and stood around that
kitchen for ten minutes; then we heard voices in the
dinin'-room.

"Heavens and earth!" sings out Ed Cahoon.
"Who's that? It can't be the automobile gang so
soon!"

It wa'n't. 'Twas a parcel of women. You see,
some of the crowd had told their wives about the
counsel at the store and that, more'n likely, we'd
pay a visit to the "Sign of the Windmill." Church
bein' over, they'd come to hunt us up. There was
Alpheus's wife, and Cahoon's, and Bangs's, and
Bearse's, and Jerry Doane's daughter, and Mary
Blaisdell. They was mighty excited and wanted to
know what was up. We told 'em, but we didn't
hurrah none while we was doin' it.

"Well," says Matildy Bangs, "I must say you
men folks have made a nice mess of it all. William
Bangs, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
What'll I do when you're in state's prison? How'm
I goin' to get along, I'd like to know! You never
think of nobody but yourself."

Poor Bill was about ready to cry, but this made
him mad. "Who would I think of, for thunder
sakes!" he sung out. "I'm the one that's goin' to
be jailed, ain't I?"

Then Mary Blaisdell took me by the arm. Her
eyes were sparklin' and she looked excited.

"Cap'n Snow," she whispered, "come here a
minute. I want to speak to you. I have an idea."

"Lord!" says I, groanin', "I wish *I* had. What
is it?"

What do you suppose 'twas? Why, that we,
ourselves, should get up the dinner for the auto folks.
Every woman there could cook, she said, and so
could some of the men. We'd seized the stuff for
the dinner already. It was ours, or, at any rate, it
hadn't been paid for.

"We can get 'em a good dinner," says she. "I
know we can. And, if that Frank doesn't come back
until you have been paid, you can take that much
out of his bills. If he does come no one will be any
worse off, not even he. Let's do it."

I looked at her. As she said, we wouldn't be any
worse off, and we might as well be hung for old
sheep as lamb. The auto folks would be better off;
they'd have some kind of a meal, anyhow.

We had a grand confab, but, in the end, that's
what we done. Every one of them women could
cook plain food, and Mrs. Cahoon was the best cake
and pie maker in the county. We divided up the
job. All hands had somethin' to do, includin' me,
who undertook a clam chowder, and Bill Bangs, who
split wood and lugged water and cussed and groaned
about state's prison while he was doin' it.

The last thing was ready and the last plate set
when the autos, six of 'em, purred and chugged up
to the front door. We expected Frank, or the
stewardess, or the constable, or all three of 'em, any
minute, but they hadn't showed up. The dinner
crowd piled in and set down at the tables and the
head man of 'em, the one who was givin' the party,
come over to see me. And who should he turn out
to be but the stout man I'd met at the store. The
one who had told me he'd been waitin' for a chance
to get even with Frank. I don't know which was
the most surprised to meet each other in that place,
he or I.

"Hello!" says he. "What are you doin' here?
You joined the Forty Thieves? Where's the boss
robber?"

I told him the boss was out; that there was some
complications that would take too long to explain.

"But, at any rate," says I, "you're meal's ready
and that's the main thing, ain't it?"

"Yes," says he, "it is. I've got a crowd of New
York men—business associates of mine and their
wives—down for the week end and I wanted to
give 'em a Cape dinner. I never would have come
here, but the Denboro place is full up and couldn't
take us in. I hope the dinner is a better one than
the last I had in this place."

I told him not to expect too much, but to set and
be thankful for whatever he got. He didn't understand,
of course, but he set down and we commenced
servin' the dinner.

We started in with Little Neck quahaugs and followed
them up with my clam chowder. Then we
jogged along with bluefish and hot biscuit and
creamed potatoes. After them come the lobsters
and corn and such. Eat! You never see anybody
stow food the way those New Yorkers did.

In the middle of the lobster doin's I bent over my
fleshy friend and asked him if things was satisfactory.
He looked up with his mouth full.

"Great Scott!" says he. "Cap'n, this is the best
feed I've had since I first struck the Cape, and that
was ten years ago. What's happened to this hotel?
Is it under new management?"

I didn't feel like grinnin', but I couldn't help it.

"Yes," says I, "it is—for the time bein'."

The final layer we loaded that crowd up with was
blueberry dumplin' and they washed it down with
coffee. Then the fat man—his name was Johnson—hauled
out cigars and the males lit and started
puffin'. I went out to the kitchen to see how things
was goin' there.

Mary Blaisdell, with a big apron tied over her
Sunday gown, was washin' dishes. Her sleeves was
rolled up, her hair was rumpled, and she looked
pretty enough to eat—at least, I shouldn't have
minded tryin'.

"How was it?" she asked. "Are they satisfied?"

"If they ain't they ought to be," says I. "And
to-morrer the dyspepsy doctors'll do business enough
to give us a commission. But where's our old college
chum, the chef, and the waiters and all?"

"They're in the barn," says she. "They tried
to come in here and make trouble, but Mr. Perkins
wouldn't let 'em. He drove 'em back to the barn
again. But they're dreadfully cross."

"I shouldn't wonder," I says. "Well, goodness
knows what'll come of this, Mary, but—"

Bill Bangs interrupted me. He come tearin' out
of the dinin'-room, white as a new tops'l, and his
eyes pretty close to poppin' out of his head.

"My soul!" he panted. "Oh, my soul, Cap'n
Zeb! They're comin'! they're comin'!"

"Who's comin'?" I wanted to know.

"Why, Mr. Frank, and that stewardess! And
John Bean, the constable, is with 'em. What shall
I do? I'll have to go to jail!"

He was all but cryin', like a young one. I left
him to his wife, who, judgin' by her actions, was
cal'latin' to soothe him with a pan of hot water, and
headed for the front porch. However, I was too
late. I hadn't any more than reached the dinin'-room,
where all the comp'ny was still settin' at the
tables, than in through the front door marches Mr.
Edwin Frank of Pittsburg, and the stewardess, and
John Bean, the constable. The band had begun to
play and 'twas time to face the music.

Frank looked around at the crowd at the tables,
at Mrs. Cahoon, and Alpheus, and the rest who'd
done the waitin'; and then at me. His face was
fire red and he was ugly as a shark in a weir net.

"Humph!" says he. "What does this mean?
Snow, what high-handed outrage have you committed
on these premises?"

I held up my hand. "Shh!" says I, tryin' to
think quick and save a scene; "Shh, Mr. Frank!"
I says. "If you'll come into your private cabin
I'll explain best I can. Somebody had to get dinner
for this crowd. Your Frenchmen wouldn't
work, so we did. All we've used is our grub, that
which ain't been paid for, and—"

His teeth snapped together and he was so mad
he couldn't speak for a second. The stewardess
was as mad as he was, but it took more'n that to
keep her quiet.

"Fred," says she—and even then, upset as I was,
I noticed she didn't call him by the name he give
Jacobs and me—"Fred, have him arrested. He's
the one that's responsible for it all. Officer, you do
your duty. Arrest that Snow there! Do you
hear?"

She was pointin' to me. Poor old Bean hadn't
arrested anybody for so long that he'd forgot how,
I cal'late. All he did was stammer and look silly.

"Cap'n Zeb," he says, "I—I'm dreadful sorry,
but—but—"

Then *he* was interrupted. A big, tall, gray-haired
chap, who was settin' about amidships of the table
got to his feet.

"Just a minute, Officer," says he, quiet, and never
lettin' go of his cigar, "just a minute, please. The—er—lady
and gentleman you have with you are
old acquaintances of mine. Hello, Francis! I'm
very glad to see you. We've missed you at the Conquilquit
Club. This meetin' is unexpected, but not
the less pleasant."

He was talkin' to the Frank man. And the Frank
man—well, you should have seen him! The red
went out of his face and he almost flopped over onto
the floor. The stewardess went white, too, and she
grabbed his arm with both hands.

"My Lord!" she says, in a whisper like, "it's
Mr. Washburn!"

"Correct, Hortense," says the gray-haired man.
"You haven't forgotten me, I see. Flattered, I'm
sure."

For just about ten seconds the three of 'em looked
at each other. Then Frank made a jump for the
door and the woman with him. They was out and
down the steps afore poor old Bean could get his
brains to workin'.

"Stop 'em!" shouts Washburn. "Officer, don't
let 'em get away!"

But they'd got away already. By the time we'd
reached the porch they was in the buggy they'd come
in and flyin' down the road in a cloud of dust.

I wiped my forehead.

"Well!" says I, "*well!*"

Johnson pushed through the excited bunch and
took the gray-haired feller by the arm.

"Say, Wash," he says, "you're havin' too good
a time all by yourself. Let us in on it, won't you?
Your friends are goin' some; no use to run after
them. Who are they?"

Washburn knocked the ashes from his cigar and
smiled. He'd been cool as a no'thwest breeze right
along.

"Well," he says, "the masculine member used to
be called Fred Francis. He was steward of the Conquilquit
Country Club on Long Island for some
time. He cleared out a year ago with a thousand
or so of the Club funds, and we haven't been able
to trace him since. He was a first-class steward and
sharp as a steel trap—but he was a crook. The
woman—oh, she went with him. She is his wife."




CHAPTER XII—JIM HENRY STARTS SCREENIN'
======================================


A whole month more went by afore Jim
Henry Jacobs was well enough to come
home. When he got off the train at the
Ostable depot, thin and white and lookin' as if he'd
been hauled through a knothole, I was waitin' for
him. Maybe we wa'n't glad to see each other!
We shook hands for pretty nigh five minutes, I cal'late.
I loaded him into my buggy and drove him
down to the Poquit House and took him upstairs
to his room, which had been made as comf'table and
cozy as it's possible to make a room in that kind of
a boardin'-house.

He set down in a big chair and looked around
him.

"By George, Skipper!" he says, fetchin' a long
breath, "this is home, and I'm mighty glad to be
here. Where'd all the flowers come from?"

"Mary is responsible for them," I told him.
"She thought they'd sort of brighten up things."

"They do, all right," says he, grateful. "And
now tell me about business. How is everything?"

I told him that everything was fine; trade was tip-top,
and so on. He listened and was pleased, but
I could see there was somethin' else on his mind.

"There's just one thing more," he said, soon's
he got the chance. "I knew the store must be O.
K.; your letters told me that. But—er—but—"
tryin' hard to be casual and not too interested, "how
is Frank doin' with his restaurant? How's the
'Sign of the Windmill' gettin' on?"

Then I told him the whole yarn, almost as I've
told it here. He listened, breakin' out with exclamations
and such every little while. When I got
to where the Washburn man told who Frank and
the stewardess was, he couldn't hold in any longer.

"A crook!" he sung out. "A crook! And she
was his wife!"

"So it seems," says I. "And that ain't all of
it, neither. You remember the doctor said he'd
drawn his account out of the Ostable bank. Yes.
Well, that account didn't amount to much; he'd used
it about all, anyway. But there was another account
in his wife's name at the Sandwich bank, and
*that* was fairly good size."

"Did you get hold of that?" he asked, excited.

"No, we didn't. 'Twas in her name and we
wouldn't have touched it, if we'd wanted to; but we
didn't get the chance. She drew it all the very next
mornin' and the pair of 'em cleared out. I judge
they'd planned to skip in a few days anyhow, and
our creditors' raid only hurried things up a little
mite. The whole thing was a skin game—Frank
and his precious wife had seen ruination comin' on
and they'd laid plans to feather their own nest and
let the rest of us whistle. We ain't seen 'em from
that day to this."

He was shakin' all over. "You ain't?" he
shouted, jumpin' from the chair. "You ain't?
Why not? What did you let 'em get away for?
Why didn't you set the police after 'em? What
sort of managin' do you call that? I—I—"

"Hush!" says I, surprised to see him act so.
"Hush, Jim! you ain't heard the whole of it yet.
Our bill—"

"Bill be hanged!" he broke in. "I don't care a
continental about the bill. I invested fifteen hundred
dollars of my own money in that road-house,
and you let that fakir get away with the whole of it.
You're a nice partner!"

*I* was surprised now, and a good deal cut up and
hurt. 'Twas an understandin' between us—not a
written one, but an understandin' just the same—that
neither should go into any outside deal without
tellin' the other. We'd agreed to that after the row
concernin' Taylor and the "Palace Parlors." So I
was surprised and hurt and mad. But I held in well
as I could.

"That's enough of that, Jim Henry!" says I.
"I'll talk about that later. Now I'll tell you the
rest of the yarn I started with. After that critter
who called himself Frank, but whose name, it
seemed, was Francis, had galloped away with the
stewardess woman, there was consider'ble excitement
around that dinin'-room, now I tell you. However,
Johnson and Washburn and me managed to get together
in the private office and I told 'em all about
how we come to be there, and about our gettin' their
dinner, and all the rest of it. They seemed to think
'twas funny, laughed liked a pair of loons, but I was
a long ways from laughin'.

"'Well, well, well!' says Johnson, when I'd finished,
'that's the best joke I've heard in a month
of Sundays. You sartinly have your own ways of
doin' business down here, Cap'n Snow. But the dinner
was a good one and I'll pay you for it now.
How much?'

"'Well,' says I, 'I suppose I ought to get what
I can for our crowd to leave with their wives and
relations afore we're carted to jail. Course the meal
we got for you wa'n't what you expected and I can't
charge that Frank thief's price for it; but I've got
to charge somethin'. If you think a dollar a head
wouldn't be too much, I—'

"'A *dollar*!' says both of 'em. 'A dollar!'

"'Do you mean that's all you'll charge?' says
Johnson. 'A dollar for *that* dinner! It was the
best—'

"'You bet it was!' says Washburn.

"'Look here!' goes on Johnson. 'I was to pay
Frank, or whatever his real name is, two-fifty a plate.
Yours was wuth three of any meal I ever got here,
but, if you will be satisfied with the contract price I
made with him, I'll give you a check now. And,
Cap'n Snow, let me give you a piece of advice. Now
you've got this hotel, keep it; keep it and run it.
If you can furnish dinners like this one every day
in the week durin' the summer and fall you'll have
customers enough. Why, I'll engage twenty-five
plates for next Sunday, myself. I've got another
week-end party, haven't I, Wash?'

"'If you haven't I can get one for you,' says
Washburn. 'Johnson's advice is good, Cap'n.
Keep this place and run it yourself. Don't be afraid
of Francis. Confound him! I ought to have him
jailed. The Club would pitch me out if they knew
I had the chance and didn't take it. But I won't,
for your sake. So long as he doesn't trouble you
I'll keep quiet. But if he *does* trouble you, if he
ever comes back, just send for me. However, you
won't have to send; he'll never come back.'

"And," says I, to Jim Henry, "he ain't ever
come back. I talked the matter over with Mary
and Alpheus and a few of the others and, after
consider'ble misgivin's on my part, we reached an agreement.
I decided to run the 'Sign of the Windmill'
myself. We bounced the chef and his helpers and
the foreign waiters and hired Alpheus's wife and
Cahoon's daughter and four or five more. We fed
ten folks that next day and they all said they was
comin' again. They did and they fetched others.
The upshot of it is that all that hotel's outstandin'
bills have been paid, the place is out of debt, and
the outlook for next season is somethin' fine. There,
Jim Henry, that's the yarn. I went through Purgatory
because I figgered that you had trusted the store
business in my hands and the Windmill's bill was so
large and I thought I was responsible for it. If I'd
known you'd put money into the shebang without
tellin' me, your partner, a word about it, maybe I'd
have felt worse. I *should* have felt worse—I do
now—but in another way. I didn't think you'd
do such a thing, Jim! I honestly didn't."

He'd set down while I was talkin'. Now he got
up again.

"Skipper," he says, sort of broken, "I—I don't
know what to say to you. I—"

"It's all right," says I, pretty sharp. "Your
fifteen hundred's all right, I cal'late. The furniture
and fixin's are wuth that, I guess. Is there anything
else you want to ask me? If not I'm goin' to the
store."

I was turnin' to go, but he stepped for'ard and
stopped me.

"Zeb," he says, his face workin', "don't go away
mad. I've been a chump. You ought to hate me,
but I—I hope you won't. I was a fool. I thought
because you was country that you hadn't any head
for business, and when you wouldn't invest in that
Windmill proposition I was sore and went into it
myself. My conscience has plagued me ever since.
I'm a low-down chump. I deserve to lose the fifteen
hundred and I'm glad I did. By the Lord
Harry! you've got more real business instinct than
I ever dreamed of."

He looked so sort of weak and sick and pitiful
that I was awful sorry for him, in spite of everything.

"Don't talk foolish," says I. "You ain't lost
your money. It's yours now; at least I don't think
Brother Fred George Eben Frank Francis'll ever
turn up to claim it."

He shook his head. "Not much!" he says.
"You don't suppose I'll take a share in that hotel,
after you and your smart managin' saved it, do you?
I ain't quite as mean as that, no matter what you
think. No, sir, you've made good and the whole
property is yours. All I want you to do is to give
me another chance. If I live I'll show you how
thankful I—"

"There! there!" says I, all upset, "don't say
another word. Of course we'll hang together in
this, same as in everything else. Shake, and let's
forget it."

We shook hands and his was so thin and white I
felt worse than ever.

"Skipper," he says, "I can't thank—"

"No need to thank me," I cut in. "If you've
got to thank anybody, thank Mary Blaisdell. She's
been the brains of that eatin'-house concern ever
since I took hold of it. She's a wonder, that woman.
If she'd been my own sister she couldn't have done
more. I wish she was."

He looked at me, pretty queer.

"Skipper," says he, smilin', "if you wish that
you're a bigger chump than I've been, and that's
sayin' a heap."

What in the world he meant by that I didn't know—but
I didn't ask him. Not that I didn't think.
I'd been thinkin' a lot of foolish things lately, but
you could have cut my head off afore I said 'em out
loud, even to myself.

He came down to the store the next mornin' and
the sight of it seemed to be the very tonic he needed.
He got better day by day and pretty soon was his
own brisk self again. "The Sign of the Windmill"—by
the way, I'd changed the name on my own
hook and 'twas the "Sign of the Bluefish" now—done
fust rate all through the fall and when we
closed it we was sure that next summer it would be
a little gold mine for us. In fact, everything in the
trade line looked good, by-products and all, and I
ought to have been a happy man. But I wa'n't exactly.
Somehow or other I couldn't feel quite contented.
I didn't know what was the matter with
me and when I hinted as much to Jacobs he just
looked at me and laughed.

"You're lonesome, that's what's the matter with
you," he says. "You're too good a man to be
boardin' at a one-horse ranch like the Poquit."

"I'll admit that," says I. "I'll give in that I'm
next door to an angel and ought to wear wings, if
it'll please you any to have me say so. And the
Poquit ain't a paradise, by no means. But I've
sailed salt water for the biggest part of my life and
it ain't poor grub that ails me."

"Who said it was?" says he. "I said you were
lonesome. You ought to have a home."

"Old Mans' Home you mean, I s'pose. Well,
I ain't goin' there yet."

He laughed again and walked off.

In October he went up to Boston and came back
with his head full of new ideas and his pockets full
of notions. He'd been to what the advertisements
called the Industrial Exhibition in Mechanics'
Buildin' up there, and had fetched back every last
thing he could get for nothin' and some few that he
bought cheap. He had a sample trap that, accordin'
to the circular, would catch all the able-bodied rats
in a township the fust night and make all the crippled
and bedridden ones grieve themselves to death
of disappointment because they couldn't get into it
afore closin' hours. And he had the Gunners'
Pocket Companion, which was a foldin' hatchet and
butcher knife, with a corkscrew in the handle; and
samples of "cereal coffee" that didn't taste like
either cereal or coffee; and safety razors that were
warranted not to cut—and wouldn't; and—and I
don't know what all. These was side issues, however,
as you might say. What he was really enthusiastic
over was the Eureka Adjustable Aluminum
Window Screen. If he'd been a mosquito he
couldn't have been more anxious about them
screens.

"They're the greatest ever, Skipper!" he says
to me, enthusiastic. "Fit any window; can't rust—and
a child of twelve can put 'em up."

"That part don't count," says I. "Nowadays
if a child of twelve ain't halfway through Harvard
his folks send for the doctor. I may be a hayseed,
but I read the magazines."

He went right along, never payin' no attention,
and praisin' up them screens as if he was nominatin'
'em for office. Finally he made proclamation that
he'd applied—in the store name, of course—for
the Ostable County agency for 'em.

"But why?" says I. "We've got an adjustable
screen agency now. And they're good screens, too.
No mosquito can get through them—unless it takes
to usin' a can-opener, which wouldn't surprise me a
whole lot."

"I know they are good screens," says he; "but
there's nothin' new or novel about 'em. And, I
tell you, Cap'n Zeb, it's novelty that catches the coin.
We want to get the contract for screenin' that new
hotel at West Ostable. It'll be ready in a couple of
months and there's two hundred rooms in it. Let's
say there are two windows to a room; that's four
hundred screens—besides doors and all the rest.
That hotel will need screens, won't it?"

"Need 'em!" says I. "In West Ostable! In
among all them salt meadows and cedar swamps!
It'll need screens and nettin's and insect powder and
'intment—and even then nobody but the hard-of-hearin'
bo'rders'll be able to sleep on account of the
hummin'. Need screens! *That* hotel! My soul
and body!"

Well, then, we must get the contract—that's all.
It was well wuth the trouble of gettin'. And with
the Adjustable Aluminum to start with, and he, Jim
Henry, to do the talkin', we would get it. He'd
applied for the county agency and the Adjustable
folks had about decided to give it to him. They'd
write and let us know pretty soon.

A week went by and we didn't hear a word.
Then, on the followin' Monday but one, come a
letter. Jim Henry was openin' the mail and I heard
him rip loose a brisk remark.

"What's the matter?" says I.

"Matter!" he snarls. "Why, the miserable
four-flushers have turned me down—that's all.
Read that!"

I took the letter he handed me. It was type-wrote
on a big sheet of paper, with a printed head,
readin': "Ormstein & Meyer, Hardware and
Tools. Manufacturers of Eureka Adjustable Aluminum
Window Screens." And this is what it said:

    *Mr. J. H. Jacobs*,

    *Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes and
    Fancy Goods Store, Ostable, Mass.*

    :small-caps:`Dear Sir`: Regarding your application for Ostable
    County ag'y Eureka Adjustable Aluminum Window
    Screens, would say that we have decided to give
    ag'y to party named Geo. Lentz, who will give entire
    time to it instead making it a side issue as per
    your conversation with our Mr. Meyer. Regretting
    that we cannot do business together in this regard,
    but trusting for a continuance of your valued patronage,
    we remain

    Yours truly,

                 :small-caps:`Ormstein & Meyer.`

    Dic. M—L. G.

"Now what do you think of that?" snaps Jim,
mad as he could stick. "What do you think of
that!"

"Well," says I, slow, "I think that, speakin' as
a man in the crosstrees, it looks as if you and me
wouldn't furnish screens for the West Ostable Hotel."

He half shut his eyes and stared at me hard.

"Oh!" says he. "That's what you think,
hey?"

"Why, yes," I says. "Don't you?"

"No!" he sings out, so loud that 'Dolph Cahoon,
our new clerk, who'd been half asleep in the lee of
the gingham and calico dressgoods counter, jumped
up and stepped on the store cat. The cat beat
for port down the back stairs, whoopin' comments,
and 'Dolph begun measurin' calico as if he was
wound up for eight days.

"No!" says Jacobs again, soon as the cat's opinion
of 'Dolph had faded away into the cellar—"No!"
he says. "I don't think it at all. We
may not sell Eureka Adjustables to that hotel, but
we'll sell screens to it—and don't you forget that.
I'll make it my business to get that contract if I
don't do anything else. I'm no quitter, if you are!"

"Nary quit!" says I. "I'll stand by to pull
whatever rope I can; but it does seem to me that
this agent, whoever he is, will have an eye on that
hotel. And, accordin' to your accounts, he's got
better goods than we have."

"Maybe. But if he's a better salesman than I
am he'll have to go some to prove it. I'll beat him,
by fair means or foul, just to get even. That's a
promise, Skipper, and I call you to witness it."

"Wonder who this Geo. Lentz is," says I.
"'Tain't a Cape name, that's sure."

"I don't care who he is. I only wish he'd have
the nerve to come into this store—that's all. He'd
go out on the fly—I tell you that! And that's another
promise."

Maybe 'twas; but, if so—However, I'm a little
mite ahead of myself; fust come fust served, as
the youngest boy said when the father undertook to
thrash the whole family. The fust thing that happened
after our talk and the Eureka folks' letter was
Jim Henry's goin' over to West Ostable to see
Parkinson, the hotel man. He went in the new runabout
automobile that he'd bought since he got back
from the West, and was gone pretty nigh all day.
When he got back he was hopeful—I could see
that.

"Well," says he, "I've laid the cornerstone.
I've talked the Nonesuch"—that was the brand of
screen we carried—"to beat the cars; and we'll have
a show to get in a bid, at any rate. It'll be six weeks
more afore the contract's given out, and meantime
yours truly will be on the job. If our old college
chum, G. Lentz, Esquire, don't hustle he'll be left at
the post."

"What sort of a chap is this Parkinson man?"
I asked.

"Oh, he's all right; big and fat and good-natured.
A good feller, I should say. Likes automobilin',
too, and thinks my car is a winner."

"Married, is he?" says I.

"No; he's a widower. That's a good thing, too."

"Why? What's that got to do with it?"

"A whole lot. If he was married I'd have to
take Mrs. P. along on our auto rides; and—let
alone the fact that there wouldn't be room—she'd
want to talk scenery instead of screens. Women
and business don't mix. That's one reason why I've
never married."

I couldn't help thinkin' of some of the hints he'd
been heavin' at me—the "home" remarks and so
on—but I never said nothin'.

This was a Tuesday. And when, on Thursday
afternoon, I walked into the store, after havin' had
dinner at the Poquit, I found 'Dolph Cahoon—our
new clerk I've mentioned already—leanin' graceful
and easy over the candy counter and talkin' with
a young woman I'd never seen afore. I didn't look
at her very close, but I got a sort of general observation
as I walked aft to the post-office department;
and, sifted down, that observation left me with remembrances
of a blue serge jacket and skirt, cut
clipper fashion and fittin' as if they was built for the
craft that was in 'em; a little blue hat—a real hat;
not a velvet tar barrel upside down—with a little
white gull's wing on it; brown eyes and brown hair,
and a white collar and shirtwaist. I didn't stop to
hail, you understand; but I judged that the stranger's
home port wa'n't Ostable or any of the Cape towns.
Ostable outfitters don't rig 'em that way.

I come in the side door, and 'Dolph or his customer
didn't notice me. The young woman was
lookin' into the showcase; and, as for 'Dolph, he
wouldn't have noticed the President of the United
States just then. He was twirlin' his red mustache
with the hand that had the rock-crystal ring on the
finger of it, and his talk was a sort of sugared purr—at
least, that's the nighest description of it that
I can get at.

I set down in my chair at the postmaster's desk
and begun to turn over some papers. Mary had
gone to dinner and Jim Henry was away in his auto;
so I was all alone. I turned over the papers, but I
couldn't get my mind on 'em—the talk outside was
too prevailin', so to speak.

'Dolph was doin' the heft of it. The young
woman's answers was short and not too interested.
'Dolph was remarkin' about the weather and what
a dull winter we'd had, and how glad he'd be when
spring really set in and the summer folks begun to
come—and so on.

"Really," says he, and though I couldn't see him
I'd have bet that the mustache and ring was doin'
business—"Really," he says, "there's a dreadful
lack of cultivated society in this town, Miss—er—"

He held up here, waitin', I judged, for the young
woman to give her name. However, she didn't; so
he purred ahead.

"There's so few folks," he says, "for a young
feller like me—used to the city—to associate with.
This is a jay place all right. I'm only here temporary.
I shall go back to Brockton in the fall, I
guess."

*I* guessed he'd go sooner; but I kept still.

"Are you goin' to remain here for some time?"
he asked.

"Possibly," says the girl.

"I'm 'fraid you'll find it pretty dull, won't you?"

"Perhaps."

"I should be glad to introduce you to the folks
that are worth knowin'. Are you fond of dancin'?
There's a subscription ball at the town hall to-night."

This was what a lawyer'd call a leadin' question,
seemed to me; but the answer didn't seem to lead to
anything warmer than the North Pole. The young
woman said, "Indeed?" and that was all.

"I'm perfectly dippy about waltzin'," says 'Dolph.
"By the way, won't you have some confectionery?
These chocolates are pretty fair."

I riz to my feet. I don't mind bein' a philanthropist
once in a while, but I like to do my philanthropin'
fust-hand. And them chocolates sold for sixty cents
a pound!

I had my hand on the doorknob. Just as I turned
it I heard the young woman say, crisp and cold as a
fresh cucumber:

"Pardon me, but will your employer be in soon?
If not I'll call again—when he is in."

"You won't have to," says I, steppin' out of the
post-office room and walkin' over toward the candy
counter. "One of him's in now. 'Dolph, you can
put them chocolates back in the case. Oh, yes—and
you might associate yourself with the broom and
waltz out and sweep the front platform. It's been
needin' your cultivated society bad."

The rest of that clerk's face turned as red as his
mustache, and the way he slammed the chocolate
box into the showcase was a caution! Then I turned
to the young woman, who was as sober as a deacon,
except for her eyes, which were snappin' with fun,
and says I:

"You wanted to see me, I believe, miss. My
name's Zebulon Snow and I'm one of the partners
in this jay place. What can I do for you?"

She waited until 'Dolph and the broom had moved
out to the platform. Then she turned to me and she
says:

"Captain Snow," she says, "I understand that
your firm here is intendin' puttin' in a bid for the
window screens at the new hotel at West Ostable.
Is that so?"

I was consider'ble surprised, but I didn't see any
reason why I shouldn't tell the truth.

"Why, yes, ma'am," says I; "we are figgerin'
on the job. Are you interested in that hotel? If
you are I'd be glad to show you samples of the
Nonesuch screen. We cal'late that it's a mighty
slick article."

She smiled, pretty as a picture.

"I am interested in the hotel," she says; "and in
screens, though not exactly in the way you mean,
perhaps. Here is my card."

She took a little leather wallet out of her jacket-pocket
and handed me a card. I took it. 'Twas
printed neat as could be; but it wa'n't the neatness
of the printin' that set me all aback, with my canvas
flappin'—'twas what that printin' said:


.. class:: center

   | GEORGIANNA LENTZ
   |
   | :small-caps:`Ostable County Agent for the`
   | :small-caps:`Eureka Adjustable Aluminum Window Screen`

"What?—What!—Hey?" says I.

"Yes," says she.

"Agent for the Eureka Adjusta—You!"

"Why, yes; of course. The Eureka people wrote
you that they had given me the agency, didn't
they?"

I rubbed my forehead.

"They wrote my partner and me," I stammered,
"that they'd given it to—to a feller named George—er—that
is—"

"Not George—Georgianna. Oh, I see! They
abbreviated the name and so you thought—Of
course you did. How odd!"

She laughed. I'd have laughed too, maybe, if
I'd had sense enough to think of it; but I hadn't, just
then.

"You the agent!" says I. "A—a woman!"

"Yes."

"But—but a woman!"

"Well?" pretty crisp. "I admit I am a woman;
but is that any reason why I should not sell window
screens?"

I rubbed my forehead some more. These are
progressive days we're livin' in, and sometimes I have
to hustle to keep abreast of 'em.

"Why, no," says I, slow; "I cal'late 'tain't. I
suppose there's no law against a woman's sellin'
'most any article that is salable, window screens
or anything else if she wants to; but I can't
see—"

"Why she should want to? Perhaps not. However,
we needn't go into that just now. The fact is
I do want to and intend to. I have secured a
boardin' place here in Ostable and shall make the
town my headquarters. This is a small community
and one naturally prefers to be friendly with all the
people in it. So, after thinkin' the matter over, I
decided that it was best to begin with a clear understandin'.
Do you follow me?"

"I—I guess so. Heave ahead; I'll do my best
to keep you in sight. If the weather gets too thick
I'll sound the foghorn. Go on."

"I am naturally desirous of securin' the hotel
screen contract. So, I understand, are you. I have
seen Mr. Parkinson, the hotel man, and he tells me
that your firm and mine will probably be the only
bidders. Now that makes us rivals, but it need not
necessarily make us enemies. My proposition is this:
You will submit your bid and I will submit mine.
The party submittin' the lowest bid—quality of
product considered—will win. I propose that we
let it go in that way. We might, of course, do a
great many other things—might attempt to bring
influence to bear; might—well, might cultivate Mr.
Parkinson's acquaintance, and—and so on. You
might do that—so might I, I suppose; but, for my
part, I prefer to make this a fair, honorable business
rivalry, in which the best man—er—"

"Or woman," I couldn't help puttin' in.

"In which the best bid wins. I have already
demonstrated the Eureka for Mr. Parkinson's benefit
and left a sample with him. He tells me that you
have done the same with the Nonesuch. I will agree—if
you will—to let the matter rest there, submittin'
our respective bids when the time comes and
abidin' by the result. Now what do you say?"

'Twas pretty hard to say anything. I wanted to
laugh; but I couldn't do that. If there ever was
anybody in dead earnest 'twas this partic'lar young
woman. And she wa'n't the kind to laugh at either.
She might be in a queer sort of business for a female—but
she was nobody's fool.

"Well," she asks again, "what do you say?"

I shook my head. "I can't say anything very
definite just this minute," I told her. "I've got a
partner, and naturally I can't do much without consultin'
him; but I will say this, though," noticin' that
she looked pretty disappointed—"I'll say that, fur's
I'm concerned, I'm agreeable."

She smiled and, as I cal'late I've said afore, her
smile was wuth lookin' at.

"Thank you so much, Cap'n Snow," she says.
"Then we shall be friends, sha'n't we? Except in
business, I mean."

"I hope so—sartin," says I. "Now it ain't
none of my affairs, of course, but I am curious. How
did you ever happen to take the agency for—for
window screens?"

That made her serious right off. She might smile
at other things, but not at her trade; that was life
and death for sure.

"I took it," she says, "for several reasons. My
mother died recently and I was left alone. My
means were not sufficient to support me. I have
done office work, typewritin', and so on, for some
years; but I felt that the opportunities in the positions
I held were limited and I determined to take
up sellin'—that is where the larger returns are.
Don't you think so?"

"Oh, yes—sartin."

"Yes. I knew Mr. Meyer slightly in a business
way. I took the Eureka screen and sold it on commission
about Boston for a time. Then I applied
for the Ostable County agency and got it—that's
all."

"I see," says I. "Yes, yes. Well, I must say
that, for a girl, you—"

She interrupted me quick.

"I don't see that my bein' a girl has anything to
do with it," she says. "And in this agreement of
ours, if it is made, I don't wish the difference of sex
considered at all. This is a business proposition
and sex has nothin' to do with it. Is that plain?"

"Yes," says I, considerin', "it's plain; but I ain't
sure that—"

"I am sure," she interrupts—"and you must be.
I wish to be treated in this matter exactly as if I
were a man. I wish I were one!"

"I doubt if you'd get most men to agree with
you in that wish," I says. "However, never mind.
I'll do my best to get Mr. Jacobs, my partner, to
say 'Yes' to your proposal. And I hope you'll do
fust-rate, even if we are what you call rivals. Drop
in any time, Miss Georg—Georgianna, I mean."

We shook hands and she went away. I went as
fur as the platform with her. When I turned to go
in again I noticed 'Dolph Cahoon starin' after her,
with his eyes and mouth open.

"Gosh!" says he, grinnin'. "By gosh! She's
a peach! Ain't she, Cap'n Zeb?"

"Maybe so," says I, pretty short; "but I don't
recollect that we hired you as a judge of fruit. Has
that broom took root in the dirt on this platform?
Or what is the matter?"




CHAPTER XIII—WHAT CAME THROUGH THE SCREEN
=========================================


Jacobs come in late that afternoon.

"Say," says he, "there was a sample of the
Eureka screen in Parkinson's office when I was
there just now. He wouldn't say who left it or
anything about it. When I asked he grinned and
winked. That's all. Confound his fat head! Do
you know where it came from?"

"I can guess," I says; and then I told him the
whole yarn. He was as surprised as I was to find
out that Geo. Lentz was a female; but it only made
him madder than ever—if such a thing's possible.

"Wants to be treated like a man, does she?" he
says. "All right; we'll treat her like one. She
may be Georgianna, but she'll get just what was
comin' to George."

"Then you won't agree to puttin' in the bids and
lettin' it go at that?"

"I'll agree to get that screen contract, all right!"
says he, emphatic.

I was kind of sorry for Miss Lentz; but Jim Henry
was my partner, so there wa'n't nothin' more to be
said. We didn't mention the subject again for two
days. However, I did hear from the Eureka agent
durin' that time. 'Twas 'Dolph that I got my news
of her from. I was tellin' Mary Blaisdell about her
and Cahoon happened to be standin' by.

"So she boards here in Ostable," says Mary. "I
wonder where."

Afore I could answer 'Dolph spoke up. "She's
stoppin' at Maria Berry's, down on the Neck Road,"
he says.

"How did you know?" I asked.

He looked sort of silly. "Oh, I found out," says
he, and walked off.

The very next evenin', as I was strollin' along the
sidewalk, smokin' my good-night pipe, I happened
to see somebody turn the corner from the Neck Road
and hurry by me. I thought his gait and build were
pretty familiar, so I turned and followed. When he
got abreast the lighted windows of the billiard saloon
I recognized him. 'Twas 'Dolph, all togged out in
his Sunday-go-to-meetin' duds, light fall overcoat
and all.

"Humph!" says I to myself. "So that's how
you knew, hey? Been callin' on her, have you?
Well, she may not hanker for my sympathy, but she
has it just the same. I swan, I thought she had better
taste! I'm surprised!"

The followin' mornin', however, I was more
surprised still. I had an errand that made me late at
the store. When I came in who should I see talkin'
together but Jacobs and a young woman; the young
woman was Miss Georgianna Lentz. They ought
to have been quarrelin', 'cordin' to all reasonable
expectations; but they wa'n't. Fact is, they seemed
as friendly as could be. You'd have thought they
was old chums to see 'em.

Georgianna sighted me fust.

"Good mornin', Cap'n Snow," says she. "Mr.
Jacobs and I have made each other's acquaintance,
you see."

"Yes," says I, doubtful. "I see you have. I
cal'late you think it's kind of unreasonable, our
not—"

Jim Henry cut in ahead of me quick as a flash.

"Miss Lentz and I have been goin' over the matter
of screens for Parkinson's hotel," he says. "I
tell her that her proposition suits us down to the
ground."

Over I went on my beam-ends again. All I could
think of to say was: "Hey?"—and I said that
pretty feeble.

"It is very nice of you to do this," says Georgianna.
"It makes it so much easier for me. Of
course, when I decided to make business my life-work,
I realized that I might be called upon to do
disagreeable things like—like wire-pullin', and so
on, which some business people do; but honorable
rivalry is so much better, isn't it?"

"Sure!" says Jacobs, prompt. "Yes, indeed."

"So it is all settled," she went on. "Our bids
are to go in on the same day; and meantime neither
of us is to call on Mr. Parkinson or to meet him—in
a business way, I mean."

I nodded, bein' still too upset to talk; but Jim
Henry spoke quick and prompt.

"What do you mean," he asks—"in a business
way?"

"Why," says she—and it seemed to me that she
reddened a little—"I mean that—well, if we
should meet him by accident we wouldn't talk about
screens or the hotel contract. Of course one can't
help meetin' people sometimes. For instance, I
happened to meet Mr. Parkinson yesterday. He
had driven over and happened to be in the vicinity
of the house where I board. I was goin' out for
a walk, and he stopped his horse and spoke."

"Oh," says I, "he did, hey?" Jim Henry didn't
say nothin'.

"Yes," she says; "but I didn't talk about the contract.
Though our agreement wasn't actually made
then, I hoped that it would be. Good mornin'; I
must be goin'."

She started for the door, but she turned to say
one more thing.

"Of course," she says, decided, "it is understood
that you haven't agreed to my proposal simply because
I am a girl. If that was the case I shouldn't
permit it. I insist upon bein' treated exactly as if
I were a man. You must promise that—both of
you."

"Sure! Sure! That's understood," says Jacobs.

I said "Sure!" too, but my tone wa'n't quite so
sartin. She went out, Jim Henry goin' with her
as fur as the door. I follered him.

"Say," says I, "next time you turn a back somerset
like this I'd like to know about it in advance.
I've got a weak heart."

He didn't answer me at all. He was starin' down
the road, just as 'Dolph had stared when the Eureka
agent called the fust time.

"Say, Jim—" says I. He didn't turn or move;
didn't seem to hear me. I touched him on the shoulder
and he jumped and come about.

"Eh—what?" he says.

"Nothin'," says I, "only I want to know why—that's
all."

"Why?" says he. "Oh!—you mean what
made me change my mind? Well, I just thought it
over and decided we might as well agree. Agreein'
don't do any harm, you know. Hey, Skipper?
Ha-ha!"

He slapped me on the shoulder and laughed.
The laugh seemed too big for the joke and sounded
a little mite forced, I thought.

"Yes, yes! Ha-ha!" says I. "But your
changin' from lion to lamb so sudden—"

"What are you talkin' about? I've got a right
to change my mind, ain't I?"

"Sartin sure. But you was so set on gettin' that
contract."

"Well, I ain't said I wasn't goin' to get it, have
I? We're goin' to put in a bid, ain't we? What's
the matter with you?"

"Nothin' at all; but *your* breakfast don't seem to
have set extry well! However, it takes two to make
a row, and I'm peaceful, myself. What do you
think of the rival entry? Kind of a nice-appearin'
girl—don't you think so?"

He whirled round and looked at me as if he
thought I was crazy.

"Nice-appearin'!" he says. "Nice-ap—Why,
she's—"

Then he pulled up short and headed for the back
room.

Nothin' of much importance happened for a while
after that. And yet there was somethin'—two or
three somethin's—that had a bearin' on the case.
One was the change in 'Dolph Cahoon. For a few
days after that night I met him on the road he was
as gay and chipper as a blackbird in a pear tree—happy
even when I made him work, which was surprisin'
enough. And then, all to once, he turned
glum and ugly. Wouldn't speak and seemed to be
broodin' over his troubles all day long. I had my
suspicions; and so, one time when him and me was
alone, I hove over a little mite of bait just to see
if he'd rise to it.

"Seen anything of the Lentz girl lately?" I asked,
casual.

"Naw," says he, "and I don't want to, neither!
She's a bird, she is! Too stuck up to speak to common
folks. Everybody's gettin' on to her—you
bet! She won't make many friends in this town."

I grinned to myself. Thinks I: "I guess,
young man, Georgianna's handed you your walkin'
papers. You won't go down the Neck Road any
more!"

And yet, an evenin' or so after that, I see somebody
go down that road. I didn't see him plain,
but I'd have almost taken my oath 'twas Jim Henry
Jacobs. It couldn't be, of course—and yet—

Well, two days later, I took back the "yet." I
happened to be standin' at the side door of the store,
lookin' across the fields, when I saw an auto with
two people in it sailin' along the crossroad from the
east'ard. 'Twas a runabout auto—and I looked
and looked! Then I called to 'Dolph.

"'Dolph," says I, "come here! Who's
automobile's that? If I didn't know Mr. Jacobs was
off takin' orders in Denboro I should say 'twas his."

'Dolph looked.

"Humph!" says he—"'tis his. He's drivin' it
himself. But who's that with him? What? Well,
by gosh! if it ain't that stuck-up Georgianna Lentz!"

"Get out!" says I. "The softness of your heart
has struck to your head. It's likely he'd be takin'
her to ride, ain't it!"

And then Jacobs looked up and sighted us standin'
in the doorway. His machine hadn't been goin'
slow afore—now it fairly jumped off the ground
and flew. In a minute there was nothin' but a dust-cloud
in the offin'.

He came in about noon. I didn't say nothin',
but I guess my face was enough. He looked at me,
turned away—and then turned back again.

"Well," he says, loud and cheerful, "you saw us,
didn't you? I was goin' to tell you, anyway, soon
as I got the chance."

"Oh," says I, "I want to know!"

"Sure, I was. Of course you see through the
game."

"The game?"

"Why, yes, yes! The game I'm playin'—the
game that's goin' to get us that screen contract!
Oh, I wasn't born yesterday. I knew a thing or
two. This—er—Lentz girl and you and me have
agreed not to go near Parkinson till the contract's
given out; but Parkinson ain't promised not to go
near her! He's been over there two or three times
lately, and that won't do. He's a widower, and—"

"A widower!" I put in. "What's that got to
do with it?"

"Oh, nothin'—nothin'. Just a joke, that's
all. But I realized right away that she and he
mustn't be together or he'll make her talk screens
in spite of herself, and that'll be dangerous for us.
So, says I to myself, 'Jim Henry,' says I, 'it's up to
you. You must keep her out of his way.' That's
why I've been goin' to see her once in a while and—and
takin' her to ride, and—and so on. See?
Oh, I'm wise! You trust your old doctor of sick
businesses."

He'd been talkin' a blue streak. Seemed almost
as if he was afraid I'd say somethin' afore he could
say it all. Now he stopped to get his breath and
I put in a word.

"So," says I, slow, "that's why you're doin' it,
hey? But ain't that—You know you promised
to treat her just as if she was a man!"

"Well, ain't I?" he snaps—hotter than was
needful, I thought. "If she was a man I'd make
it my business to keep her in sight, wouldn't I?
Well, then! I never saw such a chap as you are for
lookin' for trouble when there isn't any."

He stalked off. I follered him; and as I done so
I noticed 'Dolph Cahoon duck behind the calico
counter. I judged he'd heard every word.

The finishin' work on the hotel hustled along and
inside of a month we got word that 'twas time to
put in our bid. Jacobs and I figured and figured till
we got the price down to the last cent we thought
it could stand, and then we sent our proposition over
to Parkinson by mail.

"Wonder if Miss Georgianna's sent hers in," I
says, casual.

"Oh, yes," says Jim, prompt; "she is goin' to
mail it this morning'."

I didn't ask him how he knew. His chasin' round
and keepin' watch on a girl who was as fair-minded
and square as she was had always seemed too much
like spyin' to please me, and I cal'lated he knew how
I felt—at any rate he'd scurcely spoke her name
since the day when I saw 'em autoin' together. But
now I did say that, so long as the bids was in, it
wouldn't be necessary for him to keep his eye on her
any longer.

He looked at me kind of queer. "Umph!" he
says; "maybe not!" And he walked away to
attend to a customer.

That afternoon he took his car and went off on
his reg'lar order trip to Denboro and Bayport
and round. 'Dolph Cahoon and I was alone in the
front part of the store. 'Dolph seemed to be in
mighty good spirits—for him—and kept chucklin'
to himself in a way I couldn't understand. At last
he says to me, lookin' back to be sure that Mary
Blaisdell, in the post-office department, couldn't
hear—

"Cap'n Zeb," he says, "what would you give the
feller that got the screen contract for you?"

"Give him?" I says. "What feller do you mean—Parkinson?
I wouldn't give him a cent! I
ain't a briber and I don't think he's a grafter."

"I don't mean Parkinson," he says, chucklin'.
"But, suppose somebody else had been workin' for
you on the quiet, what would you give him?"

I looked him over.

"Look here, 'Dolph," says I; "I never try to
guess a riddle till I hear the whole of it. What
are you drivin' at?"

He grinned. "I know who's goin' to get that
contract," he says.

"You do. Who is it?"

"The Ostable Store's goin' to get it. Your bid's
a little mite the lowest. Parkinson told me so last
night."

"Parkinson told you!" I sung out. "How did
you happen to see Parkinson?"

He winked.

"Oh, I saw him!" says he. "I've seen him a
good many times lately. I made it my business to
see him. He was pretty stuck on the Eureka till
I got after him and I cal'late he'd have contracted
for Eurekas, bid or no bid. But I put in my licks;
I've drove over to West Ostable four nights and
two Sundays in the last fortni't. And didn't I
preach Nonesuch to him! He-he! You bet I did!
And last night he said he was goin' to give us the
job. Oh, I fixed that stuck-up Georgianna Lentz!
I got even with her. He-he-he!"

I never was madder in my life. I took two steps
toward him with my fists doubled up.

"You whelp!" says I—and then I stopped short.
The Lentz girl herself was walkin' in at the front
door.

"Good mornin', Cap'n Snow," she says, holdin'
out her hand. She paid no more attention to 'Dolph
than if he'd been a graven image. "Good mornin',"
says she. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

I was past carin' about the weather.

"Miss Georgianna," says I, "I'm glad you come
in. I've got somethin' to tell you. I've got to beg
your pardon for somethin' that ain't my fault or
Mr. Jacobs', either. You and my partner and me
had an agreement not to go nigh Parkinson or try
to influence him in any way. Well, unbeknown to
me, that agreement has been broke."

She stared at me, too astonished to speak.

"It's been broke," says I. "That—that critter
there," pointin' to 'Dolph, "has been sneakin—"

'Dolph's face had been gettin' redder and redder,
I cal'late he thought I'd praise him for his doin's;
and when he found I wouldn't, but was goin' to give
the whole thing away, he blew up like a leaky b'iler.

"I ain't been sneakin'!" he yelled. "And I ain't
broke no agreement, neither. You and Mr. Jacobs
agreed—but I never. I see Parkinson on my own
hook; and if it hadn't been for me he wouldn't be
goin' to give you the contract."

.. figure:: images/illus4.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: 'I ain't been sneakin'!' he yelled.

   'I ain't been sneakin'!' he yelled.

There 'twas, out of the bag. I looked at Georgianna.
Her pretty face went white. That contract
meant all creation to her; but she stood up to the
news like a major. She was plucky, that girl!

"Oh!" she says. "Oh! Then he has given
you the contract? I—I congratulate you, Cap'n
Snow."

"Don't congratulate me," says I. "The contract
ain't been given yet, though this pup says it's goin'
to be; but, as for me, if I'd known what was goin'
on I'd have stopped it mighty quick! I'm honorable
and decent, and so's Jacobs; and we don't take
underhanded advantages."

'Dolph bust out from astern of the counter.

"You don't, hey!" says he. "I want to know!
How about Jacobs' takin' her to ride and callin' on
her, and pretendin' to be dead gone on her? What
did he do that for? You know as well as I do.
'Twas so's to keep a watch on her, and not let
Parkinson see her and be influenced into buyin'
Eureka screens. You know it!"

My own face grew red now, I cal'late.

"You—you—" I begun. "You miserable
liar—"

"'Tain't a lie," says he. "I heard him tell you
with my own ears. He said all he was beauin' her
round for was just that. If that ain't a underhanded
trick then I don't know what is."

I wanted to say lots more; but, afore I could get
my talkin' machinery to runnin', the Lentz girl herself
spoke.

"Is that true, Cap'n Snow?" says she.

I was set back forty fathom.

"Well, miss," says I, "I—I—"

"Is that true?" says she.

I got out my handkerchief and swabbed my forehead.

"Well, Miss Georgianna," says I, "I'll tell you.
Jim Henry—Mr. Jacobs, I mean—did say somethin'
like that; but—but—Well, you wanted to
be treated like a salesman, and—er—Mr. Jacobs
would have kept his eye on a man, you know; and
so—and so—"

I stopped again. 'Twas the shoalest water ever
I cruised in. All I could do was mop away with the
handkerchief and look at Georgianna. And she—well,
the color, and plenty of it, begun to come back
to her cheeks. And how her brown eyes did
flash!

"I see," she says, slow and so frosty I pretty nigh
shivered. "I—see!"

"Well," says I, "'tain't anything I'm proud of,
I will admit; but—"

"One moment, if you please. You haven't actually
got the contract yet?"

"No. As I told you, all I know is what this consarned
fo'mast hand of mine says. For what he's
done, I'm ashamed as I can be. As for Mr. Jacobs,
I know he did keep to the letter of the agreement,
anyhow. For the rest—Well, all's fair in love
and war, they say—and there's precious little love
in business."

She looked at me, with a queer little smile about
the corners of her lips, though her eyes wa'n't smilin',
by a consider'ble sight.

"Isn't there?" she says. "I—I wonder.
Good-by, Cap'n Snow. You might tell Mr. Jacobs
not to order those Nonesuch screens just yet."

Out she went; and for the next five minutes I had
a real enjoyable time. I told 'Dolph Cahoon just
what I thought of him—that took four of the minutes;
durin' the other one I fired him and run him
out of the office by the scruff of the neck.

Then Mary Blaisdell and me held officers' council,
and that ended by our decidin' not to tell Jim Henry
that the Lentz girl knew why he'd been so friendly
with her. It wouldn't do any good and might make
him feel bad. Besides, the contract was as good as
got, 'cordin' to 'Dolph's yarn; and 'twa'n't likely
he'd see Georgianna again, anyway. When he come
back I told him I'd fired Cahoon for bein' no good
and sassy, and he agreed I'd done just right.

When I said good night to him he was chipper
as could be; but next day he was blue as a whetstone—and
the blueness seemed to strike in, so to speak.
He didn't take any interest in anything—moped
round, glum and ugly; and I couldn't get him to talk
at all. If I mentioned the screen contract he shut
up like a quahaug, and only once did he give an
opinion about it. That opinion was a surprisin' one,
though.

Alpheus Perkins was in the store, and says he:

"Say, Mr. Jacobs," he says, "is old Parkinson,
the hotel man, cal'latin' to get married again? I
see him out ridin' with a girl yesterday? That
female screen drummer—that Georgianna Lentz,
'twas. She's a daisy, ain't she! I don't blame him
much for takin' a shine to her."

Jim Henry didn't make any answer; but, knowin'
what I did, I was a little surprised.

"Jim," says I, "that contract—"

"D—n the contract!" says he, and cleared out
and left us.

I was astonished, but I guessed 'twas a healthy
plan to keep my hatches closed.

When I opened the mail a few mornin's later I
found a letter with the West Ostable Hotel's name
printed on the envelope. I figgered I knew what
was inside. Thinks I: "Here's the acceptance of
our bid!" But my figgers was on the wrong side
of the ledger. Parkinson wrote just a few words,
but they was enough. After considerin' the matter
careful, he wrote, he had decided the Eureka to be
a better screen than the Nonesuch; and, though our
bid was a trifle lower, he should give the Eureka
folks the contract.

"Well!" says I out loud. "Well, I'll—be—blessed!"

Jim Henry was settin' at his desk—we was all
alone in the store—and he looked up.

"What are you askin' a blessin' over?" says he.

I handed him the letter. He read it through and
set for a full minute without speakin'. Then he
slammed it into the wastebasket and got up and
started to go away.

"For thunder sakes!" I sung out. "What ails
you? Ain't you goin' to say nothin' at all?"

"What is there to say?" he asked, gruff.
"We're stung—and that's the end of it."

"But—but—don't you realize—Why, our
bid was the lowest! And yet the contract—"

He whirled on me savage.

"Didn't I tell you," says he, "that I didn't give
a durn about the contract?"

"You don't! *You* don't! Then who on airth
does?"

"I don't know and I don't care!"

"You don't care! I swan to man! Why, 'twas
you that swore you'd put the screens in that hotel
or die tryin'. You said 'twas a matter of principle
with you. And now that the Eureka folks have
beat us by some shenanigan or other—for our bid
was lower than theirs—you say you don't care!
Have you gone loony? What *do* you care
about?"

"Nothin'—much," says he, and flopped down in
his chair again.

I stared at him. All at once I begun to see a
light. You'd have thought anybody that wa'n't
stone blind would have seen it afore—but I hadn't.
You see, I cal'lated that I knew him from trunk to
keelson, and so it never once occurred to me. I riz
and walked over to him. Just as I done so, I heard
the front door open and shut, but I figgered 'twas
Mary comin' back, and didn't even look. I laid my
hand on his shoulder.

"Jim," says I, "I guess likely I understand. I
declare I'm sorry! And yet I wouldn't wonder
if—"

I didn't go on. He wa'n't payin' any attention,
but was lookin' over the top of his desk—lookin'
with all the eyes in his head. I looked, too, and
caught my breath with a jerk. The person who'd
come in wa'n't Mary Blaisdell, but Georgianna
Lentz.

She saw us and walked straight down to where we
was. She was kind of pale and her eyes looked as
if she'd been awake all night; but when she spoke
'twas right to the point—there wa'n't any hesitation
about her.

"Cap'n Snow," says she, "have you heard from
Mr. Parkinson?"

"Yes," says I, wonderin; "we've heard. We
don't understand exactly, but perhaps that ain't
necessary. I cal'late all there is left for us to do
is to offer congratulations and 'go 'way back and
set down,' as the boys say. You've got the contract."

"Yes," she says; "it has been given to me.
But—"

Jim Henry stood up. "You'll excuse me," he
says, sharp. "I'm busy."

He started to go, but she stopped him.

"No," she says; "I want you both to hear what
I've got to say. Mr. Parkinson gave me the
contract yesterday; but I have decided not to take
it."

We both looked at her.

"You—you've what?" says I. "Not take it?
You want it, don't you?"

"Yes," she says, quiet but determined, "I want
it—or I did want it very, very much. It meant
so much to me—now—and might mean a great
deal more in the future; but I can't take it."

This was too many for me. I looked at Jacobs.
He didn't say a word.

"I can't take it," says Georgianna, "under the
circumstances. I don't feel that I got it fairly. We
agreed, you and I, that no personal influence should
be brought to bear upon Mr. Parkinson; and I"—she
blushed a little, but kept right on—"I have seen
Mr. Parkinson several times durin' the past week."

I thought of her bein' to ride with the hotel man,
but I didn't say anything. Jim Henry, though,
started again to go. And again she stopped him.

"Wait, please!" she went on. "I didn't go to
him—you must understand that! But after what
you, Cap'n Snow, and that Mr. Cahoon told me the
other day I was hurt and angry. I felt that you had
broken your agreement with me. So when Mr.
Parkinson came to see me I didn't avoid him as I
had been doin'. I—I accepted invitations for
drives with him, and—and—Oh, don't you see?
I couldn't take the contract. I couldn't! What
would you think of me? What would I think of
myself? No, my mind is made up. I'm afraid"—with
a half smile that had more tears than fun in it—"that
my experience in business hasn't been a success.
I shall give it up and go back to stenography—or
somethin'. There! Good-by. I'm sure that the
Nonesuch screen will win now. Good-by!"

And now 'twas she that started to go and Jim
Henry that stopped her.

"Wait!" says he, sharp. "There's somethin'
here I don't understand. What do you mean by
what the Cap'n and Cahoon told you the other day?
Skipper, what have you been doin'?"

I wished there was a crack or a knothole handy
for me to crawl into; but there wa'n't, so I braced
up best I could.

"Why, Jim," says I, "I ain't told you the whole
of that business I fired 'Dolph for. Seems he'd been
seein' Parkinson on his own hook and pullin' wires
for the Nonesuch. 'Twas a sneakin' mean trick,
and I knew 'twould make you mad same as it done
me; so I didn't tell you. 'Twas for that I bounced
him."

Jim Henry's fists shut.

"The toad!" says he. "I wish I'd been there.
Wait till I get my hands on him! I'll—"

"But you mustn't," put in Georgianna. "I hope
you don't think I care what such a creature as he
might do. When I first came here he—Oh, why
can't people forget that I'm a girl!"

I could have answered that, but I didn't. Jacobs
asked another question.

"Then, if it wa'n't 'Dolph, who was it?" says he.
"Parkinson?"

"No!" with a flash of her eyes. "Certainly not.
Mr. Parkinson is a gentleman; but—but I don't
like him—that is, I don't dislike him exactly;
but—"

She was dreadful fussed up. Jim Henry was
between her and the door, though, and he kept right
on with his questions.

"Then what was the trouble?" he said, brisk.

I answered for her.

"Well, Jim," says I, "there was somethin' else.
You see, 'Dolph got mad when I sailed into him, and
he come back at me by tellin' what you said about
your callin' on Miss Lentz here—and takin' her
autoin' and such. How you said you was doin' it
so's to keep a watch on her—that's all. I couldn't
deny that you did say it, you know—because you
did!"

Jim's face was a sight to see—a sort of combination
of sheepishness and shame, mixed with another
look, almost of joy—or as if he'd got the answer to
a puzzle that had been troublin' him.

The Lentz girl spoke up quick.

"Of course," she says, "I understand now why
you did it. Then I was—was—Well, it did
hurt me to think that I hadn't seen through the
scheme, and for a while I felt that you hadn't been
true to our agreement; but, now that I have had
time to think, I understand. You promised to treat
me exactly as if I were a man; and, as Cap'n Snow
said, if I were a man you would have kept me in
sight. It's all right! But"—with a sigh—"I
realize that I'm not fitted for business—this kind of
business. I don't blame you, though. Good-by.
I must go!"

Lettin' her go, however, was the last thing Jim
intended doin' just then. He stepped for'ard and
caught her by the hand.

"Georgianna," says he, eager, "you know what
you're sayin' isn't true. I did tell the Cap'n that
yarn about watchin' you. He'd seen me with you
and I had to tell him somethin'; but it was a lie—every
word of it! You know it was."

She tried to pull her hand away, but he hung on
to it as if 'twas the last life-preserver on a sinkin'
ship. I cal'late he'd forgot I was on earth.

"You were keeping your promise," she said.
"You were treatin' me as you would if I were a
man! Please let me go, Mr. Jacobs; I have told
you that I didn't blame you."

"Nonsense!" says he. "If I had done that I
ought to be hung! A man! Treat you like a man!
Do you suppose if you were a man I should—"

That was the last word I heard. I was bound
for the front platform, and makin' some headway for
a craft of my age and build. I have got some sense
and I know when three's a crowd!

I didn't go back until they called me. I give the
pair of 'em one look and then I shook hands with 'em
up to the elbows. Georgianna was blushin', and her
eyes were damp, but shinin' like masthead lights on
a rainy night. As for Jim Henry Jacobs, he was
one broad grin.

"Well," says I, after I'd said all the joyful things
I could think of, "one point ain't settled even yet—who's
goin' to get that screen contract? There ain't
any love in business, you know."

"Humph!" says Jim Henry. "I wonder!"

I laughed out loud.

"Why," says I, "that's exactly what Georgianna
here said t'other day—she wondered!"




CHAPTER XIV—THE EPISTLE TO ICHABOD
==================================


Mary came in a few minutes later and she
had to be told the news. She was as
pleased as I was and there was more congratulatin'.
Then Georgianna had to go home and,
as she was altogether too precious to be allowed
to walk, Jim Henry went and got his auto and they
left in that.

When he got back—that car must have been
sufferin' from a stroke of creepin' paralysis, for it
took him two hours to run that little distance—he
and I had a good confidential talk. He was way up
above this common earth, soarin' around in the
clouds, and all he wanted to talk was Georgianna.
The whole of creation had been set to music and was
dancin' to the one tune—"Georgianna."

It was astonishin' to me who had been in the habit
of considerin' him just a sharp, up-to-date buyer and
seller, a man whose whole soul was wrapped up in
business with no room in it for anything else. I
found myself lookin' at him and wonderin': "Is
the world comin' to an end, I wonder? Is this my
partner? Is this moon-struck critter Jim Henry
Jacobs, doctor of sick businesses?"

I couldn't help jokin' him a little.

"Jim," says I, "for a feller who hadn't any use
for females you're doin' pretty well, I must say.
Either you was mistaken in your old opinions or your
new ones are wrong. Which is it? 'Women and
business don't mix,' you know. That ain't an original
notion; that is quoted from the Gospel according
to Jacobs, Chapter 1,000; two hundred and
eightieth verse."

He reddened up and laughed. "Well, they *don't*
mix, as a general thing," he says. "I guess 'twas
Georgianna's sand in goin' into business that got me
in the first place. I leave it to you, Skipper—ain't
she a wonder? Now be honest, ain't she?"

Course I said she was; I have the usual sane man's
regard for my head and I didn't want it knocked off
yet awhile. And Georgianna *was* as nice a girl as
I ever saw—that is, *almost* as nice. Jim went
sailin' on, about how now he could settle down and
live like a white man in a home of his own, about
the house he was goin' to build, and so forth and
etcetery. I declare it made me feel almost jealous
to hear him.

"My! my!" says I, kind of spiteful, I'm afraid,
"you have got it bad, ain't you! Sudden attacks
are liable to be the most acute, I suppose."

He laughed again. You couldn't have made him
mad just then.

"Ha, ha!" says he. "Yes, I guess I'm way past
where there's any hope for me. But I'm glad of it.
It did come sudden, but that's the way most good
things come to me. It's my nature. Now if I was
like some folks that I won't name, I'd be mopin'
around for months without sense enough to know
what ailed me."

"Who are you diggin' at?" I wanted to know.
He wouldn't tell; said 'twas a secret, and maybe
I'd find out the answer for myself some day.

The next few weeks was busy times, in the store
and out of it. Georgianna havin' declined the screen
contract, Parkinson gave it to us, after a little
arguin'. That kept me hustlin', for Jim was too
interested in other things to care for screens. He
was making arrangements to be married.

And married he and Georgianna were. She'd
have waited a little longer, I cal'late—that bein' a
woman's way—if it had been left to her to name the
time; but Jim Henry never was the waitin' kind.
They were married at the parson's and Mary Blaisdell
and I saw the splice made fast. Then we went
to the depot and said good-by to Mr. and Mrs. Jim
Henry Jacobs. They were goin' on a honeymoon
cruise to the West Indies that would last two months.

Good-byes ain't ever pleasant to say, but I was so
glad for Jim, and so happy because he was, that I
tried to be as chipper as I could.

"If you need me, wire at Havana, Skipper," he
says. "I'll come the minute you say the word."

"I sha'n't need you," I told him. "Mary and
I'll run things as well as we can. She makes a good
fust mate, Mary does."

"You bet!" says he. "I feel a little conscience-struck
to leave you just now, with that West End
crowd tryin' to make trouble for you, but Congressman
Shelton is your friend and he'll look out for you
in Washin'ton."

"Don't you worry about that," I says. "I ain't
scared of Bill Phipps or Ike Hamilton—much, or
any of their West End crew. The decent folks in
town are on my side, and with Shelton to back me up
at Washin'ton, I cal'late I'll keep my job till you come
back anyhow."

The train started and Mary and I waved till
'twas out of sight. Then we went back to the store.
I give in that the old feelin', the feelin' that I'd had
when Jim was sick out West, that of bein' adrift
without an anchor, was hangin' around me a little,
but I braced up and vowed to myself that I'd do
the best I could. If this post-office row did get dangerous,
I might telegraph for Jacobs, but I wouldn't
till the ship was founderin'.

I suppose you can always get up an opposition
party. There was one amongst the Children of
Israel in Moses's time, and there's been plenty ever
since. So long as somebody has got somethin'
there'll always be somebody else to want to get it
away from him. That's human nature, and there's
as much human nature in Ostable, size considered,
as there was in the Land of Canaan.

I'd been postmaster at Ostable for quite a spell. I
didn't try for the position, I was mad when 'twas
given to me, there wa'n't much of anything in it but
a lot of fuss and trouble, and I'd said forty times over
that I wished I didn't have it. But when the gang
up at the West End of the town set out to take it
away from me I r'ared up on my hind legs and swore
I'd fight for my job till the last plank sunk from
under me. Don't sound like sense, does it? It
wa'n't—'twas just more human nature.

Course the opposition wa'n't large and 'twa'n't
very influential. Old man William Phipps and
young Ike Hamilton was at the head of it, and they
had forty or fifty West-Enders to back 'em up.
Phipps had been one of the leading workers for
Abubus Payne, the chap I beat for the app'intment
in the fust place; and young Hamilton was junior
partner in the firm of "Ichabod Hamilton & Co.,
Stoves, Tinware and Fishermen's Supplies," a mile
or so up the main road. Young Ike—everybody
called him "Ike," though his real name was Ichabod,
same as his uncle's—was a pushin' critter, who'd
come back from a Boston business college and had
started right in to make the town sit up and take
notice. He was goin' to get rich—he admitted that
much—and he cal'lated to show us hayseeds a few
things. Up to now he hadn't showed much but
loud clothes and cheek, but he had enough of them to
keep all hands interested for a spell.

His uncle, Ichabod, Senior, was a shrewd old
rooster, with twenty thousand or so that, accordin'
to his brags—he was always tellin' of it—he'd
put away for a "rainy day." We have consider'ble
damp weather at the Cape, but 'twould have taken a
Noah's Ark flood to make Ichabod's purse strings
loosen up. That twenty thousand dollars had
growed fast to his nervous system and when you
pulled away a cent he howled. Young Ike was the
only one that could mesmerize this old man into
spendin' anything, and how he did it nobody knew.
But he did. Since he got into that Stoves and Tinware
firm the store had been fixed up and advertisements
put in the papers, and I don't know what
all. The uncle had been under the weather with
rheumatism for a year; maybe that explained a little.

Anyhow 'twas young Ike that picked himself to
be postmaster instead of me and he and Phipps
got the West-Enders, fifty or so of 'em, to sign a
petition askin' that a new app'intment be made. I
couldn't be removed except on charges, so a lot of
charges was made. Fust, the post-office, bein' in
the Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes
and Fancy Goods Store, was too far from the center
of the town. Second, I was neglectin' the office
and my assistant—Mary, that is—was really doin'
the whole of the government work. There was some
truth in this, because Mary knew a good deal more
about mail work than I did, and was as capable a
woman as ever lived; and besides, Jim Henry and
I had been so busy with our store and the "Windmill
Restaurant," and our other by-product ventures, that
I *had* left Mary to run the post-office. But it was
run better than any post-office ever was run afore
in Ostable and everybody with brains knew it.

Third.... But never mind the rest of the
charges, they didn't amount to anything. In fact,
there was so little to 'em that when the West End
petition went in to Washin'ton, I didn't take the
trouble to send one of my own, though Jacobs
thought I'd better and a hundred folks asked me to
and said they'd sign. I just wrote to the Post-office
Department and told them that I was ready to submit
my case, if there was any need for it, and if they
cared to send a representative to investigate, I'd be
tickled to death to see him. They wrote back that
they'd look into the matter, and that's the way it
stood when Jim and Georgianna left and it stayed
so until the lost letter affair run me bows fust onto
the rocks and turned the situation from ridiculousness
into something that looked likely to be mighty serious
for me.

It come about—same as such jolts generally come—when
I was least ready for it. Jim Henry had
been gone three weeks or more. 'Twas February
and none of my influential friends amongst the summer
folks was on hand to help. No, Mary and I
were all alone and sailin' free with what looked like
a fair wind, when "Bump!"—all at once our craft
was half full of water and sinkin' fast.

That mornin' the mail was a little mite late and
there wa'n't any store trade to speak of. Mary was
in the post-office place writin', the usual gang of
loafers was settin' around the stove, and I was out
front talkin' with Sim Kelley, who lived up to the
west end of the town, amongst the mutineers.
'Twas from Sim that I got most of my news about
the doin's of the Phipps and Hamilton crowd. He
was a great, hulkin', cross-eyed lubber, too lazy to
get out of his own way, and as shif'less as a body
could be and take pains enough to live.

"Sim," says I to him, "I thought you said old
man Hamilton was in bed with his rheumatiz. I
saw him up street as I was comin' by. He looked
pretty feeble, but he was toddlin' along on foot just
as he always does. Rheumatic or not, it's all the
same. I cal'late the old critter wouldn't spend
enough money to hire a team if he was dyin'."

Sim was surprised, and not only surprised, but,
seemingly, a little mite worried. Why he should
be worried because Ichabod was takin' chances with
his diseases I couldn't see.

"Old man Hamilton!" says he. "Is he out a
cold mornin' like this? Where was he bound?"

"Don't know," says I. "He stopped into the
drug store when I saw him. Whether that was his
final port of call or not I don't know."

He seemed to be thinkin' it over. Then he got
up and walked to the door.

"He ain't in sight nowheres," he says. "Guess
he wa'n't comin' as far as here, 'tain't likely."

"Well," says I, "how's the rest of the family?
The hopeful leader of the forlorn hope—how's
he?"

"Ike?" he says. "Oh, he's all right. He's a
mighty smart young feller, Ike is."

"Yes," says I, "so I've heard him say. Gettin'
ready to stand in with him when he gets my job,
are you, Sim?"

That shook him up a mite. 'Twas common talk
around town that Sim and Ike was pretty thick. He
turned red under his freckles.

"No, no!" he sputtered. "Course I ain't! I'm
standin' by you, Cap'n Snow, and you know it. But,
all the same, Ike's a smart boy. He's gettin' rich
fast, Ike is."

"Sold another cookstove, has he?"

"He sells a lot of 'em. Sold two last month.
But that ain't it. He's got foresight and friends in
the stock exchange up to Boston. He's buyin' copper
stocks and they—"

He stopped short; thought his tongue was runnin'
away with him, I presume likely. But I was interested
and I kept on.

"Oh!" says I; "he's buyin' coppers, is he? Well,
where does he get the U. S. coppers to do it with?
Is Uncle Ichabod backin' him? Has the old man's
rheumatiz struck to his brains?"

"Course he ain't backin' him. *He* don't know
nothin' of stocks. He ain't up-to-date same as
Ike. But he'll be glad enough when his nephew
makes fifty thousand. When he finds that out
he'll—"

"He'll never find it out on this earth," I cut in.
"If he found out that Ike made fifty dollars, all on
his own hook, he'd drop dead with heart disease.
If he didn't, everybody else in town would. But
it takes money to buy stocks, don't it? I never knew
Ike had any cash of his own."

"He's in the firm, ain't he! And Hamilton and
Co. are——Hello! here comes the depot
wagon."

Sure enough, 'twas the depot wagon with the mail.
I took the bags from the driver and went back to
help Mary sort. I'd taken to helpin' her a good
deal lately—more since Jacobs left than ever afore.
She said there wa'n't any need of it, but I didn't
agree with her. Of course I realized that I was
an old fool—but, somehow or other, I felt more
and more contented with life when I was alongside
of Mary. She and I understood each other and
I'd come to depend upon her same as a man might
on his sister—or his—well, or anybody, you understand,
that he thought a good deal of and knew was
square and—and so on. And she seemed to feel
the same way about me.

We sorted the mail together, puttin' it in the different
boxes and such. And almost the fust thing
I run across was that registered letter addressed to
"Ichabod Hamilton, Jr." 'Twas a long envelope
and up in one corner of it was printed the name of
a Boston broker's firm. I laid it out by itself and
went on sortin'.

When the sortin' and distributin' was over and the
crowd had gone, I called to Sim Kelley. We didn't
have Rural Free Delivery then and Sim carried the
West End mail box; that is, a lot of the folks up
that way chipped in and paid him so much for deliverin'
their mail to 'em.

"Sim," says I, "there's a registered letter here
for young Ike Hamilton. If I give it to you will
you be careful and see that he signs the receipt and
the like of that?"

He was outside the partition and he come to the
little window and took the letter from me. He
acted mighty interested.

"Gosh!" says he, grinnin', "I wouldn't wonder
if this was.... Humph! Oh, I'll be careful
of it! don't you worry about that."

Just then Mary called to me. I went over to
where she was settin' at her desk.

"Cap'n Zeb," she whispered, "I wouldn't send
that letter by Sim. It is important, or it would not
be registered, and Sim is so irresponsible. If anything
*should* happen it would give Mr. Hamilton
and the rest such a chance. And they have accused
us of bein' careless already."

They had, that was a fact. One or two letters
had gone astray durin' the past six months and the
loss of 'em was described, with trimmin's, in the
West End charges and petition. And Sim *was* a
lunkhead. I thought it over a jiffy and then I called
to Kelley once more. He was just comin' to the
hooks by the door outside the mail-box racks where
Mary and I and the store clerk—the one we'd hired
in place of 'Dolph—hung our overcoats and hats.
Sim had hung his coat there that mornin'.

"Sim," I said, "let me see that registered letter
of Ike Hamilton's again, will you?" He took it
out of his pocket and passed it to me.

"All right," says I; "you needn't bother about
this. I'll send a notice by you that it's here and Ike
can call for it himself. I won't take any chances of
your losin' it."

Well, you'd ought to have seen him! His face
blazed up like a Fourth of July tar-barrel.
"Chances!" he sung out. "What are you talkin'
about? I cal'late I'm able to carry a letter without
losin' it. I ain't a kid."

"Maybe not," says I, "but you ain't goin' to lose
this one, kid or not. Here's the notice, all made
out."

"Notice be darned!" he snarled. "You give
me that letter. Hamilton and Co. pay me to carry
their mail, don't they? And, besides, Ike told me
particular that he was expectin'—"

He pulled up short again.

"Well?" says I. "Heave ahead. What's the
rest of it?"

"Nothin'," he answered, ugly; "but you've got
no right to say I can't carry a letter when I'm paid
to do it. As for losin' things, there's others besides
me that lose mail in this town."

There's no use arguin' when a matter's all settled.
I handed him the notice and walked off, leavin' him
standin' outside that partition, sore as a scalded cat.

I looked at my watch. 'Twas twelve o'clock, my
dinner time. I walked out to the hook rack, took
down my overcoat and put it on. I had the Hamilton
letter in my hand. There wa'n't any reason why
I should be more worried about that registered letter
than any other, but I was, just the same. Maybe
'twas because 'twas Ike's and he was so anxious to
make trouble for me. Somehow or other I couldn't
feel safe till he got it and signed the receipt. I
thought for a minute and then I decided I'd walk
up to Hamilton and Co.'s and deliver it myself.
That decision was foolish, maybe, but I felt better
when 'twas made. I put the letter in the inside
pocket of the overcoat I had on, and just as I was
doin' it Mary come out of the post-office room with
her hat on.

"Oh!" says she, "are you goin' out, Cap'n Zeb?
I thought—"

Then I remembered. She'd asked to go to dinner
fust that day and I'd told her of course she could.
I begged her pardon and said I'd forgot. I'd wait
till she got back. So, after makin' sure that I didn't
care, she took her coat from the hook, put it on and
went out.

I took off my overcoat and, just as I did so, somethin'
fell on the floor. I stooped and picked it up.
I swan to man if it wasn't that pesky Hamilton letter!
Thinks I, "That's funny!" I put my hand
into the pocket where it had been and there was a
hole right through the linin'. Now if there's one
thing I'm fussy about it is that my pockets are whole.
And I *knew* this one ought to be whole. So I looked
at the coat and I'm blessed if it was mine at all!
'Twas Sim Kelley's! Both coats had been hangin'
together on the hook-rack and both was blue and
about the same size. I'd been saved by a miracle,
as you might say.

I was comin' to feel more and more as if there
was some sort of fate about that registered letter.
I took it back into the post-office room, handlin' it as
careful as if 'twas solid gold, and laid it down on the
sortin' bench behind the letter boxes. And then
somebody spoke to me through the little window.

"Cap'n Zeb," says Sim Kelley, "there's a man
just drove over from Bayport to see you. Come in
Gabe Lumley's buggy, he did. His name's Peters
and Gabe says he's got some sort of government
job."

"Government job?" says I. And then it flashed
through my mind who the feller might be. The
Post-office Department had said they might send an
investigator. I didn't care for that, but I did wish
Sim hadn't seen him.

"Oh," says I; "all right. It's the lighthouse
inspector, I shouldn't wonder. Guess 'tain't me he
is after. Probably I ain't the Snow he wants to
see; it's Henry Snow over to the Point. Where
is he?"

"Out on the platform," says Sim. I hurried out
of the post-office room, lockin' the door careful
astern of me. The man Peters was just comin' into
the store. I met him at the front door. We shook
hands and he introduced himself. 'Twas the investigator,
sure enough.

"Glad to see you," says I. "I know that may
sound like a lie, but, as it happens, it ain't in this
case. I ain't got anything to be ashamed of and the
sooner the government finds that out the better I'll
be pleased."

He laughed. He was a real good chap, this
Peters man, and I took to him right off the reel.
We stood there talkin' and laughin' and says he:

"Well, Cap'n," he says, "I'll tell you frankly
that I'm not very much worried about the conduct
of your office here at Ostable. I've made some
inquiries about you, here and in Washin'ton, and the
answers are pretty satisfactory. Congressman
Shelton seems to be a friend of yours."

I grinned. "Yes," says I, "but Shelton's prejudiced,
I'm afraid. He and old Major Clark ate a
chowder once that I cooked and ever since they've
both swore by me."

He laughed, though I could see Shelton hadn't
told him the yarn.

"Humph!" says he, "that's unusual, isn't it?
Judgin' by some chowders *I've* eaten, it would be
easier to swear *at* the cook. Speakin' of eatables,
though, reminds me that I'm hungry. Where's a
good place to get a meal around here?"

"Nowhere," says I, prompt; "not at this season
of the year, with the summer dinin'-room closed.
But, if you'll wait until my assistant gets back, I'll
pilot you down to the Poquit House, where I feed,
and we'll face the wust together."

He was willin' to risk it, he said, and we walked
back and set down in the post-office department. As
we left the front door Sim Kelley went out of it,
luggin' his West-End mail box. Peters and I talked.
Seems he hadn't come to the Cape a-purpose to investigate
me, but he had a job at the Bayport office and
had took me in on the way home. After a spell
Mary come back and Peters and I headed for the
Poquit, where the cold fish balls and warmed-over
beans was waitin'.

On the way I saw old man Hamilton, Ike's uncle,
totterin' along, headin' to the west'ard this time. I
pointed him out to Peters.

"There goes," I says, "one of the fellers that's
trying to knock me out of my job."

"Humph!" says he; "he looks pretty near
knocked out himself. Why, he's all bent out of
shape."

"Yes," I told him. "Ichabod's bent, but he's
far from broke. And a tough old limb like him
stands a lot of bendin'."

I was feelin' pretty good. With a square man
like this Peters to look into matters, I cal'lated I'd
be postmaster for a spell yet.

But that afternoon, about three o'clock, as we was
inside the mail room, Mary at her desk, and Peters
alongside of her, goin' over the books and papers,
and me smokin' in a chair nigh the delivery window,
Ike Hamilton walked into the store.

"Afternoon, Snow," says he, pert and important
as ever, "I understand there's a registered letter
for me. I s'pose it is part of your business to refuse
to give it to the regular carrier and put me to the
trouble of walkin' way down here."

"I s'pose 'tis," says I.

"Yes," he says. "Well, if you were as careful
to put your partic'lar friends to the same inconvenience
there might not be as much talk about you and
your handlin' of this office as there is now."

"Oh, yes, there would," I told him. "There'd
always be more talk than anything else where you
lived, Ike. Want your letter, do you?"

He was mad, but he held in pretty well.

"I do—if gettin' it won't make you work *too*
hard," he says, sarcastic. "I should hate to see you
really work."

"Yes," I says, "the sight of work never was a
joy to you, 'cordin' to all accounts. Well, here's
your letter."

I reached down to the sortin' table where I'd laid
the letter at noon time—and it wa'n't there.

I hunted that table over. "Mary," says I, "did
you put that registered letter of Mr. Hamilton's
away somewheres?"

She looked surprised and, it seemed to me, rather
anxious.

"Why no!" says she; "I haven't touched it."

Whew!... Well, there was a lively hunt
in that mail room for the next ten minutes, but it
ended in nothin'.

Ike Hamilton's registered letter was *gone*!




CHAPTER XV—HOW IKE'S LOSS TURNED OUT TO BE MY GAIN
==================================================


There's no use dwelling on unpleasantness.
And there's no use tellin' what Ike Hamilton
said. I'd be liable to the law, if I
did tell it, and, besides, I've been away from seafarin'
so long that my memory for such language ain't as
good as 'twas. Ike wa'n't only mad now: he was
ha'f crazy, and pale and scared-lookin' besides. The
interview ended by my takin' him by the arm and
leadin' him to the door.

"You get out of here," I told him, "and I'll leave
this door open so's to sweeten the air after you.
That letter of yours has turned up missin' and I'm
mighty sorry. I'll find it, though, or die a-tryin'.
Meanwhile, unless you can behave like a decent
human bein'—which I doubt—you'll find it turrible
unhealthy for you on these premises. Understand?"

I cal'late he understood, for he waited till he was
out of reach afore he answered. Then he turned
and snarled at me like a kicked dog.

"By the Almighty, Zeb Snow," he says, "this is
the wust day's work *you* ever did! That letter's
wuth hundreds of dollars to me and I'll sue you for
every cent. And, more'n that," he says, "this is the
last straw that'll break your back as postmaster of
this town. *You're* done! and don't you forget it!"

I wa'n't likely to forget it—not to any consider'ble
extent.

Well, all the rest of that day and for the next two
days, Mary and Peters and I hunted high and low
for that letter; but we couldn't find it. I was worried,
Peters was worried, and Mary Blaisdell seemed
the most worried of any of us. Ike Hamilton come
in every few hours, and, though he blustered and
threatened a whole lot, he kept a civil tongue in his
head, rememberin', I cal'late, what I said to him when
I showed him the door. Apparently he hadn't told
any of his cronies about his loss, for nobody else said
a word about it to me. This was queer, for I expected
the news would be all over town by this time.

Peters asked a lot of questions and I done my best
to satisfy him. I showed him the exact place where
I laid the letter down afore I went to the front of
the store to meet him, and he remembered, same as
I did, that the door to the mail room was locked
when we come back to it. And we'd stayed in that
room together until Mary came and we went to dinner.
Nobody but Mary and I had keys to the room,
either.

Course I thought of Sim Kelley and how mad
he was because I took the letter away from him,
and Peters and I cross-questioned him pretty sharp.
But he told a straight yarn and stuck to it. He
hadn't seen the letter since I took it. He'd delivered
the notice to Ike and Ike had said he'd call
and get the letter that afternoon. Well, all that
seemed to be true, and, besides, there was no way
Sim could have got hold of the thing if he'd wanted
to.

"No use," says I, when the questionin' was over
and Sim had cleared out, protestin' injured innocence
and almost cryin'. "No use," says I, "I cal'late
he's tellin' the truth for once in his life. I
guess his skirts are clear."

"Maybe so," says Peters. "His story is straight
enough; but he don't look you in the face; I don't
like that."

"That's nothin'," I said. "He'd have to get
'round the corner to look a body in the face, as cross-eyed
as he is."

Mary Blaisdell spoke up then. "If this letter
shouldn't be found at all, Mr. Peters," says she,
"what effect would it have on Cap'n Zeb's position
as postmaster?"

Peters was pretty solemn, and he shook his head.

"Well," he says, "to be perfectly frank with you,
Cap'n, it might have consider'ble effect. From
what I've seen of you and this office, generally
speakin', my report to headquarters would be a very
favorable one. Your records and accounts are
straight and the place is neat and well kept. But
your opponent's petition charges that several letters
have been lost already. This loss comes at a very
bad time and it *might* be considered serious."

I'd realized all this, but it didn't help me much
to hear him say it. I didn't make any answer, but
Mary asked another question.

"But if," she says, slow, "it should turn out that
the Cap'n was not to blame at all? If someone else
had lost that letter? He wouldn't be removed
*then*?"

"No, certainly not. That is, not if my report
counted for anything."

"I see," says she; and she didn't speak to us
again that afternoon. Peters, though, had more
questions to ask. What sort of a letter was this,
anyhow? And did I have any idea what was in it?

I told him that I didn't really know much, but,
bein' a Yankee, I was subject to the guessin' habit.
Ike Hamilton had been buyin' stocks up to Boston
and this letter had a broker firm's name printed on
the envelope. My guess was that there was some
certificates, or such, inside.

"I see," he says. "That would explain what he
said about its value. So he's been speculatin', hey?"

"So Sim Kelley hinted. But where the money
comes from I don't see. Old Ichabod don't furnish
it, I'll bet a dollar. The old critter's got cramps in
the pocketbook worse than he has in his back."

"That was the old feller you pointed out to me
the other day," he says. "I haven't seen him since.
Where is he?"

"Back in bed with the rheumatiz, so I hear.
Guess his cruise down town was too much for him."

Well, the rest of our talk didn't amount to much
and I went home that night pretty blue and discouraged.
I didn't care so much about bein' postmaster,
but it hurt my pride to be bounced for bad
seamanship. I'd never wrecked a craft afore in
my life.

Next mornin' I come to the store at my usual time,
but Mary was late, for a wonder. When she did
come she looked so pale and used up that I was
troubled.

"Mary," says I, "what's the matter? Ain't sick,
are you?"

"Oh, no!" says she. "I—I didn't sleep well,
that's all. I'm all right."

"But, Mary," I says, "I—"

"Please excuse me, Cap'n Zeb," she cut in.
"I'm very busy."

She'd never used that tone to me afore, and I was
set back about forty mile. Why she should be so
frosty I couldn't see. I went out to the platform
and paced the quarter deck, thinkin'. I was down
at the heel anyway, and I thought a whole lot of
fool things. I was goin' to lose my job and so I
s'posed that, after all, I'd ought to expect my friends
to shake me. There's a proverb about rats leavin'
a leaky vessel. But Mary Blaisdell!! I cal'late I
come as nigh wishin' I was dead as ever I did in my
life.

'Twas almost eleven afore the Peters man showed
up. He was walkin' brisk and smilin' a little.

"Well," says I, "you're lookin' a heap more
chipper than I feel. What are you grinnin' about?"

"Oh, just for instance," he says. "Is Miss
Blaisdell in the office?"

"Guess so. She was awhile ago. Yes, she's
there. Why?"

"I want to see her—and you, too. Come on."

He led the way to the mail room. Mary was
there, workin' at her books. She looked up when
we come in, and her face was whiter than ever. I
forgot all about my "rat" thoughts and the rest
of it.

"Mary," says I, anxious, "you *are* under the
weather. Why don't you go home?"

She held up her hand and stopped me.

"Please don't," she says.

Then, turnin' to Peters: "Mr. Peters, I want
to speak to you. And to you, too, Cap'n Zeb. I—I've
got somethin' that I must tell you."

'Twa'n't so much what she said as the way she said
it. I looked at Peters and he looked at me. I cal'late
we was both wonderin' what sort of lightnin'
was goin' to strike now.

She didn't leave us to wonder long. She went
right on, speakin' quick, as if she wanted to get it
over with.

"Mr. Peters," she says, "last night you told me
that, if it should be proved that Cap'n Zeb had no
part in losin' that letter, if it wasn't his fault at all,
the postmastership wouldn't be taken from him.
You meant that, didn't you?"

Peters looked queer enough. "Why, yes," he
says, "I did. But how—"

"Mr. Peters," she went on, in the same hurried
way, "*I* lost that letter."

I don't know what Peters did then, but I know
that my knees give from under me and I flopped
down in the armchair.

"You? *You*, Mary!" says I.

Peters seemed to be as much flabbergasted as I
was. He rubbed his forehead.

"*You* lost it?" he says, slow.

"Yes," says she. "That is, I—I destroyed it
by accident. It was while you two were at dinner.
I was clearin' up the sortin' table and—and puttin'
the waste paper in the stove. I—I must have
taken the letter with the other things."

"Nonsense!" I sung out. Peters didn't say
nothin'.

"Nonsense!" I said again. "You don't know
that 'twas—"

"But I do," she interrupted. "I—I saw it
burnin' and—and it was too late to get it out. It
was my fault altogether. No one else is to blame
at all."

If I hadn't been settin' down already you could
have knocked me over with a feather. 'Twas an
accident, of course; anybody might have done such
a thing; but what I couldn't understand was why she
hadn't told me of it afore. That didn't seem like
her at all.

"Well!" I says; "*well*!"

Peters had transferred his rubbin' from his forehead
to his chin.

"Miss Blaisdell," says he, quiet, "why didn't you
tell us sooner?"

"That's all right," I cut in, quick. "I don't
blame her for not tellin'. I cal'late that she felt so
bad about it that she couldn't make up her mind to
tell right off. That was it, wa'n't it, Mary?"

She didn't look up, but sat playin' with a pen-holder.

"Yes," she says, "that was it."

"All right then," says I. "It was an accident,
and if anybody's to blame it's me. I shouldn't have
left the letter there."

*Then* she looked up. "Of course you're not to
blame," she says, awful earnest. "It was my fault
entirely. You know it was, Mr. Peters. It was
my fault and I must take the consequences. I will
resign my place as assistant and—"

"Resign!" I sung out. "Resign! Well, I guess
not!"

"But I shall. Of course I shall. Mr. Peters,
you see that it wasn't Cap'n Snow's fault, don't you?
*Don't* you?"

"Yes," says Peters, short.

"Nonsense!" I roared. "He don't see no such
thing. Mary, I don't care—"

She held up her hand. "Please don't talk to me
now," she begged. "Please—not now."

I looked at Peters. There was a look in his eyes,
almost as if he was smilin' inside. I could have
punched his head for it.

"But, Mary—" I begun.

"Please don't talk to me," she begged, almost
cryin'. "Please go away and leave me now.
Please."

I cal'late I shouldn't have gone; fact is, I know
I shouldn't; but that government investigator put his
hand on my arm.

"Cap'n," he says, "come with me."

"With you?" I snapped. "Why?"

"Because I want you to. It's important. I
won't keep you long."

I went, but he'll never know how much I wanted
to kick him. As I shut the door of the mail room
I saw poor Mary's head go down on her arms on
the desk.

Peters led me out to the front of the store, where
he come to anchor on a shoe-case.

"Set down," says he, pattin' the case alongside
of him.

"I don't feel like settin'," I says, ugly. "And
I tell you, Mr. Peters—"

"No," says he, "I'm goin' to tell *you* this time.
Or, if I'm not, the feller I told to be here at half past
eleven will. Yes ... here he comes now."

In at the door comes Sim Kelley, and, if ever a
chap looked as if he was marchin' to be hung, he
did. His eyes was red and his face was white under
the freckles.

"Here—here I be, Mr. Peters," he stammered.

"Yes, I see you 'be,'" says Peters, dry as a chip.
"All right. Now you can tell Cap'n Snow what you
told me this mornin'."

Sim looked at me, and at the government man.
He was shakin' all over.

"Aw, Cap'n Zeb," he bust out, "don't be too
hard on me. Don't put me in jail! I know I
hadn't ought to have taken that letter, but you riled
me up when you told me I couldn't be trusted with
it. Ike pays me to fetch the mail. And he told me
he was expectin' an important letter from them stockbrokers.
So I—"

Well, there's no use tryin' to spin the yarn the
way he did. 'Twas all mixed up with prayers about
not puttin' him in jail, and what would his ma say,
and "pleases" and "oh, dont's" and such. B'iled
down and skimmed it amounted to this: He'd seen
me lay that Hamilton letter on the sortin' table, saw
it when he come back to tell me that Peters had
arrived. After I'd gone out to the platform he was
struck with an idea. He *would* take that letter to
Ike, just to show that he could be trusted, and, besides
Ike had promised him fifty cents for lookin'
out for it and fetchin' it to him direct. He had a
key to the Hamilton box and the letter laid right
back of that box. All he had to do was to reach
through the box to the table, take the letter, and lock
up again. So he did it, and put the letter in his
overcoat inside pocket.

"And—and—" he finished up, almost blubberin',
"there was a great big hole in that pocket
and I didn't know it."

"I did," says I, involuntary, so to speak.
"Never mind. Heave ahead."

"And the letter must have dropped out of it.
When I got a little ways up the road I found 'twas
gone. I didn't dast tell Ike or you. I—I didn't
*dast* to. Ike would kill me if I told him, and—and—Oh,
please, Cap'n Zeb, don't put me in jail! I
don't know where the letter is. Honest, I don't!
*Please* ..." and so on.

Peters cut him short. "There!" says he, "that'll
do. Kelley, you go out on the platform and wait
till we need you. Go ahead! Shut up—and
go."

Sim went, but I cal'late if we'd listened we could
have heard the platform boards tremblin' underneath
where he was standin'.

Peters looked at me and grinned. 'Twas my time
to rub my forehead.

"Well!" says I. "Well, I—I.... Is he
lyin'?"

"Didn't act like it, did he?"

"No-o, he didn't. But—but, if he took that letter,
how did it get back onto that sortin' table?"

"How do you know it did?"

"How do I know! Course it got back there!
Didn't Mary say—"

"Wait a minute," he put in. "How do you explain
that, Cap'n?"

He was holdin' out somethin' that he'd took from
his pocket. I grabbed it. 'Twas the regular
receipt for that registered letter, and 'twas signed by
Ichabod Hamilton, Junior.

I looked at that receipt and then at him. The
paddin' in my head that, up to then, I'd complimented
by callin' brains was whirlin' as if somebody
was stirrin' it. I couldn't say a word. He laughed
out loud.

"Don't have a fit, Cap'n Snow," he says. "It's
simple enough. What you told me yesterday about
the firm of Hamilton and Co. put me wise to the
real answer to the riddle. I remembered that you
pointed out Hamilton to me on the street when you
and I were on the way to that hotel where we dined
the noon of my arrival. He was on his way home
then and he had been somewhere in this vicinity.
There was a chance that he had been here at the
office. This mornin' I went to his house and found
him in bed. He was full of rheumatism and groans,
but fuller still of the Evil One. I told him I knew
he'd got his partner's registered letter—a bluff of
course—and he didn't take the trouble to deny it.
Seems Sim Kelley, with the mail box, passed him
right here by the store platform. As they passed
each other the letter fell from Kelley's overcoat
pocket. The old man picked it up, intendin' to call
to Kelley and give it back to him. When he saw
the address he didn't."

He stopped then, waitin' for me to say somethin',
I s'pose. But I couldn't say anything. My head
was fuller of stir-about than ever, and I just stared
at him with my mouth open.

"When he saw the address—and the name of
the brokerage firm—he didn't. He took that letter
home and opened it. You see, the old feller is
nobody's fool, even if his rheumatism has kept him
from active business for the last few months. He
had suspected his nephew of speculatin' and here was
the proof, a hundred shares of cheap minin' stock,
and a letter sayin' that two hundred more had been
bought on a margin. Young Hamilton had been
stockjobbin' with the firm's money."

"My—soul!" was all I could say.

"Yes; well, old Ichabod is—ha! ha!—a queer
character. His rheumatism had come back and he
was waitin' to get better afore he took the matter
up with his partner. 'What I'll say and do to that
young pup is a well man's job,' he told me. We had
a long talk and it ended in his sendin' for Ike. As
soon as the young chap came I cleared out—that is,
after I got this receipt signed. That bedroom was
too sulphurous for me. I could smell brimstone
even in the front yard. Cap'n, I guess you needn't
worry about your rival candidate for postmaster.
He's got troubles enough of his own."

I got up, slow and deliberate, from that shoe-case.

"But—but—" I stuttered.

"Yes? Anything that I haven't made clear?"

"Anything? Why! if all this yarn of yours is
so—.... But it *can't* be so! Why did Mary
burn that letter?"

"She didn't."

"But she said she did."

"I know. Well, Cap'n, if you'll remember when
we talked, the three of us, yesterday, I hinted that
unless you were cleared of blame in this affair you
might be removed from office."

"I know, but.... Hey? You mean that
she lied and put the blame on herself, so as to save
*me*? So's I'd keep my job?"

"Looks that way to a man up a tree, doesn't it?"

"But why? Why should she sacrifice herself for—for
me?"

Peters bit the end off of a cigar. "That," says
he, "don't come under the head of government business."

----

Mary was still at her desk when I walked into the
mail room. I put my hand on her shoulder.

"Mary," says I, "I know all about it."

She looked at me. Her eyes were wet, and I
cal'late mine wa'n't as dry as a sand bank in July.

"You know?" she says.

"Yes," says I. And I told her the yarn. Afore
I got through the color had come back to her cheeks.

"Then you did leave it on the sortin' table after
all," she says, almost in a whisper.

"Course I did! Didn't I say so?"

"Yes; but Cap'n Zeb, I saw you put that letter
in your overcoat pocket. I saw you do it, myself."

So there 'twas. I'd forgot to tell her about my
mistake in the overcoats and she thought I'd lost the
letter and didn't know it.

"And so," says I, after I'd explained, "you
thought I'd lost it and yet you took the blame all on
yourself. You risked your place and told a lie just
to save me, Mary. Why did you do it?"

"How could I help it?" she says. "You've been
so good to me and so kind."

"Good and kind be keelhauled!" I sung out.
"Mary, my goodness and kindness wouldn't explain
a thing like that. Oh, Mary, don't let's have another
misunderstandin'. I'm crazy maybe to think
of such a thing, and I'm ten years older than you,
and you'll be throwin' yourself away, but, *do* you
care enough for me to—"

She got up from her desk, all flustered like.

"It's mail time," she says. "I—I must—"

But 'twa'n't mail I was interested in just then. I
caught her afore she could get away.

"Could you, Mary?" I pleaded. She wouldn't
look at me, so I put my hand under her chin and
tipped her head back so I could see her face. 'Twas
as red as a spring peony, and her eyes were wetter
than ever. But they were shinin' behind the fog.

Well, about three that afternoon, we were alone
together in the mail room. Peters, who had as much
common sense as anybody ever I see, had gone for
a walk.

Mary was thinkin' things over and says she, "But
it was too bad," she says, "that all the worry and
trouble had to come on you just because of that foolish
Sim Kelley. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry!" says I. "I'm goin' to give Sim a ten-dollar
bill next time I see him. If I gave him a
million 'twould be a cheap price for what I've got
by his buttin' in. Sorry! *I* ain't sorry, I tell you
that!"

And I've never been sorry since, either.




CHAPTER XVI—I PAY MY OTHER BET
==============================


'Twas June, and Mary and I were in
New York together, on *our* honeymoon.
We'd been married, quietly, by the same
parson that tied the knot for Jim and Georgianna,
and Georgianna and Jim had been on hand at the
ceremony. We was cal'latin' to stop in New York
a few days, then go to Washington, and from there
to Chicago, and from there to California or the
Yellerstone, or anywhere that seemed good to us at
the time. I'd waited fifty years for my weddin'
tour and I didn't intend to let dollars and cents cut
much figger, so far as regulatin' the limits of the
cruise was concerned. Jim Henry and the clerk,
who'd been swore in as substitute assistant, believed
they could run the store and post-office while we
were gone.

Mary and I were walkin' down Broadway together.
I'd told her I had an errand to do and
asked her if she wanted to come along. She said
she did and we were walkin' down Broadway, as I
said, when all at once I pulled up short.

"What is it?" asked Mary, lookin' to see what
had run across my bows to bring me up into the
wind so sudden.

"Nothin' serious," says I; "but, unless my eyesight
is goin' back on me, this shop we're in front
of is what I've been huntin' for."

She looked at the shop I was p'intin' at. The
window was full of hats, straw ones mainly.

"Why!" says she, "it's a hat store, isn't it?
You don't need a new hat, Zebulon, do you?"

"You bet I do!" says I, chucklin'. "I need
just as much hat as there is. Come in and watch
me buy it."

I could see she was puzzled, but she was more
so after I got into the store. A slick-lookin', but
pretty condescendin' young clerk marched up to us
and says he:

"Somethin' in a hat, sir?"

"Yes, sir," says I; "*everything* in a hat."

He didn't know what to make of that, so he tried
again.

"One of our new straws, perhaps?" he asks.
"The fifteenth is almost here, you know."

"Maybe so," I told him, "but I don't want any
straw, the fifteenth or the sixteenth either. I want
a plug hat, a beaver hat—that's what I want."

The clerk was a little set back, I guess, but poor
Mary was all at sea.

"Why, Zebulon!" she whispers, grabbin' me by
the arm, "what are you doin'? You're not goin'
to buy a silk hat!"

"Yes, I am," says I.

"But you aren't goin' to *wear* it."

To save me, when I looked at her face I couldn't
help laughin'.

"Ain't I?" says I. "Why, I think I'd look too
cute for anything in a tall hat. What's your opinion?"
turnin' to the clerk.

He coughed behind his hand and then made proclamation
that a silk hat would become me very well,
he was sure.

"Then you're a whole lot surer than I am," says
I. "However, trot one out, the best article you've
got in stock."

That clerk's back was gettin' limberer every second.
"Yes, sir," says he, bowin'. "Our imported
hat at ten dollars is the finest in New York.
If you and the lady will step this way, please."

We stepped; that is, I did. I pretty nigh had to
*drag* Mary.

"What size, sir?" asked the clerk.

"Oh, I don't know," says I. "Any nice genteel
size will do, I guess."

I had consider'ble fun with that clerk, fust and
last, and when we came out of that store I was
luggin' a fine leather box with the imported tall hat
inside it. I'd made arrangements that, if the size
shouldn't be right, it could be exchanged.

"And now, Mary," says I, "I cal'late you're
wonderin' where we'll go next, ain't you?"

She looked at me and shook her head.

"Zeb," she says, half laughin', "I—I'm almost
afraid we ought to go to the insane asylum."

I laughed out loud then. "Not just yet," I told
her. "We're goin' on a cruise down South Street
fust."

So I hired a hack—street cars ain't good enough
for a man on his weddin' trip—and the feller drove
us to the number I give him on South Street. The
old place looked mighty familiar.

"Is Mr. Pike in?" I asked the bookkeeper, who
had hollered my name out as if he was glad to see
me.

"Why, yes, Cap'n Snow, he's in. I'll tell him
you're here."

"Wait a minute," says I. "Is he alone?
Good! Then I'll tell him myself. Come, Mary."

Pike was in his private office, not lookin' a day
older than when I left him four years and a half
ago. He looked up, jumped, and then grabbed
me by both hands. "Why, Cap'n Zeb!" he sung
out. "If this isn't good for sore eyes. How are
you? What are you doin' here in New York? By
George, I'm glad to see you! What—"

"Wait!" I interrupted. "Business fust, and
pleasure afterwards. I'm here to pay my debts."

"Debts?" says he, wonderin'.

"Yes," I says. "Did you get a hat from me
four year or so ago?"

He laughed. "Yes, I did," he says. "I wrote
you that I did. I knew I should win that bet. You
couldn't stay idle to save your soul."

"There was another bet, too, if you recollect.
A bet with a five-year limit on it. The limit won't
be up till next fall, so here I am—and here's the
other hat."

I set the leather box on the table. He stared at
it and then at me.

"What do you mean?" he says, slow. "I don't
remember.... Why, yes—I do! You don't
mean to tell me that you're—"

"That's the hat, ain't it?" I cut in. "You're a
man of judgment, Mr. Pike, and any time you want
to set up professionally as a prophet I'd like to take
stock in the company."

He was beginnin' to smile.

"Then—" says he—"Why, then this must
be—"

I cut in and stopped him.

"Hold on," says I. "Hold on! I'm prouder
to be able to say it than I ever was of anything else
in this world, and I sha'n't let you say it fust. Mr.
Pike, let me introduce you to my wife—Mrs. Zebulon
Snow."

About half an hour afterwards he found time to
look at the hat.

"Whew!" says he. "Cap'n, this is much too
good a hat for you to buy for me. I'm mighty glad,
for your sake, that I won the bet, but—"

"Ssh-h! shh!" says I. "Don't say another
word. Think of what *I* won! Hey, Mary?"

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