Project Gutenberg Etext Cy Whittaker's Place, by J. C. Lincoln
#9 in our series by Joseph C. Lincoln
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Title: Cy Whittaker's Place
Author: Joseph C. Lincoln
Release Date: June, 2002 [Etext #3281]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
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Edition: 10
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CY WHITTAKER'S PLACE
by JOSEPH C. LINCOLN
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I.--THE PERFECT BOARDING HOUSE
II.--THE WANDERER'S RETURN
III.--"FIXIN' OVER"
IV.--BAILEY BANGS'S EXPERIMENT
V.--A FRONT DOOR CALLER
VI.--ICICLES AND DUST
VII.--CAPTAIN CY PROVES DELINQUENT
VIII.--THE "COW LADY"
IX.--POLITICS AND BIRTHDAYS
X.--A LETTER AND A VISITOR
XI.--A BARGAIN OFF
XII.--"TOWN MEETIN'"
XIII.--THE REPULSE
XIV.--A CLEW
XV.--DEBBY BEASLEY TO THE RESCUE
XVI.--A REMARKABLE DRIVE AND WHAT FOLLOWED
XVII.--THE CAPTAIN REMEMBERS HIS AGE
XVIII.--CONGRESSMAN EVERDEAN
XIX.--THE TOPPLING OF A MONUMENT
XX.--DIVIDED HONORS
XXI.--CAPTAIN CY'S "PICTURE"
CY WHITTAKER'S PLACE
CHAPTER I
THE PERFECT BOARDING HOUSE
It is queer, but Captain Cy himself doesn't remember whether the
day was Tuesday or Wednesday. Asaph Tidditt's records ought to
settle it, for there was a meeting of the board of selectmen that
day, and Asaph has been town clerk in Bayport since the summer
before the Baptist meeting house burned. But on the record the
date, in Asaph's handwriting, stands "Tuesday, May 10, 189-" and,
as it happens, May 10 of that year fell on Wednesday, not Tuesday
at all.
Keturah Bangs, who keeps "the perfect boarding house," says it was
Tuesday, because she remembers they had fried cod cheeks and
cabbage that day--as they have every Tuesday--and neither Mr.
Tidditt nor Bailey Bangs, Keturah's husband, was on hand when the
dinner bell rang. Keturah says she is certain it was Tuesday,
because she remembers smelling the boiled cabbage as she stood at
the side door, looking up the road to see if either Asaph or Bailey
was coming. As for Bailey, he says he remembers being late to
dinner and his wife's "startin' to heave a broadsides into him"
because of it, but he doesn't remember what day it was. This isn't
surprising; Keturah's verbal cannonades are likely to make one
forgetful of trifles.
At any rate, whether Tuesday or Wednesday, it is certain that it
was quarter past twelve, according to the clock presented to the
Methodist Society by the Honorable Heman Atkins, when Asaph Tidditt
came down the steps of the townhall, after the selectmen's meeting,
and saw Bailey Bangs waiting for him on the opposite side of the
road.
"Hello, Ase!" hailed Mr. Bangs. "You'll be late to dinner, if you
don't hurry. I was headin' for home, all sail sot, when I see you.
What kept you?"
"Town business, of course," replied Mr. Tidditt, with the
importance pertaining to his official position. "What kept YOU,
for the land sakes? Won't Ketury be in your wool?"
Bailey hasn't any "wool" worth mentioning now, and he had very
little more then, but he mopped his forehead, or the extension
above it, taking off his cap to do so.
"I cal'late she will," he said, uneasily. "Tell you the truth,
Ase, I was up to the store, and Cap'n Josiah Dimick and some more
of 'em drifted in and we got talkin' about the chances of the
harbor appropriation, and one thing or 'nother, and 'twas later'n
I thought 'twas 'fore I knew it."
The appropriation from the government, which was to deepen and
widen our harbor here at Bayport, was a very vital topic among us
just then. Heman Atkins, the congressman from our district, had
promised to do his best for the appropriation, and had for a time
been very sanguine of securing it. Recently, however, he had not
been quite as hopeful.
"What's Cap'n Josiah think about the chances?" asked Asaph eagerly.
"Well, sometimes he thinks 'Yes' and then again he thinks 'No,'"
replied Bailey. "He says, of course, if Heman is able to get it he
will, but if he ain't able to, he--he--"
"He won't, I s'pose. Well, _I_ can think that myself, and I don't
set up to be no inspired know-it-all, like Joe Dimick. He ain't
heard from Heman lately, has he?"
"No, he ain't. Neither's anybody else, so fur as I can find out."
"Oh, yes, they have. _I_ have, for one."
Mr. Bangs stopped short in his double-quick march for home and
dinner, and looked his companion in the face.
"Ase Tidditt!" he cried. "Do you mean to tell me you've had a
letter from Heman Atkins, from Washin'ton?"
Asaph nodded portentously.
"Yes, sir," he declared. "A letter from the Honorable Heman G.
Atkins, of Washin'ton, D. C., come to me last night. I read it
afore I turned in."
"You did! And never said nothin' about it?"
"Why should I say anything about it? 'Twas addressed to me as town
clerk, and was concernin' a matter to be took up with the board of
s'lectmen. I ain't in the habit of hollerin' town affairs through
a speakin' trumpet. Folks that vote for me town-meetin' day know
that, I guess. Angie Phinney says to me only yesterday, 'Mr.
Tidditt,' says she, 'there's one thing I'll say for you--you don't
talk.'"
Miss Phinney boarded with the Bangses, and Bailey was acquainted
with her personal peculiarities; for that matter so were most of
Bayport's permanent residents.
"Humph!" he snorted indignantly. "She thought 'twas a good thing
not to talk, hey? SHE did? Well, by mighty! you never get no
CHANCE to talk when she's around. Angie Phinney! Why, when that
poll parrot of hers died, Alph'us Smalley declared up and down that
what killed it was jealousy and disapp'inted ambition; he said it
broke its heart tryin' to keep up with Angie. Her ma was the same
breed of cats. I remember--"
The talking proclivities of females is the one topic upon which
Keturah's husband is touchiest. Asaph knew this, but he delighted
to stir up his chum occasionally. He chuckled as he interrupted
the flow of reminiscence.
"There, there, Bailey!" he exclaimed. "I know as much about
Angie's tribe as you do, I cal'late. Ain't we a little mite off
the course? Seems to me we was talkin' about Heman's letter."
"Is that so? I judged from what you said we wa'n't goin' to talk
about it. Aw, don't be so mean, Ase! Showin' off your importance
like a young one! What did Heman say about the appropriation? Is
he goin' to get it?"
Mr. Tidditt paused before replying. Then, bending over, he
whispered in his chum's ear:
"He never said one word about the appropriation, Bailey; not one
word. He wanted to know if we'd got this year's taxes on the
Whittaker place. And, if we hadn't, what was we goin' to do about
it? Bailey, between you and me and the mizzenmast, Heman Atkins
wants to get ahold of that place the worst way."
"He does? He DOES? For the land sakes, ain't he got property
enough already? Ain't a--a palace like that enough for one man,
without wantin' to buy a rattletrap like THAT?"
The first "that" was emphasized by a brandished but reverent left
hand; the second by a derisively pointing right. The two friends
had reached the crest of the long slope leading up from the
townhall. On one side of the road stretched the imposing frontage
of the "Atkins estate," with its iron fence and stone posts; on the
other slouched the weed-grown, tumble-down desolation of the "Cy
Whittaker place." The contrast was that of opulent prosperity and
poverty-stricken neglect.
If our village boasted one of those horseless juggernauts, such as
are used to carry sightseers in Boston from the old North Church to
the Public Library and other points of interest--that is, if there
was a "seeing Bayport" car, it is from this hill that its occupants
would be given their finest view of the village and its surroundings.
As Captain Josiah Dimick always says: "Bayport is all north and
south, like a codfish line. It puts me in mind of Seth Higgins's
oldest boy. He was so tall and thin that when they bought a suit of
clothes for him, they used to take reefs in the sides of the jacket
and use the cloth to piece onto the bottoms of the trousers' legs."
What Captain Joe means is that the houses in the village are all
built beside three roads running longitudinally. There is the
"main road" and the "upper road"--or "Woodchuck Lane," just as you
prefer--and the "lower road," otherwise known as "Bassett's Holler."
The "upper road" is sometimes called the "depot road," because the
railroad station is conveniently located thereon--convenient for
the railroad, that is--the station being a full mile from Simmons's
"general store," which is considered the center of the town. The
upper road enters the main road at the corner by the store, and
there also are the Methodist meetinghouse and the schoolhouse. The
townhall is in the hollow farther on. Then comes the big hill--
"Whittaker's Hill"--and from the top of this hill you can, on a
clear day, see for miles across the salt marshes and over the bay
to the eastward, and west as far as the church steeple in Orham.
If there happens to be a fog, with a strong easterly wind, you
cannot see the marshes or the bay, but you can smell them, wet and
salty and sweet. It is a smell that the born Bayporter never
forgets, but carries with him in memory wherever he goes; and that,
in the palmy days of the merchant marine, was likely, to be far,
for every male baby in the village was born with web feet, so
people said, and was predestined to be a sailor.
When Heman Atkins came back from the South Seas early in the '60's,
"rich as dock mud," though still a young man, he promptly tore down
his father's old house, which stood on the crest of Whittaker's
Hill, and built in its place a big imposing residence. It was by
far the finest house in Bayport, and Heman made it finer as the
years passed. There were imitation brownstone pillars supporting
its front porch, iron dogs and scroll work iron benches bordering
its front walk, and a pair of stone urns, in summer filled with
flowers, beside its big iron front gate.
Heman was our leading citizen, our representative in Washington,
and the town's philanthropist. He gave the Atkins memorial window
and the Atkins tower clock to the Methodist Church. The Atkins
town pump, also his gift, stood before the townhall. The Atkins
portrait in the Bayport Ladies' Library was much admired; and the
size of the Atkins fortune was the principal subject of conversation
at sewing circle, at the table of "the perfect boarding house,"
around the stove in Simmons's store, or wherever Bayporters were
used to gather. We never exactly worshipped Heman Atkins, perhaps,
but we figuratively doffed our hats when his name was mentioned.
The "Cy Whittaker place" faced the Atkins estate from the opposite
side of the main road, but it was the general opinion that it ought
to be ashamed to face it. Almost everybody called it "the Cy
Whittaker place," although some of the younger set spoke of it as
the "Sea Sight House." It was a big, old-fashioned dwelling,
gambrel-roofed and brown and dilapidated. Originally it had
enjoyed the dignified seclusion afforded by a white picket fence
with square gateposts, and the path to its seldom-used front door
had been guarded by rigid lines of box hedge. This, however, was
years ago, before the second Captain Cy Whittaker died, and before
the Howes family turned it into the "Sea Sight House," a hotel for
summer boarders.
The Howeses "improved" the house and grounds. They tore down the
picket fence, uprooted the box hedges, hung a sign over the sacred
front door, and built a wide veranda under the parlor windows.
They took boarders for five consecutive summers; then they gave up
the unprofitable undertaking, returned to Concord, New Hampshire,
their native city, and left the Cy Whittaker place to bear the
ravages of Bayport winters and Bayport small boys as best it might.
For years it stood empty. The weeds grew high about its foundations;
the sparrows built nests behind such of its shutters as had not been
ripped from their hinges by February no'theasters; its roof grew
bald in spots as the shingles loosened and were blown away; the
swallows flew in and out of its stone-broken windowpanes. Year by
year it became more of a disgrace in the eyes of Bayport's neat and
thrifty inhabitants--for neat and thrifty we are, if we do say it.
The selectmen would have liked to tear it down, but they could not,
because it was private property, having been purchased from the
Howes heirs by the third Cy Whittaker, Captain Cy's only son, who
ran away to sea when he was sixteen years old, and was disinherited
and cast off by the proud old skipper in consequence. Each March,
Asaph Tidditt, in his official capacity as town clerk, had been
accustomed to receive an envelope with a South American postmark,
and in that envelope was a draft on a Boston banking house for the
sum due as taxes on the "Cy Whittaker place." The drafts were
signed "Cyrus M. Whittaker."
But this particular year--the year in which this chronicle begins--
no draft had been received. Asaph waited a few weeks and then
wrote to the address indicated by the postmark. His letter was
unanswered. The taxes were due in March and it was now May. Mr.
Tidditt wrote again; then he laid the case before the board of
selectmen, and Captain Eben Salters, chairman of that august body,
also wrote. But even Captain Eben's authoritative demand was
ignored. Next to the harbor appropriation, the question of what
should be done about the "Cy Whittaker place" filled Bayport's
thoughts that spring. No one, however, had supposed that the
Honorable Heman might wish to buy it. Bailey Bangs's surprise was
excusable.
"What in the world," repeated Bailey, "does Heman want of a shebang
like that? Ain't he got enough already?"
His friend shook his head.
"'Pears not," he said. "I judge it's this way, Bailey: Heman, he's
a proud man--"
"Well, ain't he got a right to be proud?" broke in Mr. Bangs,
hastening to resent any criticism of the popular idol. "Cal'late
you and me'd be proud if we was able to carry as much sail as he
does, wouldn't we?"
"Yes, I guess like we would. But you needn't get red in the face
and strain your biler just because I said that. I ain't finding
fault with Heman; I'm only tellin' you. He's proud, as I said, and
his wife--"
"She's dead this four year. What are you resurrectin' her for?"
"Land! you're peppery as a West Injy omelet this mornin'. Let me
alone till I've finished. His wife, when she was alive, she was
proud, too. And his daughter, Alicia, she's eight year old now,
and by and by she'll be grown up into a high-toned young woman.
Well, Heman is fur-sighted, and I s'pose likely he's thinkin' of
the days when there'll be young rich fellers--senators and--and--
well, counts and lords, maybe--cruisin' down here courtin' her. By
that time the Whittaker place'll be a worse disgrace than 'tis now.
I presume he don't want those swells to sit on his front piazza and
see the crows buildin' nests in the ruins acrost the road. So--"
"Crows! Did you ever see a crow build a nest in a house? I never
did!"
"Oh, belay! Crows or canary birds, what difference does it make?
SOMETHIN' 'll nest there, if it's only A'nt Sophrony Hallett's
hens. So Heman he writes to the board, askin' if the taxes is
paid, if we've heard any reason why they ain't paid, and what we're
goin' to do about it. If there's a sale for taxes he wants to be
fust bidder. Then, when the place is his, he can tear down or
rebuild, just as he sees fit. See?"
"Yes, I see. Well, I feel about that the way Joe Dimick felt when
he heard the doctor had told Elviry Pepper she must stop singin' in
the choir or lose her voice altogether. 'Whichever happens 'll be
an improvement,' says Cap'n Joe; and whatever Heman does 'll help
the Whittaker place. What did you decide at the meetin'?"
"Nothin'. We can't decide yet. We ain't sure about the law and we
want to wait a spell, anyhow. But I know how 'twill end: Atkins
'll get the place. He always gets what he wants, Heman does."
Bailey turned and looked back at the old house, forlorn amidst its
huddle of blackberry briers and weeds, and with the ubiquitous
"silver-leaf" saplings springing up in clusters everywhere about it
and closing in on its defenseless walls like squads of victorious
soldiery making the final charge upon a conquered fort.
"Well," sighed Mr. Bangs, "so that 'll be the end of the old
Whittaker place, hey? Sho! things change in a feller's lifetime,
don't they? You and me can remember, Ase, when Cap'n Cy Whittaker
was one of the biggest men we had in this town. So was his dad
afore him, the Cap'n Cy that built the house. I wonder the looks
of things here now don't bring them two up out of their graves. Do
you remember young Cy--'Whit' we used to call him--or 'Reddy Whit,'
'count of his red hair? I don't know's you do, though; guess you'd
gone to sea when he run away from home."
Mr. Tidditt shook his head.
"No, no!" he said. "I was to home that year. Remember 'Whit'?
Well, I should say I did. He was a holy terror--yes, sir! Wan't
no monkey shines or didos cut up in this town that young Cy wan't
into. Fur's that goes, you and me was in 'em, too, Bailey. We was
all holy terrors then. Young ones nowadays ain't got the spunk we
used to have."
His friend chuckled.
"That's so," he declared. "That's so. Whit was a good-hearted
boy, too, but full of the Old Scratch and as sot in his ways as his
dad, and if Cap'n Cy wan't sot, then there ain't no sotness.
'You'll go to college and be a parson,' says the Cap'n. 'I'll go
to sea and be a sailor, same as you done,' says Whit. And he did,
too; run away one night, took the packet to Boston, and shipped
aboard an Australian clipper. Cap'n Cy didn't go after him to
fetch him home. No, sir--ee! not a fetch. Sent him a letter plumb
to Melbourne and, says he: 'You've made your bed; now lay in it.
Don't you never dast to come back to me or your ma,' he says. And
Whit didn't, he wan't that kind."
"Pretty nigh killed the old lady--Whit's ma--that did," mused
Asaph. "She died a little spell afterwards. And the old man pined
away, too, but he never give in or asked the boy to come back.
Stubborn as all get-out to the end, he was, and willed the place,
all he had left, to them Howes folks. And a nice mess THEY made of
it. Young Cy, he--"
"Young Cy!" interrupted Bailey. "We're always callin' him 'young
Cy,' and yet, when you come to think of it, he must be pretty nigh
fifty-five now; 'most as old as you and I be. Wonder if he'll ever
come back here."
"You bet he won't!" was the oracular reply. "You bet he won't!
From what I hear he got to be a sea cap'n himself and settled down
there in Buenos Ayres. He's made all kinds of money, they say, out
of hides and such. What he ever bought his dad's old place for,
_I_ can't see. He'll never come back to these common, one-horse
latitudes, now you mark my word on that!"
It was a prophecy Mr. Tidditt was accustomed to make each year to
the crowd at the post office, when the receipt for the draft for
taxes caused him to wax reminiscent. The younger generation here
in Bayport regard their town clerk as something of an oracle, and
this regard has made Asaph a trifle vain and positive.
Bailey chuckled again.
"We WAS a spunky, dare-devil lot in the old days, wan't we, Ase?"
he said. "Spunk was kind of born in us, as you might say. And
even now we're--"
The Atkins tower clock boomed once--a solemn, dignified stroke.
Mr. Tidditt and his companion started and looked at each other.
"Godfrey scissors!" gasped Asaph. "Is that half past twelve?"
Mr. Bangs pulled a big worn silver watch from his pocket and
glanced at the dial.
"It is!" he moaned. "As sure's you're born, it is! We've kept
Ketury's dinner waitin' twenty minutes. You and me are in for it
now, Ase Tidditt! Twenty minutes late! She'll skin us alive."
Mr. Tidditt did not pause to answer, but plunged headlong down the
hill at a race-horse gait, Bailey pounding at his heels. For "born
dare-devils," self-confessed, they were a nervous and apprehensive
pair.
The "perfect boarding house" is situated a quarter of a mile beyond
"Whittaker's Hill," nearly opposite the Salters homestead. The
sign, hung on the pole by the front gate, reads, "Bayport Hotel.
Bailey Bangs, Proprietor," but no one except the stranger in
Bayport accepts that sign seriously. When, owing to an unexpected
change in the administration at Washington, Mr. Bangs was obliged
to relinquish his position as our village postmaster, his wife came
to the rescue with the proposal that they open a boarding house.
"'Whatsoe'er you find to do,' quoted Keturah at sewing-circle
meeting, 'do it then with all your might!' That's a good Sabbath-
school hymn tune and it's good sense besides. I intend to make it
my life work to run just as complete a--a eatin' and lodgin'
establishment as I can. If, when I'm laid to rest, they can put
onto my gravestone, 'She run the perfect boardin' house,' I'LL be
satisfied."
This remark, and subsequent similar declarations, were widely
quoted, and, therefore, though casual visitors may refer to the
"Bayport Hotel," to us natives the Bangs residence is always
"Keturah's perfect boarding house." As for the sign's affirmation
of Mr. Bangs proprietorship, that is considered the cream of the
joke. The idea of meek, bald-headed little Bailey posing as
proprietor of anything while his wife is on deck, tickles Bayport's
sense of humor.
The perspiring delinquents panted into the yard of the perfect
boarding house and tremblingly opened the door leading to the
dining room. Dinner was well under way, and Mrs. Bangs, enthroned
at the end of the long table, behind the silver-plated teapot, was
waiting to receive them. The silence was appalling.
"Sorry to be a little behindhand, Ketury," stammered Asaph hurriedly.
"Town affairs are important, of course, and can't be neglected. I--"
"Yes, yes; that's so, Ketury," cut in Mr. Bangs.
"You see--"
"Hum! Yes, I see." Keturah's tone was several degrees below
freezing. "Hum! I s'pose 'twas town affairs kept you, too, hey?"
"Well, well--er--not exactly, as you might say, but--" Bailey
squeezed himself into the armchair at the end of the table opposite
his wife, the end which, with sarcasm not the less keen for being
unintentional, was called the "head." "Not exactly town affairs,
'twan't that kept me, Ketury, but--My! don't them cod cheeks smell
good? You always could cook cod cheeks, if I do say it."
The compliment was wasted. Mrs. Bangs had a sermon to deliver, and
its text was not "cod cheeks."
"Bailey Bangs," she began, "when I was brought to realize that my
husband, although apparently an able-bodied man, couldn't support
me as I'd been used to be supported, and when I was forced to
support HIM by keepin' boarders, I says, 'If there's one thing that
my house shall stand for it's punctual promptness at meal times. I
say nothing,' I says, 'about the inconvenience of gettin' on with
only one hired help when we ought to have three. If Providence, in
its unscrutable wisdom,' I says, 'has seen fit to lay this burden
onto me, the burden of a household of boarders and a husband whom--'"
And just then the power referred to by Mrs. Bangs intervened to
spare her husband the remainder of the preachment. From the
driveway of the yard, beside the dining-room windows, came the
rattle of wheels and the tramp of a horse's feet. Mrs. Matilda
Tripp, who sat nearest the windows, on that side, rose and peered
out.
"It's the depot wagon, Ketury," she said. "There's somebody inside
it. I wonder if they're comin' here."
"Transients" were almost unknown quantities at the Bayport Hotel
in May. Consequently, all the boarders and the landlady herself
crowded to the windows. The "depot wagon" had drawn up by the
steps, and Gabe Lumley, the driver, had descended from his seat and
was doing his best to open the door of the ancient vehicle. It
stuck, of course; the doors of all depot wagons stick.
"Hold on a shake!" commanded some one inside the carriage. "Wait
till I get a purchase on her. Now, then! All hands to the ropes!
Heave--ho! THERE she comes!"
The door flew back with a bang. A man sprang out upon the lower
step of the porch. The eye of every inmate of the perfect boarding
house was on him. Even the "hired help" peered from the kitchen
door.
"He's a stranger," whispered Mrs. Tripp. "I never see him before,
did you, Mr. Tidditt?"
The town clerk did not answer. He was staring at the depot wagon's
passenger, staring with a face the interested expression of which
was changing to that of surprise and amazed incredulity. Mrs.
Tripp turned to Mr. Bangs; he also was staring, open-mouthed.
"Godfrey scissors!" gasped Asaph, under his breath. "Godfrey--
SCISSORS! Bailey, I--I believe--I swan to man, I believe--"
"Ase Tidditt!" exclaimed Mr. Bangs, "am I goin' looney, or is that--
is that--"
Neither finished his sentence. There are times when language seems
so pitifully inadequate.
CHAPTER II
THE WANDERER'S RETURN
Here in Bayport, nowadays, the collecting of "antiques" is a
favorite amusement of our summer visitors. Those of us who were
fortunate enough to possess a set of nicked blue dishes, a warming
pan, or a tall clock with wooden wheels, have long ago parted with
these treasures for considerable sums. Oddly enough Sylvanus
Cahoon has profited most by this craze. Sylvanus used to be judged
the unluckiest man in town; of late this judgment has been revised.
It was Sylvanus who, confined to the house by an illness brought on
by eating too much "sugar cake" at a free sociable given by the
Methodist Society, arose in the night and drank copiously of what
he supposed to be the medicine left by the doctor. It happened to
be water-bug poison, and Sylvanus was nearly killed by the dose.
He is reported as having admitted that he "didn't mind dyin' so
much, but hated to die such a dum mean death."
While convalescent he took to smoking in bed and was burned out of
house and home in consequence. Then it was that his kind-hearted
fellow citizens donated, for the furnishing of his new residence,
all the cast-off bits of furniture and odds and ends from their
garrets. "Charity," observed Captain Josiah Dimick at the time,
"begins at home with us Bayporters, and it generally begins up
attic, that bein' nighest to heaven."
Later Sylvanus sold most of the donations as "antiques" and made
money enough therefrom to buy a new plush parlor set. Miss
Angeline Phinney never called on the Cahoons after that without
making her appearance at the front door. "I'll get some good out
of that plush sofy I helped to pay for," declared Angeline, "if
it's only to wear it out by settin' on it."
There are two "antiques" in Bayport which have not yet been sold or
even bid for. One is Gabe Lumley's "depot wagon," and the other is
"Dan'l Webster," the horse which draws it. Both are very ancient,
sadly in need of upholstery, and jerky of locomotion.
Gabe was, as usual, waiting at the station when the down train
arrived, on the Tuesday--or Wednesday--of the selectmen's meeting.
The train was due, according to the time-table, at eleven forty-
five. This time-table, and the signboard of the "Bayport Hotel"
are the only bits of humorous literature peculiar to our village,
unless we add the political editorials of the Bayport Breeze.
So, at eleven forty-five, Mr. Lumley was serenely dozing on the
baggage truck, which he had wheeled to the sunny side of the
platform. At five minutes past twelve, he yawned, stretched, and
looked at his watch. Then, rolling off the truck, he strolled to
the edge of the platform and spoke authoritatively to "Dan'l
Webster."
"Hi there! stand still!" commanded Mr. Lumley.
Standing still being Dan'l's long suit, the order was obeyed.
Gabe then loafed to the door of the station and accosted the depot
master, who was nodding in his chair beside the telegraph instrument.
"Where is she now, Ed?" asked Mr. Lumley, referring to the train.
"Just left South Harniss. Be here pretty soon. What's your hurry?
Expectin' anybody?"
"Naw; nobody that I know of, special. Sophrony Hallett's gone to
Ostable, but she won't be back till to-morrow I cal'late. Hello!
there she whistles now."
Needless to say it was the train, not the widow Hallett, that had
whistled. The depot master rose from his chair. A yellow dog, his
property, scrambled from beneath it, and rushing out of the door
and to the farther end of the platform, barked furiously. Cephas
Baker, who lives across the road from the depot, slouched down to
his front gate. His wife opened the door of her kitchen and stood
there, her wet arms wrapped in her apron. The five Baker children
tore round the corner of the house, over the back fence, and lined
up, whooping joyously, on the platform. A cloud of white smoke
billowed above the clump of cedars at the bend of the track. Then
the locomotive rounded the curve and bore down upon the station.
"Stand still, I tell you!" shouted Gabe, addressing the horse.
Dan'l Webster opened one eye, closed it and relapsed into slumber.
The train, a combination baggage car and smoker, two freight cars
and a passenger coach, rolled ponderously alongside the platform.
From the open door of the baggage car were tossed the mail sack and
two express packages. The conductor stepped from the passenger
coach. Following him came briskly a short, thickset man with a
reddish-gray beard and grayish-red hair.
"Goin' down to the village, Mister?" inquired Mr. Lumley. "Carriage
right here."
The stranger inspected the driver of the depot wagon, inspected him
deliberately from top to toe. Then he said:
"Down to the village? Why, yes, I wouldn't wonder. Say! you're a
Lumley, ain't you?"
"Why! why--yes, I be! How'd you know that? Ain't ever seen you
afore, have I?"
"Guess not," with a quiet chuckle. "I've never seen you, either,
but I've seen your nose. I'd know a Lumley nose if I run across it
in China."
The possessor of the "Lumley nose" rubbed that organ in a bewildered
fashion. Recovering in a measure he laughed, rather half-heartedly,
and begged to know if the trunk, then being unloaded from the
baggage car, belonged to his prospective passenger. As the answer
was an affirmative nod, he secured the trunk check and departed,
still rubbing his nose.
When he returned, with the trunk on the truck, he found the
stranger, with his hands in his pockets, standing before Dan'l
Webster and gazing at that animal with an expression of acute
interest.
"Is this your--horse?" demanded the newcomer, pausing before the
final word of his question.
"It's so cal'lated to be," replied Gabe, with dignity.
"Hum! Does he work nights?"
"Work nights? No, course he don't!"
"Oh, all right! Then you can wake him up with a clear conscience.
I didn't know but he needed the sleep. What's his record?"
"Record?"
"Yup; his trottin' record. Anybody can see he's built for speed,
narrow in the beam and sharp fore and aft. Shall I get aboard the
barouche?"
The depot master, who was on hand to help with the trunk, grinned
broadly. Mr. Lumley sulkily made answer that his passenger might
get aboard if he wanted to. Apparently he wanted to, for he sprang
into the depot wagon with a bounce that made the old vehicle rock
on its springs.
"Jerushy!" he exclaimed, "she rolls some, don't she? Never mind,
MY ballast 'll keep her on an even keel. Trunk made fast astern?
All right! Say! you might furl some of this spare canvas so's I
can take an observation as we go along. Don't go so fast that the
scenery gets blurred, will you? It's been some time since I made
this cruise, and I'd rather like to keep a lookout."
The driver "furled the canvas"--that is, he rolled up the curtains
at the sides of the carryall. Then he climbed to the front seat
and took up the reins.
"Git up!" he shouted savagely. Dan'l Webster did not move.
The passenger offered a suggestion. "Why don't you try hangin' an
alarm clock in his fore-riggin'?" he asked.
"Haw! haw!" roared the depot master.
"Git up, you--you lump!" bellowed the harassed Mr. Lumley. Dan'l
pricked up one ear, then a hoof, and slowly got under way. As the
equipage passed the Baker homestead, the whole family was clustered
about the gate, staring at the occupant of the wagon. The stare
was returned.
"Who lives in there?" demanded the stranger. "Who are those folks?"
"Ceph Baker's tribe," was the sullen answer.
"Baker, hey? Humph! new folks, I presume likely. Used to be Seth
Snow's house, that did. Where'd Seth go to?"
Gabe grunted that he did not know. He believed Mr. Snow was dead,
had died years before.
"Humph! dead, hey? Then I know where he went. Do you ever smoke--
or does drivin' this horse make you too nervous?"
Mr. Lumley thawed a bit at the sight of the proffered cigar. He
admitted that he smoked occasionally and that he guessed "'twouldn't
interfere with the drivin' none."
"Good enough! then we'll light up. I can talk better if I'm under
a head of steam. There's a new house; who built that?"
The "new" house was fifteen years old, but Gabe gave the name of
its builder. Then, thinking that the catechising had been
altogether too one-sided, he ventured an observation of his own.
"This is a pretty good cigar, Mister," he said. "Smokes like a
Snowflake."
"Like a what?"
"Like a Snowflake. That's about the best straight five center you
can get around here. Simmons used to keep 'em, but the drummer's
cart ain't called lately and he's all out."
"That's a shame. I told the train boy that these smoked like
somethin', but I didn't know what to call it. Much obliged to you.
Here's another; put it in your pocket. Oh, no thanks; pleasure's
all mine. Who's Simmons?"
Gabe described the Simmons general store and its proprietor. Then
he added:
"I was noticin' that trunk of yours, mister; it's all plastered
over with labels, ain't it? Cal'late that trunk's done some
travelin', hey?"
"Think so, do you?"
"Yup. Gee! I'd like to travel myself. But no! I got to stay all
my life in this dead 'n' alive hole. I wanted to go to Boston and
clerk in a store, but the old man put his foot down, and here I've
stuck ever sence. Git up, Dan'l! What's the matter with you?"
The passenger smiled, but there was a dreamy look in his gray eyes.
"Don't find fault, son," he said. "There's worse places in the
world than old Bayport, and worse judgment than mindin' your dad.
Don't forget that or you may be sorry for it some day." He sniffed
eagerly. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "just smell that, will you? Ain't
that FINE?"
"Humph! that's the flats. You can smell 'em any time when the
tide's out and the wind's right. You see, the tide goes out pretty
fur here and--"
"Don't I know it? Son, I've been waitin' thirty odd year for that
smell and here 'tis at last. Drive slow and let me fill up on it.
Just blow that--that Snowstorm of yours the other way for a spell,
won't you? Thanks."
The request to be driven slow was so superfluous that Mr. Lumley
paid no attention to it. He puffed industriously at the Snowflake
and watched his companion, who, leaning forward on the seat, was
gazing out at the town and the bay beyond it. The "depot hill" is
not as high as Whittaker's Hill, but the view is almost as
extensive.
"Excuse me, Mister," observed Gabe, after an interval, "but you
ain't said where you're goin'."
The passenger came out of his day dream with a start.
"Why, that's right!" he exclaimed. "So I haven't! Well, now,
where would you go, if you was me? Is there a hotel or tavern or
somethin'?"
"Yup. There's the Bayport Hotel. 'Tain't exactly a hotel, neither.
We call it the perfect boardin' house 'round here. You see--"
He proceeded to tell the story of "the perfect boarding house."
His listener seemed greatly interested, and although he laughed,
did not interrupt until the tale was ended.
"So!" he said, chuckling. "Bailey Bangs, hey? Stub Bangs! Well,
well! And he married Ketury Payson! How in time did he ever find
spunk enough to propose? And Ketury runs the perfect boardin'
house! Well, that ought to be job enough for one woman. She runs
Bailey, too, on the side, I s'pose?"
"You bet you! He don't dast to say 'boo' to a chicken when she's
'round. I say, Mister! I don't know's I know your name, do I? I
judge you've been here afore so--"
"Yes, I've been here before. Whose is that big place up there
across our bows? The one with the cupola on the main truck?"
"That, sir," said Mr. Lumley, oratorically, "belongs to the
Honorable Heman G. Atkins, and it's probably the finest in this
county. Heman is our representative in Washin'ton, and-- Did you
say anything?"
The passenger had said something, but he did not repeat it. He was
leaning from the carriage and gazing steadily up the slope ahead.
And his gaze, strange to say, was not directed at the imposing
Atkins estate, but at its opposite neighbor, the old "Cy Whittaker
place."
Slowly, laboriously, Dan'l Webster mounted the hill. At the crest
he would have paused to take breath, but the driver would not let
him.
"Git along, you!" he commanded, flapping the reins.
And then Mr. Lumley suffered the shock of a surprise. The hitherto
cool and self-possessed occupant of the rear seat seemed very much
excited. His big red hand clasped Mr. Lumley's over the reins, and
Dan'l was brought to an abrupt standstill.
"Heave to!" he ordered, sharply, and the tone was that of one who
has given many orders and expects them to be obeyed. "Belay!
Whoa, there! Great land of love! look at that! LOOK at it! Who
did that?"
The mate to the big red hand pointed to the front door of the
Whittaker place. Gabe was alarmed.
"Done what? Done which?" he gasped. "What you talkin' about?
There ain't nobody lives in there. That house has been empty for--"
"Where's the front fence?" demanded the excited passenger. "What's
become of the hedge? And who put up that--that darned piazza?"
The piazza had been where it now was almost since Mr. Lumley could
remember. He hastened to reply that he didn't know; he wasn't
sure; he presumed likely 'twas "them New Hampshire Howeses," when
they ran a summer boarding house.
The stranger drew a long breath. "Well, of all the--" he began.
Then he choked, hesitated, and ordered his driver to heave ahead
and run alongside the hotel as quick as the Almighty would let him.
Gabe hastened to obey. He was now absolutely certain that his
companion was an escaped lunatic, and the sooner another keeper was
appointed the better. The remainder of the trip was made in
silence.
Mrs. Bangs opened the door of the perfect boarding house and stood
majestically waiting to receive the prospective guest. Over her
shoulders peered the faces of the boarders.
"Good afternoon," began the landlady. "I presume likely you would
like to--"
She was interrupted. The newcomer turned toward her and extended
his hand.
"Hello, Ketury!" he said. "I ain't seen you sence you wore your
hair up, but you're just as good-lookin' as ever. And ain't that
Bailey? Yes, 'tis, and Asaph, too! How are you, boys? Shake!"
Mr. Bangs and his chum, the town clerk, had emerged from the
doorway. Their mouths and eyes were wide open and they seemed to
be suffering from a sort of paralysis.
"Well? What's the matter with you?" demanded the arrival. "Ain't
too stuck up to shake hands after all these years, are you?"
Bailey's mouth closed in order that it's possessor might swallow.
Then it slowly reopened.
"I swan to man!" he ejaculated. "WELL! I swan to man! I--I b'lieve
you're Cy Whittaker!"
"Course I am. Have to dye my carrot top if I want to play anybody
else. But look here, boys, you answer my question: who had the
cheek to rig up that blasted piazza on my house? It starts to come
down to-morrow mornin'!"
CHAPTER III
"FIXIN' OVER"
Miss Angeline Phinney made no less than nine calls that afternoon.
Before bedtime it was known, from the last house in Woodchuck Lane
to the fish shanties at West Bayport, that "young Cy" Whittaker had
come back; that he had come back "for good"; that he was staying
temporarily at the perfect boarding house; that he was "awful well
off"--having made lots of money down in South America; that he
intended to "fix over" the Whittaker place, and that it was to be
fixed over, not in a modern manner, with plush parlor sets--a la
Sylvanus Cahoon--nor with onyx tables and blue and gold chairs like
those adorning the Atkins mansion. It was to be, as near as
possible, a reproduction of what it had been in the time of the
late "Cap'n Cy," young Cy's father.
"_I_ think he's out of his head," declared Miss Phinney, in
confidence, to each of the nine females whom she favored with her
calls. "Not crazy, you understand, but sort of touched in the
upper story. I says so to Matildy Tripp, said it right out, too:
'Matildy,' I says, 'he's got a screw loose up aloft just as sure as
you're a born woman!' 'What makes you think so?' says she.
'Well,' says I, 'do you s'pose anybody that wan't foolish would be
for spendin' good money on an old house to make it OLDER?' I says.
Goin' to tear down the piazza the fust thing! Perfectly good
piazza that cost ninety-eight dollars and sixty cents to build; I
know, because I see the bill when the Howeses had it done. And
he's goin' to set out box hedges, somethin' that ain't been the
style in this town sence Congressman Atkins pulled up his. 'What
in the world, Cap'n Whittaker,' says I to him, 'do you want of box
hedges? Homely and stiff and funeral lookin'! I might have 'em
around my grave in the buryin' ground,' I says, 'but nowheres
else.' 'All right, Angie,' says he, 'you shall have 'em there;
I'll cut some slips purpose for you. It'll be a pleasure,' he
says. Now ain't that crazy talk for a grown man?"
Miss Phinney was not the only one in our village to question
Captain Cy Whittaker's sanity during the next few months. The
majority of our people didn't understand him at all. He was
generally liked, for although he had money, he did not put on airs,
but he had his own way of doing things, and they were not Bayport
ways.
True to his promise, he had a squad of carpenters busy, on the day
following his arrival, tearing down the loathed piazza. These
carpenters, and more, were kept busy throughout that entire spring
and well into the summer. Then came painters and gardeners. The
piazza disappeared; a new picket fence, exactly like the old one
torn down by the Howeses, was erected; new shutters were hung; new
windowpanes were set; the roof was newly shingled. Captain Cy,
Senior, had, in his day, cherished a New England fondness for white
and green paint; therefore the new fence was white and the house
was white and the blinds a brilliant green. Rows of box hedge, the
plants brought from Boston, were set out on each side of the front
walk. The Howes front-door bell--a clamorous gong--was removed,
and a glass knob attached to a spring bell of the old-fashioned
"jingle" variety took its place. An old-fashioned flower garden--
Cap'n Cy's mother had loved posies--was laid out on the west lawn
beyond the pear trees. All these changes the captain superintended;
when they were complete he turned his attention to interior
decoration.
And now Captain Cy proceeded to, literally, astonish the natives.
Among the Howes "improvements" were gilt wall papers and modern
furniture for the lower floor of the house. The furniture they had
taken with them; the wall paper had perforce been left behind. And
the captain had every scrap of that paper stripped from the walls,
and the latter re-covered with quaint, ugly, old-fashioned patterns,
stripes and roses and flowered sprays with impossible birds flitting
among them. The Bassett decorators has pasted the gilt improvement
over the old Whittaker paper, and it was the Whittaker paper that
the captain did his best to match, sending samples here, there, and
everywhere in the effort. Then, upon the walls he hung old-fashioned
pictures, such as Bayport dwellers had long ago relegated to their
attics, pictures like "From Shore to Shore," "Christian Viewing the
City Beautiful," and "Signing the Declaration." To these he added,
bringing them from the crowded garret of the homestead, oil paintings
of ships commanded by his father and grandfather, and family
portraits, executed--which is a peculiarly fitting word--by deceased
local artists in oil and crayon.
He boarded up the fireplace in the sitting room and installed a
base-burner stove, resurrected from the tinsmith's barn. He
purchased a full "haircloth set" of parlor furniture from old Mrs.
Penniman, who never had been known to sell any of her hoarded
belongings before, even to the "antiquers," and wouldn't have done
so now, had it not been that the captain's offer was too princely
to be real, and the old lady feared she might be dreaming and would
wake up before she received the money. And from Trumet to Ostable
he journeyed, buying a chair here and a table there, braided rag
mats from this one, and corded bedsteads and "rising sun" quilts
from that. At least half of Bayport believed with Gabe Lumley and
Miss Phinney that, if Captain Cy had not escaped from a home for
the insane, he was a likely candidate for such an institution.
At the table of the perfect boarding house the captain was not
inclined to be communicative regarding his reasons and his
intentions. He was a prime favorite there, praising Keturah's
cooking, joking with Angeline concerning what he was pleased to call
her "giddy" manner of dressing and wearing "side curls," and telling
yarns of South American dress and behavior, which would probably
have shocked Mrs. Tripp--she having recently left the Methodist
church to join the "Come-Outers," because the Sunday services of the
former were, with the organ and a paid choir, altogether "too
play-actin'"--if they had not been so interesting, and if Captain Cy
had not always concluded them with the observation: "But there! you
can't expect nothin' more from ignorant critters denied the
privileges of congregational singin' and experience meetin's; hey,
Matilda?"
Mrs. Tripp would sigh and admit that she supposed not.
"Only I do wish Mr. Daniels, OUR minister, might have a chance to
preach over 'em, poor things!"
"So do I," with a covert wink at Mrs. Bangs, who was a stanch
adherent of the regular faith. "South America 'd be just the place
for him; ain't that so, Keturah?"
He evaded all personal questions put to him by the boarders,
explaining that he was renovating the old place just for fun--he
always had had a gang of men working for him, and it seemed natural
somehow. But to the friends of his boyhood, Asaph Tidditt and
Bailey Bangs, he told the real truth.
"I swan to man!" exclaimed Bailey, almost tearfully, as the trio
wandered through the rooms of the Cy Whittaker place, dodging paper
hangers and plasterers; "I swan to man, Whit, if it don't almost
seem as though I was a boy again. Why! it's your dad's house come
back alive, it is so! Look at this settin' room! Seem's if I
could see him now a-settin' by that ere stove, and Mrs. Whittaker,
your ma, over there a-sewin', and old Cap'n Cy--your granddad--
snoozin' in that big armchair-- Why! why, whit! it's the very
image of the chair he always set in!"
Captain Cy laughed aloud.
"It's more n' that, Bailey," he said; "it's THE chair. 'Twas up
attic, all busted and crippled, but I had it made over like new.
And there's granddad's picture, lookin' just as I remember him--
only he wan't quite so much of a frozen wax image as he's painted
there. I'm goin' to hang it where it always hung, over the
mantelpiece, next to the lookin' glass.
"Great land of love, boys!" he went on, "you fellers don't know
what this means to me. Many and many's the time I've had this old
house and this old room in my mind. I've seen 'em aboard ship in a
howlin' gale off the Horn. I've seen 'em down in Surinam of a hot
night, when there wan't a breath scurcely and the Caribs went
around dressed in a handkerchief and a paper cigar, and it made you
wish you could. I've seen 'em--but there! every time I've seen 'em
I've swore that some day I'd come back and LIVE 'em, and now, by
the big dipper! here I am. Oh, I tell you, chummies, you want to
be fired OUT of a home and out of a town to appreciate 'em! Not
that I blame the old man; he and I was too much alike to cruise in
company. But Bayport I was born in, and in the Bayport graveyard
they can plant me when I'm ready for the scrap heap. It's in the
blood and-- Why, see here! Don't I TALK like a Bayporter?"
"You sartin do!" replied Asaph emphatically.
"A body 'd think you'd been diggin' clams and pickin' cranberries
in Bassett's Holler all your life long, to hear you."
"You bet! Well, that's pride; that's what that is. I prided
myself on hangin' to the Bayport twang through thick and thin.
Among all the Spanish 'Carambas' and 'Madre de Dioses' it did me
good to come out with a good old Yankee 'darn' once in a while.
Kept me feelin' like a white man. Oh, I'm a Whittaker! _I_ know
it. And I've got all the Whittaker pig-headedness, I guess. And
because the old man--bless his heart, I say now--told me I
shouldn't BE a Whittaker no more, nor live like a Whittaker, I
simply swore up and down I would be one and come back here, when
I'd made my pile, to heave anchor and stay one till I die. Maybe
that's foolishness, but it's me."
He puffed vigorously at the pipe which had taken the place of the
Snowflake cigar, and added:
"Take this old settin' room--why, here it is; see! Here's dad in
his chair and ma in hers, and, if you go back far enough, granddad
in his, just as you say, Bailey. And here's me, a little shaver,
squattin' on the floor by the stove, lookin' at the pictures in a
heap of Godey's Lady's Book. And says dad, 'Bos'n,' he says--he
used to call me 'Bos'n' in those days--'Bos'n,' says dad, 'run down
cellar and fetch me up a pitcher of cider, that's a good feller.'
Yes, yes; that's this room as I've seen it in my mind ever since I
tiptoed through it the night I run away, with my duds in a bundle
under my arm. Do you wonder I was fightin' mad when I saw what
that Howes tribe had done to it?"
Superintending the making over of the old home occupied most of
Captain Cy's daylight time that summer. His evenings were spent at
Simmons's store. We have no clubs in Bayport, strictly speaking,
for the sewing circle and the Shakespeare Reading Society are
exclusively feminine in membership; therefore Simmons's store is
the gathering place of those males who are bachelors or widowers
or who are sufficiently free from petticoat government to risk an
occasional evening out. Asaph Tidditt was a regular sojourner at
the store. Bailey Bangs, happening in to purchase fifty cents'
worth of sugar or to have the molasses jug filled, lingered
occasionally, but not often. Captain Cy explained Bailey's absence
in characteristic fashion.
"Variety," observed the captain, "is the spice of life. Bailey
gets talk enough to home. What's the use of his comin' up here to
get more?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Josiah Dimick, with a grin, "we let him do
some of the talkin' himself up here. Down at the boardin' house
Keturah and Angie Phinney do it all."
"Yes. Still, if a feller was condemned to live over a biler
factory he wouldn't hanker to get a job IN it, would he? When
Bailey was a delegate to the Methodist Conference up in Boston, him
and a crowd visited the deef and dumb asylum. When 'twas time to
go, he was missin', and they found him in the female ward lookin'
at the inmates. Said that the sight of all them women, every one
of 'em not able to say a word, was the most wonderful thing ever he
laid eyes on. Said it made him feel kind of reverent and holy,
almost as if he was in Paradise. So Ase Tidditt says, anyway; it's
his yarn."
"'Tain't nuther, Cy Whittaker!" declared the indignant Asaph. "If
you expect I'm goin' to father all your lies, you're mistaken."
The crowd at Simmons's discuss politics, as a general thing; state
and national politics in their seasons, but county politics and
local affairs always. The question in Bayport that summer, aside
from that of the harbor appropriation, was who should be hired as
downstairs teacher. Our schoolhouse is a two-story building, with
a schoolroom on each floor. The lower room, where the little tots
begin with their "C--A--T Cat," and progress until they have
mastered the Fourth Reader, is called " downstairs." "Upstairs"
is, of course, the second story, where the older children are
taught. To handle some of the "big boys" upstairs is a task for a
healthy man, and such a one usually fills the teacher's position
there. Downstairs being, in theory, at least, less strenuous, is
presided over by a woman.
Miss Seabury, who had been downstairs teacher for one lively term,
had resigned that spring in tears and humiliation. Her scholars
had enjoyed themselves and would have liked her to continue, but
the committee and the townspeople thought otherwise. There was a
general feeling that enjoyment was not the whole aim of education.
"Betty," said Captain Dimick, referring to his small granddaughter,
"has done fust rate so fur's marksmanship and lung trainin' goes.
I cal'late she can hit a nail head ten foot off with a spitball
three times out of four, and she can whisper loud enough to be
understood in Jericho. But, not wishing to be unreasonable, still
I should like to have her spell 'door' without an 'e.' I've always
been used to seein' it spelled that way and--well, I'm kind of old-
fashioned, anyway."
There was a difference of opinion concerning Miss Seabury's
successor. A portion of the townspeople were for hiring a graduate
of the State Normal School, a young woman with modern training.
Others, remembering that Miss Seabury had graduated from that
school, were for proved ability and less up-to-date methods. These
latter had selected a candidate in the person of a Miss Phoebe
Dawes, a resident of Wellmouth, and teacher of the Wellmouth
"downstairs" for some years. The arguments at Simmons's were hot
ones.
"What's the use of hirin' somebody from right next door to us, as
you might say?" demanded Alpheus Smalley, clerk at the store.
"Don't we want our teachin' to be abreast of the times, and is
Wellmouth abreast of ANYthing?"
"It's abreast of the bay, that's about all, I will give in,"
replied Mr. Tidditt. "But, the way I look at it, we need disCIPline
more 'n anything else, and Phoebe Dawes has had the best disCIPline
in her school, that's been known in these latitudes. Order? Why,
say! Eben Salters told me that when he visited her room over there
'twas so still that he didn't dast to rub one shoe against t'other,
it sounded up so. He had to set still and bear his chilblains best
he could. And POPULAR! Why, when she hinted that she might leave
in May, her scholars more 'n ha'f of 'em, bust out cryin'. Now you
hear me, I--"
"It seems to me," put in Thaddeus Simpson, who ran the barber shop
and was something of a politician, "it seems to me, fellers, that
we'd better wait and hear what Mr. Atkins has to say in this
matter. I guess that's what the committee 'll do, anyhow. We
wouldn't want to go contrary to Heman, none of us; hey?"
"Tad" Simpson was known to be deep in Congressman Atkins's
confidence. The mention of the great man's name was received with
reverence and nods of approval.
"That's right. We mustn't do nothin' to displease Heman," was the
general opinion.
Captain Cy did not join the chorus. He refilled his pipe and
crossed his legs.
"Humph!" he grunted. "Heman Atkins seems to be-- Give me a match,
Ase, won't you? Thanks. I understand there's a special prayer
meetin' at the church to-morrow night, Alpheus. What's it for?"
"For?" Mr. Smalley seemed surprised. "It's to pray for rain,
that's what. You know it, Cap'n, as well's I do. Ain't everybody's
garden dryin' up and the ponds so low that we shan't be able to
get water for the cranberry ditches pretty soon? There's need
to pray, I should think!"
"Humph! Seems a roundabout way of gettin' a thing, don't it? Why
don't you telegraph to Heman and ask him to fix it for you? Save
time."
This remark was received in horrified silence. Tad Simpson was the
first to recover.
"Cap'n," he said, "you ain't met Mr. Atkins yet. When you do,
you'll feel same as the rest of us. He's comin' home next week;
then you'll see."
A part at least of Mr. Simpson's prophecy proved true. The Honorable
Atkins did come to Bayport the following week, accompanied by his
little daughter Alicia, the housekeeper, and the Atkins servants.
The Honorable and his daughter had been, since the adjournment of
Congress, on a pleasure trip to the Yosemite and Yellowstone Park,
and now they were to remain in the mansion on the hill for some
time. The big house was opened, the stone urns burst into refulgent
bloom, the iron dogs were refreshed with a coat of black paint, and
the big iron gate was swung wide. Bayport sat up and took notice.
Angeline Phinney was in her glory.
The meeting between Captain Cy and Mr. Atkins took place the
morning after the latter's return. The captain and his two chums
had been inspecting the progress made by the carpenters and were
leaning over the new fence, then just erected, but not yet painted.
Down the gravel walk of the mansion across the road came strolling
its owner, silk-hatted, side-whiskered, benignant.
"Godfrey!" exclaimed Asaph. "There's Heman. See him, Whit?"
"Yup, I see him. Seems to be headin' this way."
"I--I do believe he's comin' across," whispered Mr. Bangs. "Yes,
he is. He's real everyday, Cy. HE won't mind if you ain't dressed
up."
"Won't he? That's comfortin'. Well, I'll do the best I can
without stimulants, as the doctor says. If you hear my knees
rattle just nudge me, will you, Bailey?"
Mr. Tidditt removed his hat. Bailey touched his. Captain Cy
looked provokingly indifferent; he even whistled.
"Good mornin', Mr. Atkins," hailed the town clerk, raising his
voice because of the whistle. "I'm proud to see you back among us,
sir. Hope you and Alicia had a nice time out West. How is she--
pretty smart?"
Mr. Atkins smiled a bland, congressional smile. He approached the
group by the fence and extended his hand.
"Ah, Asaph!" he said; "it is you then? I thought so. And Bailey,
too. It is certainly delightful to see you both again. Yes, my
daughter is well, I thank you. She, like her father, is glad to be
back in the old home nest after the round of hotel life and gayety
which we have--er--recently undergone. Yes."
"Mr. Atkins," said Bailey, glancing nervously at Captain Cy, who
had stopped whistling and was regarding the Atkins hat and whiskers
with an interested air, "I want to make you acquainted with your
new neighbor. You used to know him when you was a boy, but--but--
er--Mr. Atkins, this is Captain Cyrus Whittaker. Cy, this is
Congressman Atkins. You've heard us speak of him."
The great man started.
"Is it possible!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible that this is
really my old playmate Cyrus Whittaker?"
"Yup," replied the captain calmly. "How are you, Heman? Fatter'n
you used to be, ain't you? Washin'ton must agree with you."
Bailey and Asaph were scandalized. Mr. Atkins himself seemed a
trifle taken aback. Comments on his personal appearance were not
usual in Bayport. But he rallied bravely.
"Well, well!" he cried. "Cyrus, I am delighted to welcome you back
among us. I should scarcely have known you. You are older--yes,
much older."
"Well, forty year more or less, added to what you started with, is
apt to make a feller some older. Don't need any Normal School
graduate to do that sum for us. I'm within seven or eight year of
bein' as old as you are, Heman, and that's too antique to be sold
for veal."
Mr. Atkins changed the subject.
"I had heard of your return, Cyrus," he said. "It gave me much
pleasure to learn that you were rebuilding and--er--renovating
the--er--the ancestral--er--"
"The old home nest? Yup, I'm puttin' back a few feathers. Old
birds like to roost comf'table. You've got a fairly roomy coop
yourself."
"Hum! Isn't it--er--I should suppose you would find it rather
expensive. Can you--do you--"
"Yes, I can afford it, thank you. Maybe there'll be enough left in
the stockin' to buy a few knickknacks for the yard. You can't
tell."
The captain glanced at the iron dogs guarding the Atkins gate. His
tone was rather sharp.
"Yes, yes, certainly; certainly; of course. It gives me much
pleasure to have you as a neighbor. I have always felt a fondness
for the old place, even when you allowed it--even when it was most--
er--run down, if you'll excuse the term. I always felt a liking
for it and--"
"Yes," was the significant interruption. "I judged you must have,
from what I heard."
This was steering dangerously close to the selectmen and the
contemplated "sale for taxes." The town clerk broke in nervously.
"Mr. Atkins," he said, "there's been consider'ble talk in town
about who's to be teacher downstairs this comin' year. We've sort
of chawed it over among us, but naturally we wanted your opinion.
What do you think? I'm kind of leanin' toward the Dawes woman,
myself."
The Congressman cleared his throat.
"Far be it from me," he said, "to speak except as a mere member of
our little community, an ordinary member, but, AS such a member,
with the welfare of my birthplace very near and dear to me, I
confess that I am inclined to favor a modern teacher, one educated
and trained in the institution provided for the purpose by our
great commonwealth. The Dawes--er--person is undoubtedly worthy
and capable in her way, but--well--er--we know that Wellmouth is
not Bayport."
The reference to "our great commonwealth" had been given in the
voice and the manner wont to thrill us at our Fourth-of-July
celebrations and October "rallies." Two of his hearers, at least,
were visibly impressed. Asaph looked somewhat crestfallen, but he
surrendered gracefully to superior wisdom.
"That's so," he said. "That's so, ain't it, Cy? I hadn't thought
of that."
"What's so?" asked the captain.
"Why--why, that Wellmouth ain't Bayport."
"No doubt of it. They're twenty miles apart."
"Yes. Well, I'm glad to hear you put it so conclusive, Mr. Atkins.
I can see now that Phoebe wouldn't do. Hum! Yes."
Mr. Atkins buttoned the frock coat and turned to go.
"Good day, gentlemen," he said. "Cyrus, permit me once more to
welcome you heartily to our village. We--my daughter and myself--
will probably remain at home until the fall. I trust you will be a
frequent caller. Run in on us at any time. Pray do not stand upon
ceremony."
"No," said Captain Cy shortly, "I won't."
"That's right. That's right. Good morning."
He walked briskly down the hill. The trio gazed after him.
"Well," sighed Mr. Tidditt. "That's settled. And it's a comfort
to know 'tis settled. Still I did kind of want Phoebe Dawes; but
of course Heman knows best."
"Course he knows best!" snapped Bailey. "Ain't he the biggest gun
in this county, pretty nigh? I'd like to know who is if he ain't.
The committee 'll call the Normal School girl now, and a good
thing, too."
Captain Cy was still gazing at the dignified form of the "biggest
gun in the county."
"Let's see," he asked. "Who's on the school committee? Eben
Salters, of course, and--"
"Yes. Eben's chairman and he'll vote Phoebe, anyhow; he's that
pig-headed that nobody--not even a United States Representative--
could change him. But Darius Ellis 'll be for Heman's way and so
'll Lemuel Myrick.
"Lemuel Myrick? Lem Myrick, the painter?"
"Sartin. There ain't but one Myrick in town."
"Hum!" murmured the captain and was silent for some minutes.
The school committee met on the following Wednesday evening. On
Thursday morning a startling rumor spread throughout Bayport.
Phoebe Dawes had been called, by a vote of two to one, to teach the
downstairs school. Asaph, aghast, rushed out of Simmons's store
and up to the hill to the Cy Whittaker place. He found Captain Cy
in the front yard. Mr. Myrick, school committeeman and house
painter, was with him.
"Hello, Ase!" hailed the captain. "What's the matter? Hasn't the
tide come in this mornin'?"
Asaph, somewhat embarrassed by the presence of Mr. Myrick, hesitated
over his news. Lemuel came to his rescue.
"Ase has just heard that we called Phoebe," he said. "What of it?
I voted for her, and I ain't ashamed of it."
"But--but Mr. Atkins, he--"
"Well, Heman ain't on the committee, is he? I vote the way I think
right, and no one in this town can change me. Anyway," he added,
"I'm going to resign next spring. Yes, Cap'n Whittaker, I think
three coats of white 'll do on the sides here."
"Lem's goin' to do my paintin' jobs," explained Captain Cy. "His
price was a little higher than some of the other fellers, but I
like his work."
Mr. Tidditt pondered deeply until dinner time. Then he cornered
the captain behind the Bangs barn and spoke with conviction.
"Whit," he said, "you're the one responsible for the committee's
hirin' Phoebe Dawes. You offered Lem the paintin' job if he'd vote
for her. What did you do it for? You don't know her, do you?"
"Never set eyes on her in my life."
"Then--then-- You heard Heman say he wanted the other one. What
made you do it?"
Captain Cy grinned.
"Ase," he said, "I've always been a great hand for tryin'
experiments. Had one of my cooks aboard put raisins in the
flapjacks once, just to see what they tasted like. I judged Heman
had had his own way in this town for thirty odd year. I kind of
wanted to see what would happen if he didn't have it."
CHAPTER IV
BAILEY BANGS'S EXPERIMENT
Lemuel Myrick's painting jobs have the quality so prized by our
village small boys in the species of candy called "jaw breakers,"
namely, that of "lasting long." But even Lem must finish sometime
or other and, late in July, the Cy Whittaker place was ready for
occupancy. The pictures were in their places on the walls, the
old-fashioned furniture filled the rooms, there was even a pile of
old magazines, back numbers of Godey's Lady's Book, on the shelf in
the sitting room closet.
Then, when Captain Cy had notified Mrs. Bangs that the perfect
boarding house would shelter him no longer than the coming week, a
new problem arose.
"Whit," said Asaph earnestly, "you've sartin made the place rise up
out of its tomb; you have so. It's a miracle, pretty nigh, and I
cal'late it must have cost a heap, but you've done it--all but the
old folks themselves. You can't raise them up, Cy; money won't do
that. And you can't live in this great house all alone. Who's
goin' to cook for you, and sweep and dust, and swab decks, and one
thing a'nother? You'll have to have a housekeeper, as I told you a
spell ago. Have you done any thinkin' about that?"
And the captain, taking his pipe from his lips, stared blankly at
his friend, and answered:
"By the big dipper, Ase, I ain't! I remember we did mention it,
but I've been so busy gettin' this craft off the ways that I forgot
all about it."
The discussion which followed Mr. Tidditt's reminder was long and
serious. Asaph and Bailey Bangs racked their brains and offered
numerous suggestions, but the majority of these were not favorably
received.
"There's Matildy Tripp," said Bailey. "She'd like the job, I'm
sartin. She's a widow, too, and she's had experience keepin' house
along of Tobias, him that was her husband. But, if you do hire
her, don't let Ketury know I hinted at it, 'cause we're goin' to
lose one boarder when you quit, and that's too many, 'cordin' to
the old lady's way of thinkin'."
"You can keep Matildy, for all me," replied the captain decidedly.
"Come-Outer religion's all right, for those that have that kind of
appetite, but havin' it passed to me three times a day, same as
I've had it at your house, is enough; I don't hanker to have it
warmed over between meals. If I shipped Matildy aboard here she
and the Reverend Daniels would stand over me, watch and watch, till
I was converted or crazy, one or the other."
"Well, there's Angie. She--"
"Angie!" sniffed Mr. Tidditt. "Stop your jokin', Bailey. This is
a serious matter."
"I wan't jokin'. What--"
"There! there! boys," interrupted the captain; "don't fight.
Bailey didn't mean to joke, Ase; he's full of what the papers call
'unconscious humor.' I'll give in that Angie is about as serious a
matter as I can think of without settin' down to rest. Humph! so
fur we haven't gained any knots to speak of. Any more candidates
on your mind?"
More possibilities were mentioned, but none of them seemed to fill
the bill. The conference broke up without arriving at a decision.
Mr. Bangs and the town clerk walked down the hill together.
"Do you know, Bailey," said Asaph, "the way I look at it, this
pickin' out a housekeeper for Whit ain't any common job. It's
somethin' to think over. Cy's a restless critter; been cruisin'
hither and yon all his life. I'm sort of scared that he'll get
tired of Bayport and quit if things here don't go to suit him. Now
if a real good nice woman--a nice LOOKIN' woman, say--was to keep
house for him it--it--"
"Well?"
"Well, I mean--that is, don't you s'pose if some such woman as that
was to be found for the job he might in time come to like her and--
and--er--"
"Ase Tidditt, what are you drivin' at?"
"Why, I mean he might come to marry her; there! Then he'd be
contented to settle down to home and stay put. What do you think
of the idea?"
"Think of it? I think it's the dumdest foolishness ever I heard.
I declare if the very mention of a woman to some of you old baches
don't make your heads soften up like a jellyfish in the sun! Ain't
Cy Whittaker got money? Ain't he got a nice home? Ain't he happy?"
"Yes, he is now, I s'pose, but--"
"WELL, then! And you want him to get married! What do you know
about marryin'? Never tried it, have you?"
"Course I ain't! You know I ain't."
"All right. Then I'd keep quiet about such things, if I was you."
"You needn't fly up like a settin' hen. Everybody's wife ain't--"
He stopped in the middle of the sentence.
"What's that?" demanded his companion, sharply.
"Nothin'; nothin'. _I_ don't care; I was only tryin' to fix things
comf'table for Whit. Has Heman said anything about the harbor
appropriation sence he's been home? I haven't heard of it if he
has."
Mr. Bangs's answer was a grunt, signifying a negative. Congressman
Atkins had been, since his return to Bayport, exceedingly
noncommittal concerning the appropriation. To Tad Simpson and a
very few chosen lieutenants and intimates he had said that he hoped
to get it; that was all. This was a disquieting change of
attitude, for, at the beginning of the term just passed, he had
affirmed that he was GOING to get it. However, as Mr. Simpson
reassuringly said: "The job's in as good hands as can be, so
what's the use of OUR worryin'?"
Bailey Bangs certainly was not troubled on that score; but the town
clerk's proposal that Captain Cy be provided with a suitable wife
did worry him. Bailey was so very much married himself and had
such decided, though unspoken, views concerning matrimony that such
a proposal seemed to him lunacy, pure and simple. He had liked and
admired his friend "Whit" in the old days, when the latter led them
into all sorts of boyish scrapes; now he regarded him with a liking
that was close to worship. The captain was so jolly and outspoken;
so brave and independent--witness his crossing of the great Atkins
in the matter of the downstairs teacher. That was a reckless piece
of folly which would, doubtless, be rewarded after its kind, but
Bailey, though he professed to condemn it, secretly wished he had
the pluck to dare such things. As it was, he didn't dare contradict
Keturah.
With the exception of one voyage as cabin boy to New Orleans, a
voyage which convinced him that he was not meant for a seaman, Mr.
Bangs had never been farther from his native village than Boston.
Captain Cy had been almost everywhere and seen almost everything.
He could spin yarns that beat the serial stories in the patent
inside of the Bayport Breeze all hollow. Bailey had figured that,
when the "fixin' over" was ended, the Cy Whittaker place would be
for him a delightful haven of refuge, where he could put his boots
on the furniture, smoke until dizzy without being pounced upon, be
entertained and thrilled with tales of adventure afloat and ashore,
and even express his own opinion, when he had any, with the voice
and lung power of a free-born American citizen.
And now Asaph Tidditt, who should know better, even though he was a
bachelor, wanted to bring a wife into this paradise; not a paid
domestic who could be silenced, or discharged, if she became a
nuisance, but a WIFE! Bailey guessed not; not if he could prevent
it.
So he lay awake nights thinking of possible housekeepers for
Captain Cy, and carefully rejecting all those possessing dangerous
attractions of any kind. Each morning, after breakfast, he ran
over the list with the captain, taking care that Asaph was not
present. Captain Cy, who was very busy with the finishing touches
at the new old house, wearied on the third morning.
"There, there, Bailey!" he said. "Don't bother me now. I've got
other things on my mind. How do I know who all these women folks
are you're stringing off to me? Let me alone, do."
"But you must have a housekeeper, Cy. You'll move in Monday and
you won't have nobody to--"
"Oh, dry up! I want to think who I must see this morning. There's
Lem and old lady Penniman, and--"
"But the housekeeper, Cy! Don't you see--"
"Hire one yourself, then. You know 'em; I don't."
"Hey? Hire one myself? Do you mean you'll leave it in my hands?"
"Yes, yes! I guess so. Run along, that's a good feller."
He departed hurriedly. Mr. Bangs scratched his head. A weighty
responsibility had been laid upon him.
Monday morning after breakfast Captain Cy's trunk was put aboard
the depot wagon, and Dan'l Webster drew it to its owner's home.
The farewells at the perfect boarding house were affecting. Mrs.
Tripp said that she had spoken to the Reverend Mr. Daniels, and he
would be sure to call the very first thing. Keturah affirmed that
the captain's stay had been a real pleasure.
"You never find fault, Cap'n Whittaker," she said. "You're such a
manly man, if you'll excuse my sayin' so. I only wish there was
more like you," with a significant glance at her husband. As for
Miss Phinney, she might have been saying good-by yet if the captain
had not excused himself.
Asaph accompanied his friend to the house on the hill. The trunk
was unloaded from the wagon and carried into the bedroom on the
first floor, the room which had been Captain Cy's so long ago.
Gabe shrieked at Dan'l Webster, and the depot wagon crawled away
toward the upper road.
"Got to meet the up train," grumbled the driver. "Not that anybody
ever comes on it, but I cal'late I'm s'posed to be there. Be more
talk than a little if I wan't. Git dap, Dan'l! you're slower'n the
moral law."
"So you're goin' to do your own cookin' for a spell, Cy?" observed
Asaph, a half hour later, "Well, I guess that's a good idea, till
you can find the right housekeeper. I ain't been able to think of
one that would suit you yet."
"Nor I, either. Neither's Bailey, I judge, though for a while he
was as full of suggestions as a pine grove is of woodticks. He
started to say somethin' about it to me last night, but Ketury hove
in sight and yanked him off to prayer meetin'."
"Yes, I know. She cal'lates to get him into heaven somehow."
"I guess 'twouldn't BE heaven for her unless he was round to pick
at. There he comes now. How'd he get out of wipin' dishes?"
Mr. Bangs strolled into the yard.
"Hello!" he hailed. "I was on my way to Simmons's on an errand and
I thought I'd stop in a minute. Got somethin' to tell you, Whit."
"All right. Overboard with it! It won't keep long this hot
weather."
Bailey smiled knowingly. "Didn't I hear the up train whistle as I
was comin' along?" he asked. "Seems to me I did. Yes; well, if I
ain't mistaken somebody's comin' on that train. Somebody for you,
Cy Whittaker."
"Somebody for ME?"
"Um--hum! I can gen'rally be depended on, I cal'late, and when you
says to me: 'Bailey, you get me a housekeeper,' I didn't lose much
time. I got her."
Mr. Tidditt gasped.
"GOT her?" he repeated. "Got who? Got what? Bailey Bangs, what
in the world have--"
"Belay, Ase!" ordered Captain Cy. "Bailey, what are you givin'
us?"
"Givin' you a housekeeper, and a good one, too, I shouldn't wonder.
She may not be one of them ten-thousand-dollar prize museum
beauties," with a scornful wink at Asaph, "but if what I hear's
true she can keep house. Anyhow she's kept one for forty odd year.
Her name's Deborah Beasley, she's a widow over to East Trumet, and
if I don't miss my guess, she's in the depot wagon now headed in
this direction."
Captain Cy whistled. Mr. Tidditt was too much surprised to do even
that.
"I was speakin' to the feller that drives the candy cart," continued
Bailey, "and I asked him if he'd run acrost anybody, durin' his
trips 'round the country, who'd be likely to hire out for a
housekeeper. He thought a spell and then named over some. Among 'em
was this Beasley one. I asked some more questions and, the answers
bein' satisfactory to ME, though they might not be to some folks--"
another derisive wink at Asaph--"I set down and wrote her, tellin'
what you'd pay, Cy, what she'd have to do, and when she'd have to
come. Saturday night I got a letter, sayin' terms was all right,
and she'd be on hand by this mornin's train. Course she's only on
trial for a month, but you had to have SOMEBODY, and the candy-cart
feller said--"
The town clerk slapped his knee.
"Debby Beasley!" he cried. "I know who she is! I've got a cousin
in Trumet. Debby Beasley! Aunt Debby, they call her. Why! she's
old enough to be Methusalem's grandmarm, and--"
"If I recollect right," interrupted Bailey, with dignity, "Cy never
said he wanted a YOUNG woman--a frivolous, giddy critter, always
riggin' up and chasin' the fellers. He wanted a sot, sober
housekeeper."
"Godfrey! Aunt Debby ain't frivolous! She couldn't chase a lame
clam--and catch it. And DEEF! Godfrey--scissors! she's deefer 'n
one of them cast-iron Newfoundlands in Heman's yard! Do you mean
to say, Bailey Bangs, that you went ahead, on your own hook, and
hired that old relic to--"
"I did. And I had my authority, didn't I, Whit? You told me you'd
leave it in my hands, now didn't you?"
The captain smiled somewhat ruefully, and scratched his head.
"Why, to be honest, Bailey, I believe I did," he admitted. "Still,
I hardly expected--Humph! is she deef, as Ase says?"
"I understand she's a little mite hard of hearin'," replied Mr.
Bangs, with dignity; "but that ain't any drawback, the way I look
at it. Fact is, I'd call it an advantage, but you folks seem to be
hard to please. I ruther imagined you'd thank me for gettin' her,
but I s'pose that was too much to expect. All right, pitch her
out! Don't mind MY feelin's! Poor homeless critter comin' to--"
"Homeless!" repeated Asaph. "What's that got to do with it? Cy
ain't runnin' the Old Woman's Home."
"Well, well!" observed the captain resignedly. "There's no use in
rowin' about what can't be helped. Bailey says he shipped her for
a month's trial, and here comes the depot wagon now. That's her on
the aft thwart, I judge. She AIN'T what you'd call a spring
pullet, is she!"
She certainly was not. The occupant of the depot wagon's rear seat
was a thin, not to say scraggy, female, wearing a black, beflowered
bonnet and a black gown. A black knit shawl was draped about her
shoulders and she wore spectacles.
"Whoa!" commanded Mr. Lumley, piloting the depot wagon to the side
door of the Whittaker house. Dan'l Webster came to anchor
immediately. Gabe turned and addressed his passenger.
"Here we be!" he shouted.
"Hey?" observed the lady in black.
"Here--we--be!" repeated Gabe, raising his voice.
"See? See what?"
"Oh, heavens to Betsey! I'm gettin' the croup from howlin'. I--
say--HERE--WE--BE! GET OUT!"
He accompanied the final bellow with an expressive pantomime
indicating that the passenger was expected to alight. She seemed
to understand, for she opened the door of the carriage and slowly
descended. Mr. Bangs advanced to meet her.
"How d'ye do, Mrs. Beasley!" he said. "Glad to see you all safe
and sound."
Mrs. Beasley shook his hand; hers were covered, as far as the
knuckles, by black mitts.
"How d'ye do, Cap'n Whittaker?" she said, in a shrill voice. "You
pretty smart?"
Bailey hastened to explain.
"I ain't Cap'n Whittaker," he roared. "I'm Bailey Bangs, the one
that wrote to you."
"Hey?"
Mr. Lumley and Asaph chuckled. Bailey colored and tried again.
"I ain't the cap'n," he whooped. "Here he is--here!"
He led her over to her prospective employer and tapped the latter
on the chest.
"How d'ye do, sir?" said the housekeeper. "I don't know's I just
caught your name."
In five minutes or so the situation was made reasonably clear.
Mrs. Beasley then demanded her trunk and carpet bag. The grinning
Lumley bore them into the house. Then he drove away, still
grinning. Bailey looked fearfully at Captain Cy.
"She IS kind of hard of hearin', ain't she?" he said reluctantly.
"You remember I said she was."
The captain nodded.
"Yes," he answered, "you're a truth-tellin' chap, Bailey, I'll say
that for you. You don't exaggerate your statements."
"Hard of hearin'!" snapped Mr. Tidditt. "If the last trump ain't a
steam whistle she'll miss Judgment Day. I'll stop into Simmons's
on my way along and buy you a bottle of throat balsam, Cy; you're
goin' to need it."
The captain needed more than throat balsam during the fortnight
which followed. The widow Beasley's deafness was not her only
failing. In fact she was altogether a failure, so far as her
housekeeping was concerned. She could cook, after a fashion, but
the fashion was so limited that even the bill of fare at the
perfect boarding house looked tempting in retrospect.
"Baked beans again, Cy!" exclaimed Asaph, dropping in one evening
after supper. "'Tain't Saturday night so soon, is it?"
"No," was the dismal rejoinder. "It's Tuesday, if my almanac ain't
out of joint. But we had beans Saturday and they ain't all gone
yet, so I presume we'll have 'em till the last one's swallowed.
Aunt Debby's got what the piece in the Reader used to call a
'frugal mind.' She don't intend to waste anything. Last Thursday
I spunked up courage enough to yell for salt fish and potatoes--
fixed up with pork scraps, you know, same's we used to have when I
was a boy. We had 'em all right, and if beans of a Saturday hadn't
been part of her religion we'd be warmin' 'em up yet. I took in a
cat for company 'tother day, but the critter's run away. To see it
look at the beans in its saucer and then at me was pitiful; I felt
like handin' myself over to the Cruelty to Animals' folks."
"Is she neat?" inquired Mr. Tidditt.
"I don't know. I guess so--on the installment plan. It takes her
a week to scrub up the kitchen, and then one end of it is so dirty
she has to begin again. Consequently the dust is so thick in the
rest of the house that I can see my tracks. If 'twan't so late in
the season I'd plant garden stuff in the parlor--nice soil and lots
of shade, with the curtains down."
From the rooms in the rear came the words of a gospel hymn sung in
a tremulous soprano and at concert pitch.
"Music with my meals, just like a high-toned restaurant," commented
Captain Cy.
"But what makes her sing so everlastin' LOUD?"
"Can't hear herself if she don't. I could stand her deefness,
because that's an affliction and we may all come to it; but--"
The housekeeper, still singing, entered the room and planted
herself in a chair.
"Good evenin', Mr. Tidditt," she said, smiling genially. "Nice
weather we've been havin'."
Asaph nodded.
"Sociable critter, ain't she!" observed the captain. "Always
willin' to help entertain. Comes and sets up with me till bedtime.
Tells about her family troubles. Preaches about her niece out
West, and how set the niece and the rest of the Western relations
are to have her make 'em a visit. I told her she better go--I
thought 'twould do her good. I know 'twould help ME consider'ble
to see her start.
"She's got so now she finds fault with my neckties," he added,
"says I must be careful and not get my feet wet. Picks out what I
ought to wear so's I won't get cold. She'll adopt me pretty soon.
Oh, it's all right! She can't hear what you say. Are your dishes
done?" he shrieked, turning to the old lady.
"One? One what?" inquired Mrs. Beasley.
"They won't BE done till you go, Ase," continued the master of the
house. "She'll stay with us till the last gun fires. T'other day
Angie Phinney called and I turned Debby loose on her. I didn't
believe anything could wear out Angie's talkin' machinery, but she
did it. Angeline stayed twenty minutes and then quit, hoarse as a
crow."
Here the widow joined in the conversation, evidently under the
impression that nothing had been said since she last spoke.
Continuing her favorable comments on the weather she observed that
she was glad there was so little fog, because fog was hard for
folks with "neuralgy pains." Her brother's wife's cousin had
"neuralgy" for years, and she described his sufferings with
enthusiasm and infinite detail. Mr. Tidditt answered her questions
verbally at first; later by nods and shakes of the head. Captain
Cy fidgeted in his chair.
"Come on outdoor, Ase," he said at last. "No use to wait till she
runs down, 'cause she's a self-winder, guaranteed to keep goin' for
a year. Good-night!" he shouted, addressing Mrs. Beasley, and
heading for the door.
"Where you goin'?" asked the old lady.
"No. Yes. Who said so? Hooray! Three cheers for Gen'ral Scott!
Come on, Ase!" And the captain, seizing his friend by the arm,
dragged him into the open air, and slammed the door.
"Are you crazy?" demanded the astonished town clerk. "What makes
you talk like that?"
"Might as well. She wouldn't understand it any better if 'twas
Scripture, and it saves brain work. The only satisfaction I get is
bein' able to give my opinion of her and the grub without hurtin'
her feelin's. If I called her a wooden-headed jumpin' jack she'd
only smile and say No, she didn't think 'twas goin' to rain, or
somethin' just as brilliant."
"Well, why don't you give her her walkin' papers?"
"I shall, when her month's up."
"I wouldn't wait no month. I'd heave her overboard to-night. You
hear ME!"
Captain Cy shook his head.
"I can't, very well," he replied. "I hate to make her feel TOO
bad. When the month's over I'll have some excuse ready, maybe.
The joke of it is that she don't really need to work out. She's
got some money of her own, owns cranberry swamps and I don't know
what all. Says she took up Bailey's offer 'cause she cal'lated I'd
be company for her. I had to laugh, even in the face of those
beans, when she said that."
"Humph! if I don't tell Bailey what I think of him, then--"
"No, no! Don't you say a word to Bailey. It's principally on his
account that I'm tryin' to stick it out for the month. Bailey did
his best; he thought he was helpin'. And he feels dreadfully
because she's so deef. Only yesterday he asked me if I believed
there was anything made that would fix her up and make it more
comfortable for me. I could have prescribed a shotgun, but I
didn't. You see, he thinks her deefness is the only trouble; I
haven't told him the rest, and don't you do it, either. Bailey's a
good-hearted chap."
"Humph! his heart may be good, but his head's goin' to seed. I'll
keep quiet if 'twill please you, though."
"Yes. And, see here, Ase! I don't care to be the laughin' stock
of Bayport. If any of the folks ask you how I like my new
housekeeper, you tell 'em there's nothin' like her anywhere.
That's no lie."
So Mrs. Beasley stayed on at the Whittaker place and, thanks to Mr.
Tidditt, the general opinion of inquisitive Bayport was that the
new housekeeper was a grand success. Only Captain Cy and Asaph
knew the whole truth, and Mr. Bangs a part. That part, Deborah's
deafness, troubled him not a little and he thought much concerning
it. As a result of this thinking he wrote a letter to a relative
in Boston. The answer to this letter pleased him and he wrote
again.
One afternoon, during the third week of Mrs. Beasley's stay, Asaph
called and found Captain Cy in the sitting room, reading the
Breeze. The captain urged his friend to remain and have supper.
"We've run out of beans, Ase," he explained, "and are just startin'
in on a course of boiled cod. Do stay and eat a lot; then there
won't be so much to warm over."
Mr. Tidditt accepted the invitation, also a section of the Breeze.
While they were reading they heard the back door slam.
"It's the graven image," explained the captain. "She's been on a
cruise down town somewheres. Be a lot of sore throats in that
direction to-morrow mornin'."
The town clerk looked up.
"There now!" he exclaimed. "I believe 'twas her I saw walkin' with
Bailey a spell ago. I thought so, but I didn't have my specs and I
wan't sure."
"With Bailey, hey? Humph! this is serious. Hope Ketury didn't see
'em. We mustn't have any scandal."
The housekeeper entered the dining room. She was singing "Beulah
Land," but her tone was more subdued than usual. They heard her
setting the table.
"How's she gettin' along?" asked Asaph.
"Progressin' backwards, same as ever. She's no better, thank you,
and the doctor's given up hopes."
"When you goin' to tell her she can clear out?"
"What?" Captain Cy had returned to his paper and did not hear the
question.
"I say when is she goin' to be bounced? Deefness ain't catchin',
is it?"
"I wouldn't wonder if it might be. If 'tis, mine ought to be
developin' fast. What makes her so still all at once?"
"Gone to the kitchen, I guess. Wonder she hasn't sailed in and set
down with us. Old chromo! You must be glad her month's most up?"
Asaph proceeded to give his opinion of the housekeeper, raising his
voice almost to a howl, as his indignation grew. If Mrs. Beasley's
ears had been ordinary ones she might have heard the unflattering
description in the kitchen; as it was Mr. Tidditt felt no fear.
"Comin' here so's you could be company for her! The idea! Good to
herself, ain't she! Godfrey scissors! And Bailey was fool enough
to--"
"There, there! Don't let it worry you, Ase. I've about decided
what to say when I let her go. I'll tell her she is gettin' too
old to be slavin' herself to death. You see, I don't want to make
the old critter cry, nor I don't want her to get mad. Judgin' by
the way she used to coax the cat outdoors with the broom handle
she's got somethin' of a temper when she gets started. I'll give
her an extry month's wages, and--"
"You will, hey? You WILL?"
The interruption came from behind the partially closed dining-room
door. Mr. Tidditt sank back in his chair. Captain Cy sprang from
his and threw the door wide open. Behind it crouched Mrs. Deborah
Beasley. Her eyes snapped behind her spectacles, her lean form was
trembling all over, and in her right hand she held a mammoth
trumpet, the smaller end of which was connected with her ear.
"You will, hey? " she screamed, brandishing her left fist, but
still keeping the ear trumpet in place with her right. "You WILL?
Well, I don't want none of your miser'ble money! Land knows how
you made it, anyhow, and I wouldn't soil my hands with it. After
all I've put up with, and the way I've done my work, and the things
I've had to eat, and--and--"
She paused for breath. Captain Cy scratched his chin. Asaph,
gazing open-mouthed at the trumpet, stirred in his chair. Mrs.
Beasley swooped down upon him like a gull on a minnow.
"And you!" she shrieked. "You! a miserable little, good-for-
nothin', lazy, ridiculous, dried-up-- . . . Oo--oo--OH! You call
yourself a town clerk! YOU do! I--I wouldn't have you clerk for a
hen house! I'm an old chromo, be I? Yes! that's nice talk, ain't
it, to a woman old enough to be--that is--er--er--'most as old as
you be! You sneakin', story-tellin', little, fat THING, you! You--
oh, I can't lay my tongue to words to tell you WHAT you are."
"You're doin' pretty well, seems to me," observed Captain Cy dryly.
"I wouldn't be discouraged if I was you."
The only effect of this remark was to turn the wordy torrent in his
direction. The captain bore it for a while; then he rose to his
feet and commanded silence.
"That's enough! Stop it!" he ordered, and, strange to say, Mrs.
Beasley did stop. "I'm sorry, Debby," he went on, "but you had no
business to be listenin' even if--" and he smiled grimly, "you have
got a new fog horn to hear with. You can go and pack your things
as soon as you want to. I made up my mind the first day you come
that you and me wouldn't cruise together long, and this only
shortens the trip by a week or so. I'll pay you for this month and
for the next, and I guess, when you come to think it over, you'll
be willin' to risk soilin' your hands with the money. It's your
own fault if anybody knows that you didn't leave of your own
accord. _I_ shan't tell, and I'll see that Tidditt doesn't. Now
trot! Ase and I'll get supper ourselves."
It was evident that the ex-housekeeper had much more which she
would have liked to say. But there was that in her late employer's
manner which caused her to forbear. She slammed out of the room,
and they heard her banging things about on the floor above.
"But where--WHERE," repeated Mr. Tidditt, over and over, "did she
get that trumpet?"
The puzzle was solved soon after, when Bailey Bangs entered the
house in a high state of excitement.
"Well," he demanded, expectantly. "Did they help her? Has
anything happened?"
"HAPPENED!" began Asaph, but Captain Cy silenced him by a wink.
"Yes," answered the captain; "something's happened. Why?"
"Hurrah! I thought 'twould. She can hear better, can't she?"
"Yes, I guess it's safe to say she can."
"Good! You can thank me for it. When I see how dreadful deef she
was I wrote my cousin Eddie T, who's an optician up to Boston--you
know him, Ase--and I says: 'Ed, you know what's good for folks who
can't see? Ain't there nothin',' says I, 'that'll help them who
can't hear? How about ear trumpets?' And Ed wrote that an ear
trumpet would probably help some, but why didn't I try a pair of
them patent fixin's that are made to put inside deef people's ears?
He'd known of cases where they helped a lot. So I sent for a pair,
and the biggest ear trumpet made, besides. And when I met Debby
to-day I give 'em to her and told her to put the patent things IN
her ears and couple on the trumpet outside 'em. And not to say
nothin' to you, but just surprise you. And it did surprise you,
didn't it?"
The wrathful Mr. Tidditt could wait no longer. He burst into a
vivid description of the "surprise." Bailey was aghast. Captain
Cy laughed until his face was purple.
"I declare, Cy!" exclaimed the dejected purchaser of the "ear
fixin's" and the trumpet. "I do declare I'm awful sorry! if you'd
only told me she was no good I'd have let her alone; but I thought
'twas just the deefness. I--I--"
"I know, Bailey; you meant well, like the layin'-on-of-hands doctor
who rubbed the rheumatic man's wooden leg. All right; _I_ forgive
you. 'Twas worth it all to see Asaph's face when Marm Beasley was
complimentin' him. Ha! ha! Oh, dear me! I've laughed till I'm
sore. But there's one thing I SHOULD like to do, if you don't
mind: I should like to pick out my next housekeeper myself."
CHAPTER V
A FRONT-DOOR CALLER
Mrs. Beasley departed next morning, taking with her the extra
month's wages, in spite of fervid avowals that she wouldn't touch a
cent of it. On the way to the depot she favored Mr. Lumley with
sundry hints concerning the reasons for her departure. She
"couldn't stand it no longer"; if folks only knew what she'd had to
put up with she cal'lated they'd be some surprised; she could "tell
a few things" if she wanted to, and so on. Incidentally she was
kind of glad she didn't like the place, because now she cal'lated
she should go West and visit her niece; they'd been wanting her to
come for so long.
Gabe was much interested and repeated the monologue, with imaginative
additions, to the depot master, who, in turn, repeated it to his
wife when he went home to dinner. That lady attended sewing circle
in the afternoon. Next day a large share of Bayport's conversation
dealt with the housekeeper's leaving and her reasons therefor. The
reasons differed widely, according to the portion of the town in
which they were discussed, but it was the general opinion that the
whole affair was not creditable to Captain Whittaker.
Only at the perfect boarding house was the captain upheld. Miss
Phinney declared that she knew he had made a mistake as soon as she
heard the Beasley woman talk; nobody else, so Angeline declared,
could "get a word in edgeways." Mrs. Tripp sighed and affirmed
that going out of town for a woman to do housework was ridiculous
on the face of it; there were plenty of Bayport ladies, women of
capability and sound in their religious views, who might be hired
if they were approached in the right way. Keturah gave, as her
opinion, that if the captain knew when he was well off, he would
"take his meals out." Asaph snorted and intimated that that Debby
Beasley wasn't fit to "keep house in a pigsty, and anybody but a
born gump would have known it." Bailey, the "born gump," said
nothing, but looked appealingly at his chum.
As for Captain Cy, he did not take the trouble to affirm or deny
the rumors. Peace and quiet dominated the Whittaker house for the
first time in three weeks and its owner was happier. He cooked his
own food and washed his own dishes. The runaway cat ventured to
return, found other viands than beans in its saucer, and decided to
remain, purring thankful contentment. The captain made his own
bed, after a fashion, when he was ready to occupy it, but he was
conscious that it might be better made. He refused, however, to
spend his time in sweeping and dusting, and the dust continued to
accumulate on the carpets and furniture. This condition of affairs
troubled him, but he kept his own counsel. Asaph and Bailey called
often, but they offered no more suggestions as to hiring a
housekeeper. Mr. Tidditt might have done so, but the captain gave
him no encouragement. Mr. Bangs, recent humiliation fresh in his
mind, would as soon have suggested setting the house on fire.
One evening Asaph happened in, on his way to Simmons's. He desired
the captain to accompany him to that gathering place of the wise
and talkative. Captain Cy was in the sitting room, a sheet of note
paper in his hand. The town clerk entered without ceremony and
tossed his hat on the sofa.
"Evenin', Ase," observed the captain, folding the sheet of paper
and putting it into his pocket. "Glad you come. Sit down. I
wanted to ask you somethin'."
"All right! Here I be. Heave ahead and ask."
Captain Cy puffed at his pipe. He seemed about to speak and then
to think better of it, for he crossed his legs and smoked on in
silence, gazing at the nickel work of the "base-burner" stove. It
was badly in need of polishing.
"Well?" inquired Asaph, with impatient sarcasm. "Thinkin' of
askin' me to build a fire for you, was you? Nobody else but you
would have set up a stove in summer time, anyhow."
"Hey? No, you needn't start a fire yet awhile. That necktie of
yours 'll keep us warm till fall, I shouldn't wonder. New one,
ain't it? Where'd you get it?"
Mr. Tidditt was wearing a crocheted scarf of a brilliant crimson
hue, particularly becoming to his complexion. The complexion now
brightened until it was almost a match for the tie.
"Oh!" he said, with elaborate indifference. "That? Yes, it's new.
Yesterday was my birthday, and Matildy Tripp she knew I needed a
necktie, so she give me this one."
"Oh! One she knit purpose for you, then? Dear me! Look out, Ase.
Widow women are dangerous, they say; presents are one of the first
baits they heave out."
"Don't be foolish, now! I couldn't chuck it back at her, could I?
That would be pretty manners. You needn't talk about widders--not
after Debby! Ho! ho!"
Captain Cy chuckled. Then he suddenly became serious.
"Ase," he said, "you remember the time when the Howes folks had
this house? Course you do. Yes; well, was there any of their
relations here with 'em? A--a cousin, or somethin'?"
"No, not as I recollect. Yes, there was, too, come to think. A
third cousin, Mary Thayer her name was. I THINK she was a third
cousin of Betsy Howes, Seth Howes's second wife. Betsy's name was
Ginn afore she married, and the Ginns was related on their ma's
side to a Richards--Emily Richards, I think 'twas--and Emily
married a Thayer. Would that make this Mary a third cousin? Now
let's see; Sarah Jane Ginn, she had an aunt who kept a boardin'
house in Harniss. I remember that, 'count of her sellin' my Uncle
Bije a pig. Seems to me 'twas a pig, but I ain't sure that it
mightn't have been a settin' of Plymouth Rock hens' eggs. Anyhow,
Uncle Bije KEPT hens, because I remember one time--"
"There! there! we'll be out of sight of land in a minute. This
Mary Thayer--old, was she?"
"No, no! Just a young girl, eighteen or twenty or so. Pretty and
nice and quiet as ever I see. By Godfrey, she WAS pretty! I wan't
as old as I be now, and--"
"Ase, don't tell your heart secrets, even to me. I might get
absent-minded and mention 'em to Matildy. And then--whew!"
"If you don't stop tryin' to play smarty I'll go home. What's
Matildy Tripp to me, I'd like to know? And even when Mary Thayer
was here I was old enough to be her dad. But I remember what a
nice girl she was and how the boarders liked her. They used to say
she done more than all the Howes tribe put together to make the Sea
Sight House a good hotel. Young as she was she done most of the
housekeepin' and done it well. If the rest of 'em had been like
her you mightn't have had the place yet, Whit. But what set you to
thinkin' about her?"
"Oh, I don't know! Nothin' much; that is--well, I'll tell you some
other time. What became of her?"
"She went up to New Hampshire along with the Howes folks and I
ain't seen her since. Seems to me I did hear she was married. See
here, Whit, what is it about her? Tell a feller; come!"
But Captain Cy refused to gratify his chum's lively curiosity.
Also he refused to go to Simmons's that evening, saying that he was
tired and guessed he'd stay at home and "turn in early." Mr.
Tidditt departed grumbling. After he had gone the captain drew his
chair nearer the center table, took from his pocket a sheet of
notepaper, and proceeded to read what was written on its pages. It
was a letter which he had received nearly a month before and had
not yet answered. During the past week he had read it many times.
The writing was cramped and blotted and the paper cheap and dingy.
The envelope bore the postmark of a small town in Indiana, and the
inclosure was worded as follows:
CAPTAIN CYRUS WHITTAKER.
DEAR SIR: I suppose you will be a good deal surprised to hear from
me, especially from way out West here. When you bought the old
house of Seth, he and I was living in Concord, N. H. He couldn't
make a go of his business there, so we came West and he has been
sick most of the time since. We ain't well off like you, and times
are hard with us. What I wanted to write you about was this. My
cousin Mary Thomas, Mary Thayer that was, is still living in
Concord and she is poor and needs help, though I don't suppose she
would ask for it, being too proud. False pride I call it. Me and
Seth would like to do something for her, but we have a hard enough
job to keep going ourselves. Mary married a man by the name of
Henry Thomas, and he turned out to be a miserable good-for-nothing,
as I always said he would. She wouldn't listen to me though. He
run off and left her seven year ago last April, and I understand
was killed or drowned somewheres up in Montana. Mary and [several
words scratched out here] got along somehow since, but I don't know
how. While we lived in Concord Seth sort of kept an eye on her,
but now he can't of course. She's a good girl, or woman rather,
being most forty, and would make a good housekeeper if you should
need one as I suppose likely you will. If you could help her it
would be an act of charity and you will be rewarded Above. Seth
says why not write to her and tell her to come and see you? He
feels bad about her, because he is so sick I suppose. And he knows
you are rich and could do good if you felt like it. Her father's
name was John Thayer. I wouldn't wonder if you used to know her
mother. She was Emily Richards afore she married and they used to
live in Orham.
Yours truly,
ELIZABETH HOWES.
P.S.--Mary's address is Mrs. Mary Thomas, care Mrs. Oliver, 128
Blank Street, Concord, N. H.
N.B.--Seth won't say so, but I will: we are very hard up ourselves
and if you could help him and me with the loan of a little money it
would be thankfully received.
Captain Cy read the letter, folded it, and replaced it in his
pocket. He knew the Howes family by reputation, and the reputation
was that of general sharpness in trade and stinginess in money
matters. Betsy's personal appeal did not, therefore, touch his
heart to any great extent. He surmised also that for Seth Howes
and his wife to ask help for some person other than themselves
premised a darky in the woodpile somewhere. But for the daughter
of Emily Richards to be suggested as a possible housekeeper at the
Cy Whittaker place--that was interesting, certainly.
When the captain was not a captain--when he was merely "young Cy,"
a boy, living with his parents, a dancing school was organized in
Bayport. It was an innovation for our village, and frowned upon by
many of the older and stricter inhabitants. However, most of the
captain's boy friends were permitted to attend; young Cy was not.
His father considered dancing a waste of time and, if not wicked,
certainly frivolous and nonsensical. So the boy remained at home,
but, in spite of the parental order, he practiced some of the
figures of the quadrilles and the contra dances in his comrades'
barns, learning them at second hand, so to speak.
One winter there was to be a party in Orham, given by the
Nickersons, wealthy people with a fifteen-year-old daughter. It
was to be a grand affair, and most of the boys and girls in the
neighboring towns were invited. Cy received an invitation, and,
for a wonder, was permitted to attend. The Bayport contingent went
over in a big hayrick on runners and the moonlight ride was jolly
enough. The Nickerson mansion was crowded and there were music and
dancing.
Young Cy was miserable during the dancing. He didn't dare attempt
it, in spite of his lessons in the barn. So, while the rest of his
boy friends sought partners for the "Portland Fancy" and "Hull's
Victory" he sat forlorn in a corner.
As he sat there he was approached by a young lady, radiant in
muslin and ribbons. She was three or four years older than he was,
and he had worshipped her from afar as she whirled up and down the
line in the Virginia Reel. She never lacked partners and seemed to
be a great favorite with the young men, especially one good-looking
chap with a sunburned face, who looked like a sailor.
They were forming sets for "Money Musk"; it was "ladies' choice,"
and there was a demand for more couples. The young lady came ever
to Cy's corner and laughingly dropped him a courtesy.
"If you please," she said, "I want a partner. Will you do me the
honor?"
Cy blushingly avowed that he couldn't dance any to speak of.
"Oh, yes, you can! I'm sure you can. You're the Whittaker boy,
aren't you? I've heard about your barn lessons. And I want you to
try this with me. Please do. No, John," she added, turning to the
sunburned young fellow who had followed her across the room; "this
is my choice and here is my partner. Susie Taylor is after you and
you mustn't run away. Come, Mr. Whittaker."
So Cy took her arm and they danced "Money Musk" together. He made
but a few mistakes, and these she helped him to correct so easily
that none noticed. His success gave him courage and he essayed
other dances; in fact, he had a very good time at the party after
all.
On the way home he thought a great deal about the pretty young
lady, whose name he discovered was Emily Richards. He decided that
if she would only wait for him, he might like to marry her when he
grew up. But he was thirteen and she was seventeen, and the very
next year she married John Thayer, the sailor in the blue suit.
And two years after that young Cy ran away to be a sailor himself.
In spite of his age and his lifetime of battering about the world,
Captain Cy had a sentimental streak in his makeup; his rejuvenation
of the old home proved that. Betsy's letter interested him. He
had made guarded inquiries concerning Mary Thayer, now Mary Thomas,
of others besides Asaph, and the answers had been satisfactory so
far as they went; those who remembered her had liked her very much.
The captain had even begun a letter to Mrs. Thomas, but laid it
aside unfinished, having, since Bailey's unfortunate experience
with the widow Beasley, a prejudice against experiments.
But this evening, before Mr. Tidditt called, he had been thinking
that something would have to be done and done soon. The generally
shiftless condition of his domestic surroundings was getting to be
unbearable. Dust and dirt did not fit into his mental picture of
the old home as it used to be and as he had tried to restore it.
There had been neither dust nor dirt in his mother's day.
He meditated and smoked for another hour. Then, his mind being
made up, he pulled down the desk lid of the old-fashioned
secretary, resurrected from a pile of papers the note he had begun
to Mrs. Thomas, dipped a sputtering pen into the ink bottle and
proceeded to write.
His letter was a short one and rather noncommittal. As Mrs. Thomas
no doubt knew he had come back to live in his father's house at
Bayport. He might possibly need some one to keep house for him.
He understood that she, Mary Thayer that was, was a good housekeeper
and that she was open to an engagement if everything was mutually
satisfactory. He had known her mother slightly when the latter
lived in Orham. He thought an interview might be pleasant, for they
could talk over old times if nothing more. Perhaps, on the whole,
she might care to risk a trip to Bayport, therefore he inclosed
money for her railroad fare. "You understand, of course," so he
wrote in conclusion, "that nothing may come of our meeting at all.
So please don't say a word to anybody when you strike town. You've
lived here yourself, and you know that three words hove overboard in
Bayport will dredge up gab enough to sink a dictionary. So just
keep mum till the business is settled one way or the other."
He put on his hat and went down to the post office, where he
dropped his letter in the slot of the box fastened to the front
door. Then he returned home and retired at exactly eleven o'clock.
In spite of his remarks to Asaph, he had not "turned in" so early
after all.
If the captain expected a prompt reply to his note he was
disappointed. A week passed and he heard nothing. Then three more
days and still no word from the New Hampshire widow. Meanwhile
fresh layers of dust spread themselves over the Whittaker
furniture, and the gaudy patterns of the carpets blushed dimly
beneath a grimy fog. The situation was desperate; even Matilda
Tripp, Come-Outer sermons and all, began to be thinkable as a
possibility.
The eleventh day began with a pouring rain that changed, later on,
to a dismal drizzle. The silver-leaf tree in the front yard
dripped, and the overflowing gutters gurgled and splashed. The bay
was gray and lonely, and the fish weirs along the outer bar were
lost in the mist. The flowers in the Atkins urns were draggled and
beaten down. Only the iron dogs glistened undaunted as the wet ran
off their newly painted backs. The air was heavy, and the salty
flavor of the flats might almost be tasted in it.
Captain Cy was in the sitting room, as usual. His spirits were as
gray as the weather. He was actually lonesome for the first time
since his return home. He had kindled a wood fire in the stove,
just for the sociability of it, and the crackle and glow behind the
isinglass panes only served to remind him of other days and other
fires. The sitting room had not been lonesome then.
He heard the depot wagon rattle by and, peering from the window,
saw that, except for Mr. Lumley, it was empty. Not even a summer
boarder had come to brighten our ways and lawns with reckless
raiment and the newest slang. Summer boarding season was almost
over now. Bayport would soon be as dull as dish water. And the
captain admitted to himself that it WAS dull. He had half a mind
to take a flying trip to Boston, make the round of the wharves, and
see if any of the old shipowners and ship captains whom he had once
known were still alive and in harness.
"JINGLE! Jingle! JINGLE! Jingle! Jingle! Jing! Jing! Jing!"
Captain Cy bounced in his chair. That was the front-door bell.
The FRONT-door bell! Who on earth, or, rather, who in Bayport,
would come to the FRONT door?
He hurried through the dim grandeur of the best parlor and entered
the little dark front hall. The bell was still swinging at the end
of its coil of wire. The dust shaken from it still hung in the
air. The captain unbolted and unlocked the big front door.
A girl was standing on the steps between the lines of box hedge--a
little girl under a big "grown-up" umbrella. The wet dripped from
the umbrella top and from the hem of the little girl's dress.
Captain Cy stared hard at his visitor; he knew most of the children
in Bayport, but he didn't know this one. Obviously she was a
stranger. Portuguese children from "up Harniss way" sometimes
called to peddle huckleberries, but this child was no "Portugee."
"Hello!" exclaimed the captain wonderingly.
"Did you ring the bell?"
"Yes, sir," replied the girl.
"Humph! Did, hey? Why?"
"Why? Why, I thought-- Isn't it a truly bell? Didn't it ought to
ring? Is anybody sick or dead? There isn't any crape."
"Dead? Crape?" Captain Cy gasped. "What in the world put that in
your head?"
"Well, I didn't know but maybe that was why you thought I hadn't
ought to have rung it. When mamma was sick they didn't let people
ring our bell. And when she died they tied it up with crape."
"Did, hey? Hum!" The captain scratched his chin and gazed at the
small figure before him. It was a self-poised, matter-of-fact
figure for such a little one, and, out there in the rain under the
tent roof of the umbrella, it was rather pitiful.
"Please, sir," said the child, "are you Captain Cyrus Whittaker?"
"Yup! That's me. You've guessed it the first time."
"Yes, sir. I've got a letter for you. It's pinned inside my
dress. If you could hold this umbrella maybe I could get it out."
She extended the big umbrella at arm's length, holding it with both
hands. Captain Cy woke up.
"Good land!" he exclaimed, "what am I thinkin' of? You're soakin'
wet through, ain't you?"
"I guess I'm pretty wet. It's a long ways from the depot, and I
tried to come across the fields, because a boy said it was nearer,
and the bushes were--"
"Across the FIELDS? Have you walked all the way from the depot?"
"Yes, sir. The man said it was a quarter to ride, and auntie said
I must be careful of my money because--"
"By the big dipper! Come in! Come in out of that this minute!"
He sprang down the steps, furled the umbrella, seized her by the
arm and led her into the house, through the parlor and into the
sitting room, where the fire crackled invitingly. He could feel
that the dress sleeve under his hand was wet through, and the worn
boots and darned stockings he could see were soaked likewise.
"There!" he cried. "Set down in that chair. Put your feet up on
that h'ath. Sakes alive! Your folks ought to know better than to
let you stir out this weather, let alone walkin' a mile--and no
rubbers! Them shoes ought to come off this minute, I s'pose. Take
'em off. You can dry your stockings better that way. Off with
'em!"
"Yes, sir," said the child, stooping to unbutton the shoes. Her
wet fingers were blue. It can be cold in our village, even in
early September, when there is an easterly storm. Unbuttoning the
shoes was slow work.
"Here, let me help you!" commanded the captain, getting down on one
knee and taking a foot in his lap. "Tut! tut! tut! you're wet!
Been some time sence I fussed with button boots; lace or long-
legged cowhides come handier. Never wore cowhides, did you?"
"No, sir."
"I s'pose not. I used to when I was little. Remember the first
pair I had. Copper toes on 'em--whew! The copper was blacked over
when they come out of the store and that wouldn't do, so we used to
kick a stone wall till they brightened up. There! there she comes.
Humph! stockin's soaked, too. Wish I had some dry ones to lend
you. Might give you a pair of mine, but they'd be too scant fore
and aft and too broad in the beam, I cal'late. Humph! and your
top-riggin's as wet as your hull. Been on your beam ends, have
you?"
"I don't know, sir. I fell down in the bushes coming across.
There were vines and they tripped me up. And the umbrella was so
heavy that--"
"Yes, I could see right off you was carryin' too much canvas. Now
take off your bunnit and I'll get a coat of mine to wrap you up
in."
He went into his bedroom and returned with a heavy "reefer" jacket.
Ordering his caller to stand up he slipped her arms into the
sleeves and turned the collar up about her neck. Her braided
"pigtail" of yellow hair stuck out over the collar and hung down
her back in a funny way. The coat sleeves reached almost to her
knees and the coat itself enveloped her like a bed quilt.
"There!" said Captain Cy approvingly. "Now you look more as if you
was under a storm rig. Set down and toast your toes. Where's that
letter you said you had?"
"It's inside here. I don't know's I can get at it; these sleeves
are so long."
"Reef 'em. Turn 'em up. Let me show you. That's better! Hum!
So you come from the depot, hey? Live up that way?"
"No, sir! I used to live in Concord, but--"
"Concord? CONCORD? Concord where?"
"Concord, New Hampshire. I came on the cars. Auntie knew a man
who was going to Boston, and he said he'd take care of me as far as
that and then put me on the train to come down here. I stopped at
his folks' house in Charlestown last night, and this morning we got
up early and he bought me a ticket and started me for here. I had
a box with my things in it, but it was so heavy I couldn't carry
it, so I left it up at the depot. The man there said it would be
all right and you could send for it when--"
"I could SEND for it? _I_ could? What in the world-- Say, child,
you've made a mistake in your bearin's. 'Taint me you want to see,
it's some of your folks, relations, most likely. Tell me who they
are; maybe I know 'em."
The girl sat upright in the big chair. Her dark eyes opened wide
and her chin quivered.
"Ain't you Captain Cyrus Whittaker?" she demanded. "You said you
was."
"Yes, yes, I am. I'm Cy Whittaker, but what--"
"Well, auntie told me--"
"Auntie! Auntie who?"
"Auntie Oliver. She isn't really my auntie, but mamma and me lived
in her house for ever so long and so--"
"Wait! wait! wait! I'm hull down in the fog. This is gettin' too
thick for ME. Your auntie's name's Oliver and you lived in
Concord, New Hampshire. For--for thunder sakes, what's YOUR name?"
"Emily Richards Thomas."
"Em--Emily--Richards--Thomas"
"Yes, sir."
"Emily Richards Thomas! What was your ma's name?"
"Mamma was Mrs. Thomas. Her front name was Mary. She's dead.
Don't you want to see your letter? I've got it now."
She lifted one of the flapping coat sleeves and extended a crumpled,
damp envelope. Captain Cy took it in a dazed fashion and drew a
long breath. Then he tore open the envelope and read the following:
DEAR CAPTAIN WHITTAKER:
The bearer of this is Emily Richards Thomas. She is seven, going
on eight, but old for her years. Her mother was Mary Thomas that
used to be Mary Thayer. It was her you wrote to about keeping
house for you, but she had been dead a fortnight before your letter
come. She had bronchial pneumonia and it carried her off, having
always been delicate and with more troubles to bear than she could
stand, poor thing. Since her husband, who I say was a scamp even
if he is dead, left her and the baby, she has took rooms with me
and done sewing and such. When she passed away I wrote to Seth
Howes, a relation of hers out West, and, so far as I know, the only
one she had. I told the Howes man that Mary had gone and Emmie was
left. Would they take her? I wrote. And Seth's wife wrote they
couldn't, being poorer than poverty themselves. I was afraid she
would have to go to a Home, but when your letter came I wrote the
Howeses again. And Mrs. Howes wrote back that you was rich, and a
sort of far-off relation of Mary's, and probably you would be glad
to take the child to bring up. Said that she had some correspondence
with you about Mary before. So I send Emmie to you. Somebody's got
to take care of her and I can't afford it, though I would if I
could, for she's a real nice child and some like her mother. I do
hope she can stay with you. It seems a shame to send her to the
orphan asylum. I send along what clothes she's got, which ain't
many.
Respectfully yours,
SARAH OLIVER.
Captain Cy read the letter through. Then he wiped his forehead.
"Well!" he muttered. "WELL! I never in my life! I--I never did!
Of all--"
Emily Richards Thomas looked up from the depths of the coat collar.
"Don't you think," she said, "that you had better send to the depot
for my box? I can get dry SOME this way, but mamma always made me
change my clothes as soon as I could. She used to be afraid I'd
get cold."
CHAPTER VI
ICICLES AND DUST
Captain Cy did not reply to the request for the box. It is
doubtful if he even heard it. Mrs. Oliver's astonishing letter
had, as he afterwards said, left him "high and dry with no tug in
sight." Mary Thomas was dead, and her daughter, her DAUGHTER! of
whose very existence he had been ignorant, had suddenly appeared
from nowhere and been dropped at his door, like an out-of-season
May basket, accompanied by the modest suggestion that he assume
responsibility for her thereafter. No wonder the captain wiped his
forehead in utter bewilderment.
"Don't you think you'd better send for the box?" repeated the
child, shivering a little under the big coat.
"Hey? What say? Never mind, though. Just keep quiet for a spell,
won't you. I want to let this soak in. By the big dipper! Of all
the solid brass cheek that ever I run across, this beats the whole
cargo! And Betsy Howes never hinted! 'Probably you would be glad
to take--' Be GLAD! Why, blast their miserable, stingy-- What
do they take me for? I'LL show 'em! Indiana ain't so fur that I
can't-- Hey? Did you say anything, sis?"
The girl had shivered again. "No, sir," she replied. "It was my
teeth, I guess. They kind of rattled."
"What? You ain't cold, are you? With all that round you and in
front of that fire?"
"No, sir, I guess not. Only my back feels sort of funny, as if
somebody kept dropping icicles down it. Those bushes and vines
were so wet that when I tumbled down 'twas most like being in a
pond."
"Sho! sho! That won't do. Can't have you laid up on my hands.
That would be worse than-- Humph! Tut, tut! Somethin' ought to
be done, and I'm blessed if I know what. And not a woman round the
place--not even that Debby. Say, look here, what's your name--er--
Emmie, hadn't I better get the doctor?"
The child looked frightened.
"Why?" she cried, her big eyes opening. "I'm not sick, am I?"
"Sick? No, no! Course not, course not. What would you want to be
sick for? But you ought to get warm and dry right off, I s'pose,
and your duds are all up to the depot. Say, what does--what did
your ma used to do when you felt--er--them icicles and things?"
"She changed my clothes and rubbed me. And, if I was VERY wet she
put me to bed sometimes."
"Bed? Sure! why, yes, indeed. Bed's a good place to keep off
icicles. There's my bedroom right in there. You could turn in
just as well as not. Bunk ain't made yet, but I can shake it up in
no time. Say--er--er--you can undress yourself, can't you?"
"Oh, yes, sir! Course I can! I'm most eight."
"Sure you are! Don't act a mite babyish. All right, you set still
till I shake up that bunk."
He entered the chamber, his own, opening from the sitting room, and
proceeded, literally, to "shake up" the bed. It was not a lengthy
process and, when it was completed, he returned to find his visitor
already divested of the coat and standing before the stove.
"I guess perhaps you'll have to help undo me behind," observed the
young lady. "This is my best dress and I can't reach the buttons
in the middle of the back."
Captain Cy scratched his head. Then he clumsily unbuttoned the wet
waist, glancing rather sheepishly at the window to see if anyone
was coming.
"So this is your best dress, hey?" he asked, to cover his confusion.
It was obviously not very new, for it was neatly mended in one or
two places.
"Yes, sir."
"So. Where'd you buy it--up to Concord?"
"No, sir. Mamma made it, a year ago."
There was a little choke in the child's voice. The captain was
mightily taken back.
"Hum! Yes, yes," he muttered hurriedly. "Well, there you are.
Now you can get along, can't you?"
"Yes, sir. Shall I go in that room?"
"Trot right in. You might--er--maybe you might sing out when
you're tucked up. I--I'll want to know if you're got bedclothes
enough."
Emily disappeared in the bedroom. The door closed. Captain Cy,
his hands in his pockets, walked up and down the length of the
sitting room. The expression on his face was a queer one.
"I haven't got any nightgown," called a voice from the other room.
The captain gasped.
"Good land! so you ain't," he exclaimed. "What in the world--
Humph! I wonder--"
He went to the lower drawer of a tall "highboy" and, from the
tumbled mass of apparel therein took one of his own night garments.
"Here's one," he said, coming back with it in his hand. "I guess
you'll have to make this do for now. It'll fit you enough for
three times to once, but it's all I've got."
A small hand reached 'round the edge of the door and the nightshirt
disappeared. Captain Cy chuckled and resumed his pacing.
"I'm tucked up," called Miss Thomas. The captain entered and found
her in bed, the patchwork points and diamonds of the "Rising Sun"
quilt covering her to the chin and her head denting the uppermost
of the two big pillows. Captain Cy liked to "sleep high."
"Got enough over you?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, thank you."
"That's good. I'll take your togs out and dry 'em in the kitchen.
Don't be scared; I'll be right back."
In the kitchen he sorted the wet garments and hung them about the
cook stove. It was a strange occupation for him and he shook his
head whimsically as he completed it. Then he took a flat iron, one
of Mrs. Beasley's purchases, from the shelf in the closet and put
it in the oven to heat. Soon afterwards he returned to the
bedroom, bearing the iron wrapped in a dish towel.
"My ma always used to put a hot flat to my feet when I was a young
one and got chilled," he explained. "I ain't used one for some
time, but I guess it's a good receipt. How do you feel now? Any
more icicles?"
"No, sir. I'm ever so warm. Isn't this a nice bed?"
"Think so, do you? Glad of it. Well, now, I'm goin' to leave you
in it while I step down street and see about havin' your box sent
for. I'll be back in a shake. If anybody comes to the door while
I'm gone don't you worry; let 'em go away again."
He put on his hat and left the house, walking rapidly, his head
down and his hands in his pockets. At times he would pause in his
walk, whistle, shake his head, and go on once more. Josiah Dimick
met him, and his answers to Josiah's questions were so vague and
irrelevant that Captain Dimick was puzzled, and later expressed the
opinion that "Whit's cookin' must be pretty bad; acted to me as if
he had dyspepsy of the brain."
Captain Cy stopped at Mr. Lumley's residence to leave an order for
the delivery of the box. Then he drifted into Simmons's and
accosted Alpheus Smalley.
"Al," he said, "what's good for a cold?"
"Why?" asked Mr. Smalley, in true Yankee fashion. "You got one?"
"Hey? Oh, yes! Yes, I've got one." By way of proof he coughed
until the lamp chimneys rattled on the shelf.
"Judas! I should think you had! Well, there's 'Pine Bark Oil' and
'Sassafras Elixir' and two kinds of sass'p'rilla--that's good for
most everything--and-- Is your throat sore?"
"Hey? Yes, I guess so."
"Don't you KNOW? If you've got sore throat there ain't nothin'
better'n 'Arabian Balsam.' But what in time are you doin' out in
this drizzle with a cold and no umbrella? Do you want to--"
"Never mind my umbrella. I left it in the church entry t'other
Sunday and somebody got out afore I did. This 'Arabian Balsam'--
seems to me I remember my ma's usin' that on me. Wet a rag with
it, don't you, and tie it round your neck?"
"Yup. Be sure and use a flannel rag, and red flannel if you've got
it; that acts quicker'n the other kinds. Fifteen cent bottle?"
"I guess so. Might's well give me some sass'p'rilla, while you're
about it; always handy to have in the house. And--er--say, is that
canned soup you've got up on that shelf?"
The astonished clerk admitted that it was.
"Well, give me a can of the chicken kind."
Mr. Smalley, standing on a chair to reach the shelf where the soup
was kept, shook his head.
"Now, that's too bad, Cap'n," he said, "but we're all out of
chicken just now. Fact is, we ain't got nothin' but termatter and
beef broth. Yes, and I declare if the termatter ain't all gone."
"Humph! then I guess I'll take the beef. Needn't mind wrappin' it
up. So long."
He departed bearing his purchases. When Mr. Simmons, proprietor of
the store, returned, Alpheus told him that he "cal'lated" Captain
Cy Whittaker was preparing to "go into a decline, or somethin'."
"Anyhow," said Alpheus, "he bought sass'p'rilla and 'Arabian
Balsam,' and I sold him a can of that beef soup you bought three
year ago last summer, when Alicia Atkins had the chicken pox."
The captain entered the house quietly and tiptoed to the door of
the bedroom. Emily was asleep, and the sight of the childish head
upon the pillow gave him a start as he peeped in at it. It looked
so natural, almost as if it belonged there. It had been in a bed
like that and in that very room that he had slept when a boy.
Gabe, brimful of curiosity, brought the box a little later. His
curiosity was ungratified, Captain Cyrus explaining that it was a
package he had been expecting. The captain took the box to the
bedroom, and, finding the child still asleep, deposited it on the
floor and tiptoed out again. He went to the kitchen, poked up the
fire, and set about getting dinner.
He was warming the beef broth in a saucepan on the stove when Emily
appeared. She was dressed in dry clothes from the box and seemed
to be feeling as good as new.
"Hello!" exclaimed Captain Cy. "You're on deck again, hey? How's
icicles?"
"All gone," was the reply. "Do you do your own work? Can't I
help? I can set the table. I used to for Mrs. Oliver."
The captain protested that he could do it himself just as well, but
the girl persisting, he showed her where the dishes were kept.
From the corner of his eye he watched her as she unfolded the
tablecloth.
"Is this the only one you've got?" she inquired. "It's awful
dirty."
"Hum! Yes, I ain't tended up to my washin' and ironin' the way I'd
ought to. I'll lose my job if I don't look out, hey?"
Before they sat down to the meal Captain Cy insisted that his guest
take a tablespoonful of the sarsaparilla and decorate her throat
with a section of red flannel soaked in the 'Arabian Balsam.' The
perfume of the latter was penetrating and might have interfered
with a less healthy appetite than that of Miss Thomas.
"Have some soup? Some I bought purpose for you. Best thing goin'
for folks with icicles," remarked the captain, waving the iron
spoon he had used to stir the contents of the saucepan.
"Yes, sir, thank you. But don't you ask a blessing?"
"Hey?"
"A blessing, you know. Saying that you're thankful for the food
now set before us."
"Hum! Why, to tell you the truth I've kind of neglected that, I'm
afraid. Bein' thankful for the grub I've had lately was most too
much of a strain, I shouldn't wonder."
"I know the one mamma used to say. Shall I ask it for you?"
"Sho! I guess so, if you want to."
The girl bent her head and repeated a short grace. Captain Cy
watched her curiously.
"Now, I'll have some soup, please," observed Emily. "I'm awful
hungry. I had breakfast at five o'clock this morning and we didn't
have a chance to eat much."
A good many times that day the captain caught himself wondering if
he wasn't dreaming. The whole affair seemed too ridiculous to be
an actual experience. Dinner over, he and Emmie attended to the
dishes, he washing and she wiping. And even at this early stage of
their acquaintance her disposition to take charge of things was
apparent. She found fault with the dish towels; they were almost
as bad as the tablecloth, she said. Considering that the same set
had been in use since Mrs. Beasley's departure, the criticism was
not altogether baseless. But the young lady did not stop there--
her companion's skill as a washer was questioned.
"Excuse me," she said, "but don't you think that plate had better
be done over? I guess you didn't see that place in the corner.
Perhaps you've forgot your specs. Auntie Oliver couldn't see well
without her specs."
Captain Cy grinned and admitted that a second washing wouldn't hurt
the plate.
"I guess your auntie was one of the particular kind," he said.
"No, sir, 'twas mamma. She couldn't bear dirty things. Auntie
used to say that mamma hunted dust with a magnifying glass. She
didn't, though; she only liked to be neat. I guess dust doesn't
worry men so much as it does women."
"Why?"
"Oh, 'cause there's so much of it here; don't you think so? I'll
help you clean up by and by, if you want to."
"YOU will?"
"Yes, sir. I used to dust sometimes when mamma was out sewing.
And once I swept, but I did it so hard that auntie wouldn't let me
any more. She said 'twas like trying to blow out a match with a
tornado."
Later on he found her standing in the sitting room, critically
inspecting the mats, the furniture, and the pictures on the walls.
He stood watching her for a moment and then asked:
"Well, what are you lookin' for--more dust? 'Twon't be hard to
find it. 'Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.' Every
time I go outdoor and come in again I realize how true that is."
Emily shook her head.
"No, sir," she said; "I was only looking at things and thinking."
"Thinkin', hey? What about? or is that a secret?"
"No, sir. I was thinking that this room was different from any
I've ever seen."
"Humph! Yes, I presume likely 'tis. Don't like it very much, do
you?"
"Yes, sir, I think I do. It's got a good many things in it that I
never saw before, but I guess they're pretty--after you get used to
'em."
Captain Cy laughed aloud. "After you get used to 'em, hey?" he
repeated.
"Yes, sir. That's what mamma said about Auntie Oliver's new bonnet
that she made herself. I--I was thinking that you must be peculiar."
"Peculiar?"
"Yes, sir. I like peculiar people. I'm peculiar myself. Auntie
used to say I was the most peculiar child she ever saw. P'raps
that's why I came to you. P'raps God meant for peculiar ones to
live together. Don't you think maybe that was it?"
And the captain, having no answer ready, said nothing.
That evening when Asaph and Bailey, coming for their usual call,
peeped in at the window, they were astounded by the tableau in the
Whittaker sitting room. Captain Cy was seated in the rocking chair
which had been his grandfather's. At his feet, on the walnut
cricket with a haircloth top, sat a little girl turning over the
leaves of a tattered magazine, a Godey's Lady's Book. A pile of
these magazines was beside her on the floor. The captain was
smiling and looking over her shoulder. The cat was curled up in
another chair. The room looked more homelike than it had since its
owner returned to it.
The friends entered without knocking. Captain Cy looked up, saw
them, and appeared embarrassed.
"Hello, boys!" he said. "Glad to see you. Come right in. Clearin'
off fine, ain't it?"
Mr. Tidditt replied absently that he wouldn't be surprised if it
was. Bailey, his eyes fixed upon the occupant of the cricket, said
nothing.
"We--we didn't know you had company, Whit," said Asaph. "We been
up to Simmons's and Alpheus said you was thin and peaked and looked
sick. Said you bought sass'p'rilla and all kind of truck. He was
afraid you had fever and was out of your head, cruisin round in the
rain with no umbrella. The gang weren't talkin' of nothin' else,
so me and Bailey thought we'd come right down."
"That's kind of you, I'm sure. Take your things off and set down.
No, I'm sorry to disappoint Smalley and the rest, but I'm able to
be up and--er--make my own bed, thank you. So Alpheus thought I
looked thin, hey? Well, if I had to live on that soup he sold me,
I'd be thinner'n I am now. You tell him that canned hot water is
all right if you like it, but it seems a shame to put mud in it.
It only changes the color and don't help the taste."
Mr. Bangs, who was still staring at Emily, now ventured a remark.
"Is that a relation of yours, Cy?" he asked.
"That? Oh! Well, no, not exactly. And yet I don't know but she
is. Fellers, this is Emmie Thomas. Can't you shake hands, Emmie?"
The child rose, laid down the magazine, which was open at the
colored picture of a group of ladies in crinoline and chignons,
and, going across the room, extended a hand to Mr. Tidditt.
"How do you do, sir?" she said.
"Why--er--how d'ye do? I'm pretty smart, thank you. How's
yourself?"
"I'm better now. I guess the sass'parilla was good for me."
"'Twan't the sass'p'rilla," observed the captain, with conviction.
"'Twas the 'Arabian Balsam.' Ma always cured me with it and
there's nothin' finer."
"But what in time--" began Bailey. Captain Cy glanced at the child
and then at the clock.
"Don't you think you'd better turn in now, Emmie?" he said hastily,
cutting off the remainder of the Bangs query. "It's after eight,
and when I was little I was abed afore that."
Emily obediently turned, gathered up the Lady's Books and replaced
them in the closet. Then she went to the dining room and came back
with a hand lamp.
"Good night," she said, addressing the visitors. Then, coming
close to the captain, she put her face up for a kiss.
"Good night," she said to him, adding, "I like it here ever so
much. I'm awful glad you let me stay."
As Bailey told Asaph afterwards, Captain Cy blushed until the ends
of the red lapped over at the nape of his neck. However, he bent
and kissed the rosy lips and then quickly brushed his own with his
hand.
"Yes, yes," he stammered. "Well--er--good night. Pleasant dreams
to you. See you in the mornin'."
The girl paused at the chamber door. "You won't have to unbutton
my waist now," she said. "This is my other one and it ain't that
kind."
The door closed. The captain, without looking at his friends, led
the way to the dining room.
"Come on out here," he whispered. "We can talk better here."
Naturally, they wanted to know all about the girl, who she was and
where she came from. Captain Cy told as much of the history of the
affair as he thought necessary.
"Poor young one," he concluded, "she landed on to me in the rain,
soppin' wet, and ha'f sick. I COULDN'T turn her out then--nobody
could. Course it's an everlastin' outrage on me and the cheekiest
thing ever I heard of, but what could I do? I was fixed a good
deal like an English feller by the name of Gatenby that I used to
know in South America. He woke up in the middle of the night and
found a boa constrictor curled on the foot of his bed. Next day,
when a crowd of us happened in, there was Gatenby, white as a
sheet, starin' down at the snake, and it sound asleep. 'I didn't
invite him,' he says, 'but he looked so bloomin' comf'table I
'adn't the 'eart to disturb 'im.' Same way with me; the child
seemed so comf'table here I ain't had the heart to disturb her--
yet."
"But she said she was goin' to stay," put in Bailey. "You ain't
goin' to KEEP her, are you?"
The captain's indignation was intense.
"Who--me?" he snorted. "What do you think I am? I ain't runnin'
an orphan asylum. No, sir! I'll keep the young one a day or so--
or maybe a week--and then I'll pack her off to Betsy Howes. I
ain't so soft as they think I am. I'LL show 'em!"
Mr. Tidditt looked thoughtful.
"She's a kind of cute little girl, ain't she?" he observed.
Captain Cy's frown vanished and a smile took its place.
"That's so," he chuckled. "She is, now that's a fact! I don't
know's I ever saw a cuter."
CHAPTER VII
CAPTAIN CY PROVES DELINQUENT
A week isn't a very long time even in Bayport. True, there was
once a drummer for a Boston "notion" house who sprained his ankle
on the icy sidewalk in front of Simmons's, and was therefore
obliged to remain in the front bedroom of the perfect boarding
house for seven whole days. He is quoted as saying that next time
he hoped he might break his neck.
"Brother," asked the shocked Rev. Mr. Daniels, who was calling upon
the stranger, "are you prepared to face eternity?"
"What?" was the energetic reply. "After a week in this town, and
in this bedroom? Look here, Mister, if you want to scare me about
the future you just hint that they'll put me on a straw tick in an
ice chest. Anything hot and lively 'll only be tempting after
this."
But to us, who live here throughout the year, a week soon passes.
And the end of the week following Emily Thomas's arrival at the Cy
Whittaker place found the little girl still there and apparently no
nearer being shipped to Indiana than when she came. Not so near,
if Mr. Tidditt's opinion counts for anything.
"Gone?" he repeated scoffingly in reply to Bailey Bangs's question.
"Course she ain't gone! And, what's more, she ain't goin' to go.
Whit's got so already that he wouldn't part with her no more'n he'd
cut off his hand."
"But he keeps SAYIN' she's got to go. Only yesterday he was
tellin' how Betsy'd feel when the girl landed on her with his
letter in her pocket."
"Sayin' don't count for nothin'. Zoeth Cahoon keeps SAYIN' he's
goin' to stop drinkin', but he only stops long enough to catch his
breath. Cy's tellin' himself fairy yarns and he hopes he believes
'em. Man alive! can't you SEE? Ain't he gettin' more foolish over
the young one every day? Don't she boss him round like the
overseer on a cranberry swamp? Don't he look more contented than
he has sence he got off the cars? I tell you, Bailey, that child
fills a place in Whit's life that's been runnin' to seed and needed
weedin'. Nothin' could fill it better--unless 'twas a nice wife."
"WIFE! Oh, DO be still! I believe you're woman-struck and at an
age when it hadn't ought to be catchin' no more'n whoopin' cough."
Mr. Bangs and the town clerk were the only ones, except Captain Cy,
who knew the whole truth concerning the little girl. Not that the
child's arrival wasn't noted and vigorously discussed by a large
portion of the townspeople. Emily had not been in the Whittaker
house two days before Angeline Phinney called, hot on the trail of
gossip and sensation. But, persistent as Angeline was, she
departed knowing not quite as much as when she came. The interview
between Miss Phinney and the captain must have been interesting,
judging by the lady's account of it.
"I never see such a man in my born days," declared Angie disgustedly.
"You couldn't get nothin' out of him. Not that he wan't pleasant
and sociable; land sakes! he acted as glad to see me as if I was his
rich aunt come on a visit. And he was willin' to talk, too. That's
the trouble; he done ALL the talkin'. I happened to mention, just
as a sort of starter, you know, somethin' about the cranb'ry crop
this fall; and after that all he could say was 'cranb'ries,
cranb'ries, cranb'ries!' 'Hear you've got comp'ny,' says I. 'Did
you?' says he. 'Now ain't it strange how things'll get spread
around? Only yesterday I heard that Joe Dimick's swamp was just
loaded down with "early blacks." And yet when I went over to look
at it there didn't seem to be so many. There ain't much better
cranb'ries anywhere than our early blacks,' he says. 'You take
'em--' And so on, and so on, and so on. _I_ didn't care nothin'
about the dratted early blacks, but he didn't seem to care for
nothin' else. He talked cranb'ries steady for an hour and a half
and I left that house with my mouth all puckered up; it's tasted
sour ever sence. I never see such a man!"
When Captain Cy was questioned by Asaph concerning the acid
conversation, he grinned.
"I didn't know you was so interested in cranb'ries," observed
Tidditt.
"I ain't," was the reply; "but I'm more interested in 'em than I am
in Angie. I see she was sufferin' from a rush of curiosity to the
head and I cured her by homeopath doses. Every time she opened her
mouth I dropped an 'early black' into it. It's a good receipt; you
tell Bailey to try it on Ketury some time."
To his chums the captain was emphatic in his orders that secrecy be
preserved. No one was to be told who the child was or where she
came from. "What they don't know won't hurt 'em any," declared
Captain Cy. And Emily's answer to inquiring souls who would fain
have delved into her past was to the effect that "Uncle Cyrus"
didn't like to have her talk about herself.
"I don't know's I'm ashamed of anything I've done so far," said the
captain; "but I ain't braggin', either. Time enough to talk when I
send her back to Betsy."
That time, apparently, was not in the near future. The girl stayed
on at the Whittaker place and grew to be more and more a part of
it. At the end of the second week Captain Cy began calling her
"Bos'n."
"A bos'n's a mighty handy man aboard ship," he explained, "and
you're so handy here that it fits in first rate. And, besides, it
sounds so natural. My dad called me 'Bos'n' when I was little."
Emily accepted the title complacently. She was quite contented to
be called almost anything, so long as she was permitted to stay
with her new friend. Already the bos'n had taken charge of the
deck and the rest of the ship's company; Captain Cy and "Lonesome,"
the cat, obeyed her orders.
On the second Sunday morning after her arrival "Bos'n" suggested
that she and Captain Cy go to church.
"Mother and I always went at home," she said. "And Auntie Oliver
used to say meeting was a good thing for those that needed it."
"Think I need it, do you?" asked the captain, who, in shirt sleeves
and slippers, had prepared for a quiet forenoon with his pipe and
the Boston Transcript.
"I don't know, sir. I heard what you said when Lonesome ate up the
steak, and I thought maybe you hadn't been for a long time. I
guess churches are different in South America."
So they went to church and sat in the old Whittaker pew. The
captain had been there once before when he first returned to
Bayport, but the sermon was more somnolent than edifying, and he
hadn't repeated the experiment. The pair attracted much attention.
Fragments of a conversation, heard by Captain Cy as they emerged
into the vestibule, had momentous consequences.
"Kind of a pretty child, ain't she?" commented Mrs. Eben Salters,
patting her false front into place under the eaves of her Sunday
bonnet.
"Pretty enough in the face," sniffed Mrs. "Tad" Simpson, who was
wearing her black silk for the first time since its third making-
over. "Pretty enough that way, I s'pose. But, my land! look at
the way she's rigged. Old dress, darned and patched up and all
outgrown! If I had Cy Whittaker's money I'd be ashamed to have a
relation of mine come to meetin' that way. Even if her folks was
poorer'n Job's off ox I'd spend a little on my own account and
trust to getting it back some time. I'd have more care for my own
self-respect. Look at Alicia Atkins. See how nice she looks.
Them feathers on her hat must have cost somethin', I bet you.
Howdy do, 'Licia, dear? When's your pa comin' home?"
The Honorable Heman had left town on a business trip to the South.
Alicia was accompanied by the Atkins housekeeper and, as usual, was
garbed regardless of expense.
Mrs. Salters smiled sweetly upon the Atkins heir and then added, in
a church whisper: "Don't she look sweet? I agree with you, Sarah;
it is strange how Captain Whittaker lets his little niece go. And
him rich!"
"Niece?" repeated Mrs. Simpson eagerly. "Who said 'twas his niece?
I heard 'twas a child he'd adopted out of a home. There's all
sorts of queer yarns about. I-- Oh, good mornin', Cap'n Cyrus!
How DO you do?"
The captain grunted an answer to the effect that he was bearing up
pretty well, considering. There was a scowl on his face, and he
spoke little as, holding Emily by the hand, he led the way home.
That evening he dropped in at the perfect boarding house and begged
to know if Mrs. Bangs had any "fashion books" around that she
didn't want.
"I mean--er--er--magazines with pictures of women's duds in 'em,"
he stammered, in explanation. "Bos'n likes to look at 'em. She's
great on fashion books, Bos'n is."
Keturah got together a half dozen numbers of the Home Dressmaker
and other periodicals of a similar nature. The captain took them
under his arm and departed, whispering to Mr. Tidditt, as he passed
the latter in the hall:
"Come up by and by, Ase. I want to talk to you. Bring Bailey
along, if you can do it without startin' divorce proceedings."
Later, when the trio gathered in the Whittaker sitting room,
Captain Cy produced the "fashion books" and spoke concerning them.
"You see," he said, "I--I've been thinkin' that Bos'n--Emily, that
is--wan't rigged exactly the way she ought to be. Have you fellers
noticed it?"
His friends seemed surprised. Neither was ready with an immediate
answer, so the captain went on.
"Course I don't mean she ain't got canvas enough to cover her
spars," he explained; "but what she has got has seen consider'ble
weather, and it seemed to me 'twas pretty nigh time to haul her
into dry dock and refit. That's why I borrowed these magazines of
Ketury. I've been lookin' them over and there seems to be plenty
of riggin' for small craft; the only thing is I don't know what's
the right cut for her build. Bailey, you're a married man; you
ought to know somethin' about women's clothes. What do you think
of this, now?"
He opened one of the magazines and pointed to the picture of a
young girl, with a waspy waist and Lilliputian feet, who, arrayed
in flounces and furbelows, was toddling gingerly down a flight of
marble steps. She carried a parasol in one hand, and the other
held the end of a chain to which a long-haired dog was attached.
The town clerk and his companion inspected the young lady with
deliberation and interest.
"Well, what do you say?" demanded Captain Cy.
"I don't care much for them kind of dogs," observed Asaph
thoughtfully.
"Good land! you don't s'pose they heave the dog in with the
clothes, for good measure, do you? Bailey, what's your opinion?"
Mr. Bangs looked wise.
"I should say--" he said, "yes, sir, I should say that was a real
stylish rig-out. Only thing is, that girl is consider'ble less
fleshy than Emily. This one looks to me as if she was breakin' in
two amidships. Still, I s'pose likely the duds don't come ready
made, so they could be let out some, to fit. What's the price of a
suit like that, Whit?"
The captain looked at the printed number beneath the fashion plate
and then turned to the description in the text.
"'Afternoon gown for miss of sixteen,'" he read. "Humph! that
settles that, first crack. Bos'n ain't but half of sixteen."
"Anyway," put in Asaph, "you need somethin' she could wear
forenoons, if she wanted to. What's this one? She looks young
enough."
The "one" referred to turned out to be a "coat for child of four."
It was therefore scornfully rejected. One after another the
different magazines were examined and the pictures discussed. At
length a "costume for miss of eight years" was pronounced to be
pretty nearly the thing.
"Godfrey scissors!" exclaimed the admiring Mr. Tidditt. "That's
mighty swell, ain't it? What's the stuff goes into that, Cy?"
"'Material, batiste, trimmed with embroidered batiste.' What in
time is batiste?"
"I don't know. Do you, Bailey?"
"No; never heard of it. Ketury never had nothin' like that, I'm
sure. French, I shouldn't wonder. Well, Ketury's down on the
French ever sence she read about Napoleon leavin' his fust wife to
take up with another woman. Does it say any more?"
"Let's see. 'Makes a beautiful gown for evening or summer wear.'
Summer! Why, by the big dipper, we're aground again! Bos'n don't
want summer clothes. It's comin' on winter."
He threw the magazine on the floor, rubbed his forehead, and then
burst into a laugh.
"For goodness sake, don't tell anybody about this business, boys!"
he said. "I guess I must be havin' an early spring of second
childhood. But when I heard those women at the meetin' house goin'
on about how pretty 'Licia Atkins was got up and how mean and
shabby Bos'n looked, it made me bile. And, by the big dipper, I
WILL show 'em somethin' afore I get through, too! Only, dressin'
little girls is some off my usual course. Bailey, does Ketury make
her own duds?"
"Why, no! Course she helps and stands by for orders, but Effie
Taylor comes and takes the wheel while the riggin's goin' on.
Effie's a dressmaker and--"
"There! See, Ase? It IS some good to have a married man aboard,
after all. A dressmaker's what we want. I'll hunt up Effie
to-morrow."
And hunt her up he did, with the result that Miss Taylor came to
the Whittaker place each day during the following week and Emily
was, as the captain said, "rigged out fresh from main truck to
keelson." In this "rigging" Captain Cy and his two partners--
Josiah Dimick had already christened the pair "The Board of
Strategy"--took a marked interest. They were on hand when each new
garment was tried on, and they approved or criticised as seemed to
them best.
"Ain't that kind of sober lookin' for a young one like Bos'n?"
asked the captain, referring to one of the new gowns. "I don't
want her to look as if she was dressed cheap."
"Land sakes!" mumbled Miss Taylor, her mouth full of pins. "There
ain't anything cheap about it, and you'll find it out when you get
the bill. That's a nice, rich, sensible suit."
"I know, but it's so everlastin' quiet! Don't you think a little
yellow and black or some red strung along the yards would sort of
liven it up? Why! you ought to see them Greaser girls down in
South America of a Sunday afternoon. Color! and go! Jerushy!
they'd pretty nigh knock your eye out."
The dressmaker sniffed disdain.
"Cap'n Whittaker," she retorted, "if you want this child to look
like an Indian squaw or a barber's pole you'll have to get somebody
else to do it. I'm used to dressing Christians, not yeller and
black heathen women. Red strung along a skirt like that! I never
did!"
"There, there, Effie! Don't get the barometer fallin'. I was only
suggestin', you know. What do you think, Bos'n?"
"Why, Uncle Cyrus, I don't believe I should like red very much; nor
the other colors, either. I like this just as it is."
"So? Well, you're the doctor. Maybe you're right. I wouldn't
want you to look like a barber's pole. Don't love Tad Simpson
enough to want to advertise his business."
Miss Taylor's coming had other results besides the refitting of
"Bos'n." She found much fault with the captain's housekeeping. It
developed that her sister Georgiana, who had been working in a
Brockton shoe shop, was now at home and might be engaged to attend
to the household duties at the Whittaker establishment, provided
she was allowed to "go home nights." Georgiana was engaged, on
trial, and did well. So that problem was solved.
School in Bayport opens the first week in October. Of late there
has been a movement, headed by some of the townspeople who think
city ways are best, to have the term begin in September. But this
idea has little chance of success as long as cranberry picking
continues to be our leading industry. So many of the children help
out the family means by picking cranberries in the fall that school,
until the picking season was over, would be slimly attended.
The last week in September found us all discussing the coming of
the new downstairs teacher, Miss Phoebe Dawes. Since it was
definitely settled that she was to come, the opposition had died
down and was less openly expressed; but it was there, all the same,
beneath the surface. Congressman Atkins had accepted the surprising
defiance of his wish with calm dignity and the philosophy of the
truly great who are not troubled by trifles. His lieutenant, Tad
Simpson, quoted him as saying that, of course, the will of the
school committee was paramount, and he, as all good citizens should,
bowed to their verdict. "Far be it from me," so the great man
proclaimed, "to desire that my opinion should carry more weight than
that of the humblest of my friends and neighbors. Speaking as one
whose knowledge of the world was, perhaps--er--more extensive
than--er--others, I favored the Normal School candidate. But the
persons chosen to select thought--or appeared to think--otherwise.
I therefore say nothing and await developments."
This attitude was considered by most of us to reflect credit upon
Mr. Atkins. There were a few scoffers, however. When the
proclamation was repeated to Captain Cy he smiled.
"Alpheus," he said to Mr. Smalley, his informant, "you didn't use
to know Deacon Zeb Clark, who lived up by the salt works in my
granddad's time, hey? No, course you didn't! Well, the deacon was
a great believer in his own judgment. One time, it bein' Saturday,
his wife wanted him to pump the washtub full and take a bath. He
said, no; said the cistern was awful low and 'twould use up all the
water. She said no such thing; there was water a-plenty. To prove
she was wrong he went and pried the cistern cover off to look, and
fell in. Mrs. Clark peeked down and saw him there, standin' up to
his neck.
"'Tabby,' says he, 'you would have your way and I'm takin' the
bath. But you can see for yourself that we'll have to cart water
from now on. However, _I_ ain't responsible; throw me down the
soap and towel.'"
"Humph!" grunted Smalley, "I don't see what that's got to do with
it. Heman ain't takin' no bath."
"I don't know's it's got anything to do with it. But he kind of
made me think of Zeb, all the same."
The first day of school was, of course, a Monday. On Sunday
afternoon Captain Cy and Bos'n went for a walk. These walks had
become a regular part of the Sabbath programme, the weather, of
course, permitting. After church the pair came home for dinner.
The meal being eaten, the captain would light a cigar--a pipe was
now hardly "dressed-up" enough for Sunday--and, taking his small
partner by the hand, would lead the way across the fields, through
the pines and down by the meadow "short cut" to the cemetery. The
cemetery is a favorite Sabbath resort for the natives of Bayport,
who usually speak of it as the graveyard. It is a pleasant, shady
spot, and to visit it is considered quite respectable and in
keeping with the day and a due regard for decorum. The ungodly,
meaning the summer boarders and the village no-accounts, seem to
prefer the beach and the fish houses, but the cemetery attracts the
churchgoers. One may gossip concerning the probable cost of a new
tombstone and still remain faithful to the most rigid creed.
Captain Cy was not, strictly speaking, a religious man, according
to Bayport standards. Between his attendance to churchly duties
and that of the Honorable Heman Atkins there was a great gulf
fixed. But he rather liked to visit the graveyard on Sunday
afternoons. His mother had been used to stroll there with him, in
his boyhood, and it pleased him to follow in her footsteps.
So he and Bos'n walked along the grass-covered paths, between the
iron-fenced "lots" of the well-to-do and the humble mounds and
simple slabs where the poor were sleeping; past the sumptuous
granite shaft of the Atkins lot and the tilted mossy stone which
told how "Edwin Simpson, our only son," had been "accidentally shot
in the West Indies"; out through the back gate and up the hill to
the pine grove overlooking the bay. Here, on a scented carpet of
pine needles, they sat them down to rest and chat.
Emily, her small knees drawn up and encircled by her arms, looked
out across the flats, now half covered with the rising tide. It
was a mild day, more like August than October, and there was almost
no wind. The sun was shining on the shallow water, and the sand
beneath it showed yellow, checkered and marbled with dark green
streaks and patches where the weed-bordered channels wound
tortuously. On the horizon the sand hills of Wellmouth notched
the blue sky. The girl drew a long breath.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Isn't this just lovely! I do like the sea
an awful lot."
"That's natural enough," replied her companion. "There's a big
streak of salt water in your blood on your ma's side. It pulls,
that kind of a streak does. There's days when I feel uneasy every
minute and hanker for a deck underneath me. The settin' room floor
stays altogether too quiet on a day like that; I'd like to feel it
heavin' over a ground swell."
"Say, Bos'n," he said a few minutes later; "I've been thinkin'
about you. You've been to school, haven't you?"
"Course I have," was the rather indignant answer. "I went two
years in Concord. Mamma used to help me nights, too. I can read
almost all the little words. Don't I help you read your paper
'most every night?"
"Sartin you do! Yes, yes! Well, our school opens to-morrer and
I've been thinkin' that maybe you'd better go. There's a new
teacher comin', and I hear she's pretty good."
"Don't you KNOW? Why, Mr. Tidditt said you was the one that got
her to come here!"
"Yes; well, Asaph says 'most everything but his prayers. Still, he
ain't fur off this time; I cal'late I was some responsible for her
bein' voted in. Yet I don't really know anything about her. You
see, I--well, never mind. What do you think? Want to go?"
Bos'n looked troubled.
"I'd like to," she said. "Course I want to learn how to read the
big words, too. But I like to stay at home with you more."
"You do, hey? Sho, sho! Well, I guess I can get along between
times. Georgiana's there to keep me straight and she'll see to the
dust and the dishes. I guess you'd better go to-morrer mornin' and
see how you like it, anyhow."
The child thought for a moment.
"I think you're awful good," she said. "I like you next to mamma;
even better than Auntie Oliver. I printed a letter to her the
other day. I told her you were better than we expected and I had
decided to live with you always."
Captain Cy was startled. Considering that, only the day before, he
had repeated to Bailey the declaration that the arrangement was but
temporary, and that Betsy Howes was escaping responsibility only
for a month or so, he scarcely knew what to say.
"Humph!" he grunted. "You've decided it, have you? Well, we'll
see. Now you trot around and have a good time. I'm goin' to have
another smoke. I'll be here when you get back."
Bos'n wandered off in search of late golden rod. The captain
smoked and meditated. By and by the puffs were less frequent and
the cigar went out. It fell from his fingers. With his back
against a pine tree Captain Cy dozed peacefully.
He awoke with a jump. Something had awakened him, but he did not
know what. He blinked and gazed about him. Then he heard a faint
scream.
"Uncle!" screamed Bos'n. "O--o--o--h! Uncle Cyrus, help me! Come
quick!"
The next moment the captain was plunging through the scrub of
huckleberry and bayberry bushes, bumping into pines and smashing
the branches aside as he ran in the direction of the call.
Back of the pine grove was a big inclosed pasture nearly a quarter
of a mile long. Its rear boundary was the iron fence of the
cemetery. The other three sides were marked by rail fences and a
stone wall. As the captain floundered from the grove and vaulted
the rail fence he swore aloud.
"By the big dipper," he groaned, "it's that cussed heifer! I
forgot her. Keep dodgin', Bos'n girl! I'm comin'."
The pasture was tenanted by a red and white cow belonging to
Sylvanus Cahoon. Whether or not the animal had, during her
calfhood days, been injured by a woman is not known; possibly her
behavior was due merely to innate depravity. At any rate, she
cherished a mortal hatred toward human beings of her own sex. With
men and boys she was meek enough, but no person wearing skirts, and
alone, might venture in that field without being chased by that
cow. What would happen if the pursued one was caught could only be
surmised, for, so far, no female had permitted herself to be
caught. Few would come even so near as the other side of the
pasture walls.
Bos'n had forgotten the cow. She had gone from one golden-rod
clump to another until she had traversed nearly the length of the
field. Then the vicious creature had appeared from behind a knoll
in the pasture and, head down and bellowing wickedly, had rushed
upon her. When the captain reached the far-off fence, the little
girl was dodging from one dwarf pine to the next, with the cow in
pursuit. The pines were few and Bos'n was nearly at the end of her
defenses.
"Help!" she screamed. "Oh, uncle, where are you? What shall I
do?"
Captain Cy roared in answer.
"Keep it up!" he yelled. "I'm a-comin'! Shoot you everlastin'
critter! I'll break your back for you!"
The cow didn't understand English it seemed, even such vigorous
English as the captain was using. Emily dodged to the last pine.
The animal was close upon her. Her rescuer was still far away.
And then the cemetery gate opened and another person entered the
pasture. A small person--a woman. She said nothing, but picking
up her skirts, ran straight toward the cow, heedless of the
latter's reputation and vicious appearance. One hand clutched the
gathered skirts. In the other she held a book.
Don't be scared, dear," she called reassuringly. Then to the cow:
"Stop it! Go away, you wicked thing!"
The animal heard the voice and turned. Seeing that the newcomer
was only a woman, she lowered her head and pawed the ground.
"Run for the gate, little girl," commanded the rescuer. "Run
quick!" Bos'n obeyed. She made a desperate dash from her pine
across the open space, and in another moment was safe inside the
cemetery fence.
"Scat! Go home!" ordered the lady, advancing toward the cow and
shaking the book at her, as if the volume was some sort of deadly
weapon. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself! Go away! You needn't
growl at me! I'm not a bit afraid of you."
The "growling" was the muttered bellow with which the cow was wont
to terrorize her feminine victims. But this victim refused to be
terrorized. Instead of screaming and running she continued to
advance, brandishing the book and repeating her orders that the
creature "go home" at once. The cow did not know what to make of
it. Before she could decide whether to charge or retreat, a good-
sized stick descended upon her back with a "whack" that settled the
question. Captain Cy had reached the scene of battle.
Then the rescuer's courage seemed to desert her, for she ran back
to the cemetery even faster than she had run from it. When the
indignant captain, having pursued and chastised the cow until the
stick was but a splintered remnant, reached the haven behind the
iron fence, he found her soothing the frightened Bos'n who was
sobbing and hysterical.
Emily saw her "Uncle Cyrus" coming and rushed into his arms. He
picked her up and, holding her with a grip which testified to the
nerve strain he had been under, stepped forward to meet the
stranger, whose coming had been so opportune.
And she WAS a stranger. The captain knew most of Bayport's
inhabitants by this time, or thought he did, but he did not know
her. She was a small woman, quietly dressed, and her hair, under a
neat black and white hat, was brown. The hat was now a trifle to
one side and the hair was the least bit disarranged, an effect not
at all unbecoming. She was tucking in the stray wisps as the
captain, with Bos'n in his arms, came up.
"Well, ma'am!" puffed Captain Cy. "WELL, ma'am! I must say that
was the slickest, pluckiest thing ever I saw anywheres. I don't
know what would--I--I declare I don't know how to thank you."
The lady looked at him a moment before replying. Then she began to
laugh, a jolly laugh that was pleasant to hear.
"Don't try, please," she said chokingly. "It wasn't anything. Oh,
mercy me! I'm all out of breath. You see, I had been warned about
that cow when I started to walk this afternoon. So when I saw her
chasing your poor little girl here I knew right away what was the
matter. It must have been foolish enough to look at. I'm used to
dogs and cats, but I haven't had many pet cows. I told her to 'go
home' and to 'scat' and all sorts of things. Wonder I didn't tell
her to lie down! And the way I shook that ridiculous book at her
was--"
She laughed again and the captain and Bos'n joined in the laugh, in
spite of the fright they both had experienced.
"That book was dry enough to frighten almost anything," continued
the lady. "It was one I took from the table before I left the
place where I'm staying, and a duller collection of sermons I never
saw. Oh, dear! . . . there! Is my hat any more respectable now?"
"Yes'm. It's about on an even keel, I should say. But I must tell
you, ma'am, you done simply great and--"
"Seems to me the people who own that cow must be a poor set to let
her make such a nuisance of herself. Did your daughter run away
from you?"
"Well, you see, ma'am, she ain't really my daughter. Bos'n here--
that's my nickname for her, ma'am--she and I was out walkin'. I
set down in the pines and I guess I must have dozed off. Anyhow,
when I woke up she was gone, and the first thing I knew of this
scrape was hearin' her hail."
The little woman's manner changed. Her gray eyes flashed
indignantly.
"You dozed off?" she repeated. "With a little girl in your charge,
and in the very next lot to that cow? Didn't you know the creature
chased women and girls?"
"Why, yes; I'd heard of it, but--"
"It wasn't Uncle Cyrus's fault," put in Bos'n eagerly. "It was
mine. I went away by myself."
Beyond shifting her gaze to the child the lady paid no attention to
this remark.
"What do you think her mother 'll say when she sees that dress?"
she asked.
It was Emily's best gown, the finest of the new "rig out" prepared
by Miss Taylor. The girl and Captain Cy gazed ruefully at the
rents and pitch stains made by the vines and pine trees.
"Well, you see," replied the abashed captain, "the fact is, she
ain't got any mother."
"Oh! I beg your pardon. And hers, too, poor dear. Well, if I were
you I shouldn't go to sleep next time I took her walking. Good
afternoon."
She turned and calmly walked down the path. At the bend she spoke
again.
"I should be gentle with her, if I were you," she said. "Her nerves
are pretty well upset. Besides, if you'll excuse my saying so, I
don't think she is the one that needs scolding."
They thought she had gone, but she turned once more to add a final
suggestion.
"I think that dress could be fixed," she said, "if you took it to
some one who knew about such things."
She disappeared amidst the graveyard shrubbery. Captain Cy and
Bos'n slowly followed her. From the pasture the red and white cow
sent after them a broken-spirited "Moo!"
Bos'n was highly indignant. During the homeward walk she sputtered
like a damp firecracker.
"The idea of her talking so to you, Uncle Cyrus!" she exclaimed.
"It wasn't your fault at all."
The captain smiled one-sidedly.
"I don't know about that, shipmate," he said. "I wouldn't wonder
if she was more than half right. But say! she was all business and
no frills, wasn't she! Ha, ha! How she did spunk up to that
heifer! Who in the dickens do you cal'late she is?"
CHAPTER VIII
THE "COW LADY"
That question was answered the very next day. Bos'n, carefully
dressed by Georgianna under the captain's supervision, and weighted
down with advice and counsel from the latter, started for the
schoolhouse at a quarter to nine. Only a sense of shame kept
Captain Cy from walking to school with her. He spent a miserable
forenoon. They were quite the longest three hours in his varied
experience. The house was dreadfully lonely. He wandered from
kitchen to sitting room, worried Georgianna, woke up the cat, and
made a complete nuisance of himself. Twelve o'clock found him
leaning over the gate and looking eagerly in the direction of the
schoolhouse.
Bos'n ran all the way home. She was in a high state of excitement.
"What do you think, Uncle Cyrus?" she cried. "What DO you think?
I've found out who the cow lady is!"
"The cow lady? Oh, yes, yes! Have you? Who is she?"
"She's teacher, that's who she is!"
The captain was astonished.
"No!" he exclaimed. "Phoebe Dawes? You don't say so! Well, well!"
"Yes, sir. When I went into school and found her sitting there I
was so surprised I didn't know what to do. She knew me, too, and
said good morning, and was I all right again and was my dress
really as bad as it looked to be? I told her that Georgianna
thought she could fix it, and if she couldn't, her sister could.
She said that was nice, and then 'twas time for school to begin."
"Did she say anything about me?" inquired Captain Cy when they were
seated at the dinner table.
"Oh, yes! I forgot. She must have found out who you are, 'cause
she said she was surprised that a man who had made his money out of
hides should have been so careless about the creatures that wore
'em."
"Humph! How'd she get along with the young ones in school?"
It appeared that she had gotten along very well with them. Some of
the bigger boys in the back seats, cherishing pleasant memories of
the "fun" they had under Miss Seabury's easy-going rule, attempted
to repeat their performances of the previous term. But the very
first "spitball" which spattered upon the blackboard proved a
disastrous missile for its thrower.
"She made him clean the board," proclaimed Bos'n, big-eyed and
awestruck, "and then he had to stand in the corner. He was Bennie
Edwards, and he's most thirteen. Miss Seabury, they said, couldn't
do anything with him, but teacher said 'Go,' as quiet as could be
and just looked at him, and he went. And he's most as tall as she
is. He did look so silly!"
The Edwards youth was not the only one who was made to "look silly"
by little Miss Dawes during the first days of her stay in Bayport.
She dealt with the unruly members of her classes as bravely as she
had faced the Cahoon cow, and the results were just as satisfactory.
She was strict, but she was impartial, and Alicia Atkins found, to
her great surprise, that the daughter of a congressman was expected
to study as faithfully and behave herself as well as freckled-faced
Noah Hamlin, whose father peddled fish and whose everyday costume
was a checkered "jumper" and patched overalls.
The school committee, that is, the majority of it, was delighted
with the new teacher. Lemuel Myrick boasted loudly of his good
judgment in voting for her. But Tad Simpson and Darius Ellis and
others of the Atkins following still scoffed and hinted at trouble
in the future.
"A new broom sweeps fine," quoted Mr. Simpson. "She's doin' all
right now, maybe. Anyway, the young ones are behavin' themselves,
but disCIPline ain't the whole thing. Heman told me that the
teacher he wanted could talk French language and play music and all
kinds of accomplishments. Phoebe--not findin' any fault with her,
you understand--don't know no more about music than a hen; my wife
says she don't even sing in church loud enough for anybody to hear
her. And as for French! why everybody knows she uses the commonest
sort of United States, just as easy to understand as what I'm
sayin' now."
Miss Dawes boarded at the perfect boarding house. There opinion
was divided concerning her. Bailey and Mr. Tidditt liked her, but
the feminine boarders were not so favorably impressed.
"I think she's altogether too pert about what don't concern her,"
commented Angeline Phinney. "Sarah Emma Simpson dropped in t'other
day to dinner, and we church folks got to talkin' about the
minister's preachin' such 'advanced' sermons. And Sarah Emma told
how she'd heard he said he'd known some real moral Universalists in
his time, or some such unreligious foolishness. And I said I
wondered he didn't get a new tail coat; the one he preached in
Sundays was old as the hills and so outgrown it wouldn't scurcely
button acrost him. 'A man bein' paid nine hundred a year,' I says,
'ought to dress decent, anyhow.' And that Phoebe Dawes speaks up,
without bein' asked, and says for her part she'd ruther hear a
broad man in a narrer coat than t'other way about. 'Twas a regular
slap in the face for me, and Sarah Emma and I ain't got over it
yet."
Captain Cy heard the gossip concerning the new teacher and it
rather pleased him. She appeared to be independent, and he liked
independence. He met her once or twice on the street, but she
merely bowed and passed on. Once he tried to thank her again for
her part in the cow episode, but she would not listen to him.
Bos'n was making good progress with her studies. She was naturally
a bright child--not the marvel the captain and the "Board of
Strategy" considered her, but quick to learn. She was not a saint,
however, and occasionally misbehaved in school and was punished for
it. One afternoon she did not return at her usual hour. Captain
Cy was waiting at the gate when Asaph Tidditt happened along.
Bailey, too, was with him.
"Waitin' for Bos'n, was you?" asked the town clerk. "Well, you'll
have to wait quite a spell, I cal'late. She's been kept after
school."
"Yes; and she's got to write fifty lines of copy," added Bailey.
Captain Cy was highly indignant.
"Get out!" he cried. "She ain't neither."
"Yes, she has, too. One of the Salters young ones told me. I knew
you'd be mad, though I s'pose folks that didn't know her's well's
we do would say she's no different from other children."
This was close to heresy, according to the captain's opinion.
"She ain't!" he cried. "I'd like to know why not! If she ain't
twice as smart as the run of young ones 'round here then-- Humph!
And she's kept after school! Well, now; I won't have it! There's
enough time for studyin' without wearin' out her brains after
hours. Oh, I guess you're mistaken."
"No, we ain't. I tell you, Whit, if I was you I'd make a fuss
about this. She's a smart child, Bos'n is; I never see a smarter.
And she ain't any too strong."
"That's so, she ain't." The idea that Emily's health was "delicate"
had become a fixed fact in the minds of the captain and the "Board."
It made a good excuse for the systematic process of "spoiling" the
girl, which the indulgent three were doing their best to carry on.
"I wouldn't let her be kept, Cy," urged Bailey. "Why don't you go
right off and see Phoebe and settle this thing? You've got a right
to talk to her. She wouldn't be teacher if it wasn't for you."
Asaph added his arguments to those of Mr. Bangs. Captain Cy,
carried away by his firm belief that Bos'n was a paragon of all
that was brilliant and good, finally yielded.
"All right!" he exclaimed. "Come on! That poor little thing
shan't be put upon by nobody."
The trio marched majestically down the hill. As they neared the
schoolhouse Bailey's courage began to fail. Miss Dawes was a
boarder at his house, and he feared consequences should Keturah
learn of his interference.
"I--I guess you don't need me," he stammered. "The three of us 'll
scare that teacher woman most to death. And she's so little and
meek, you know. If I should lose my temper and rare up I might say
somethin' that would hurt her feelin's. I'll set on the fence and
wait for you and Ase, Whit."
Mr. Tidditt's scornful comments concerning "white feathers" and
"backsliders" had no effect. Mr. Bangs perched himself on the
fence.
"Give it to her, fellers!" he called after them.
"Talk Dutch to her! Let her know that there's one child she can't
abuse."
At the foot of the steps Asaph paused.
"Say, Cy," he whispered, "don't you think I better not go in? It
ain't really my business, you know, and--and-- Well, I'm on the
s'lectmen and she might be frightened if she see me pouncin' down
on her. 'Tain't as if I was just a common man. I'll go and set
along of Bailey and you go in and talk quiet to her. She'd feel so
sort of ashamed if there was anyone else to hear the rakin' over--
hey?"
"Now, see here, Ase," expostulated the captain, "I don't like to do
this all by myself! Besides, 'twas you chaps put me up to it. You
ain't goin' to pull out of the race and leave me to go over the
course alone, are you? Come on! what are, you afraid of?"
His companion hotly denied that he was "afraid" of anything. He
had all sorts of arguments to back his decision. At last Captain
Cy lost patience.
"Well, BE a skulk, if you want to!" he declared. "I've set out to
see this thing through, and I'm goin' to do it. Only," he muttered,
as he entered the downstairs vestibule, "I wish I didn't feel quite
so much as if I was stealin' hens' eggs."
Miss Dawes herself opened the door in response to his knock.
"Oh, it's you, Cap'n Whittaker," she said. "Come in, please."
Captain Cy entered the schoolroom. It was empty, save for the
teacher and himself and one little girl, who, seated at a desk, was
writing busily. She looked up and blushed a vivid red. The little
girl was Bos'n.
"Sit down, Cap'n," said Miss Phoebe, indicating the visitor's
chair. "What was it you wanted to see me about?"
The captain accepted the invitation to be seated, but he did not
immediately reply to Miss Dawes's question. He dropped his hat on
the floor, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and then observed that
it was pretty summery weather for so late in the fall. The teacher
admitted the truth of his assertion and waited for him to continue.
"I--I s'pose school's pretty full, now that cranb'ryin' 's over,"
said Captain Cy.
"Yes, pretty full."
"Gettin' along first rate with the scholars, I hear."
"Yes."
This was a most unpromising beginning, really no beginning at all.
The captain cleared his throat, set his teeth, and, without looking
at his companion, dove headlong into the business which had brought
him there.
"Miss Dawes," he said, "I--I s'pose you know that Bos'n--I mean
Emily there--is livin' at my house and that I'm taking care of her
for--for the present."
The lady smiled.
"Yes," she said. "I gathered as much from what you said when we
first met."
She herself had said one or two things on that occasion. Captain
Cy remembered them distinctly.
"Yes, yes," he said hastily. "Well, my doin's that time wasn't
exactly the best sample of the care, I will say. Wan't even a fair
sample, maybe. I try to do my best with the child, long as she
stays with me, and--er--and--er--I'm pretty particular about her
health."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Yes. Now, Miss Phoebe, I appreciate what you did for Bos'n and me
that Sunday, and I'm thankful for it. I've tried to thank--"
"I know. Please don't say any more about it. I imagine there is
something else you want to say, isn't there?"
"Why, yes, there is. I--I heard that Emmie had been kept after
school. I didn't believe it, of course, but I thought I'd run up
and see what--"
He hesitated. The teacher finished the sentence for him.
"To see if it was true?" she said. "It is. I told her to stay and
write fifty lines."
"You did? Well, now that's what I wanted to speak to you about.
Course I ain't interferin' in your affairs, you know, but I just
wanted to explain about Bos'n--Emmie, I mean. She ain't a common
child; she's got too much head for the rest of her. If you'd lived
with her same as I have you'd appreciate it. Her health's delicate."
"Is it? She seems strong enough to me. I haven't noticed any
symptoms."
"Course not, else you wouldn't have kept her in. But _I_ know, and
I think it's my duty to tell you. Never mind if she can't do quite
so much writin'. I'd rather she wouldn't; she might bust a blood
vessel or somethin'. Such things HAVE happened, to extry smart
young ones. You just let her trot along home with me now and--"
"Cap'n Whittaker," Miss Dawes had risen to her feet with a
determined expression on her face.
"Yes, ma'am," said the captain, rising also.
"Cap'n Whittaker," repeated the teacher, "I'm very glad that you
called. I've been rather expecting you might, because of certain
things I have heard."
"You heard? What was it you heard--if you don't mind my askin'?"
"No, I don't, because I think we must have an understanding about
Emily. I have heard that you allow her to do as she pleases at
home; in other words, that you are spoiling her, and--"
"SPOILIN' her! _I_ spoilin' her? Who told you such an unlikely
yarn as that? I ain't the kind to spoil anybody. Why, I'm so
strict that I'm ashamed of myself sometimes."
He honestly believed he was. Miss Phoebe calmly continued.
"Of course, what you do at home is none of my business. I shouldn't
mention it anyhow, if you hadn't called, because I pay very little
attention to town talk, having lived in this county all my life and
knowing what gossip amounts to. I like Emily; she's a pretty good
little girl and well behaved, as children go. But this you must
understand. She can't be spoiled here. She whispered this
afternoon, twice. She has been warned often, and knows the rule. I
kept her after school because she broke that rule, and if she breaks
it again, she will be punished again. I kept the Edwards boy two
hours yesterday and--"
"Edwards boy! Do you mean to compare that--that young rip of a Ben
Edwards with a girl like Bos'n? I never heard--"
"I'm not comparing anybody. I'm trying to be fair to every scholar
in this room. And, so long as Emily behaves herself, she shall be
treated accordingly. When she doesn't, she shall be punished. You
must understand that."
"But Ben Edwards! Why, he's a wooden-head, same as his dad was a
fore him! And Emmie's the smartest scholar in this town."
"Oh, no, she isn't! She's a good scholar, but there are others
just as good and even quicker to learn."
This was piling one insult upon another. Other children as
brilliant as Bos'n! Captain Cy was bursting with righteous
indignation.
"Well!" he exclaimed. "Well! for a teacher that we've called to--"
"And that's another thing," broke in Miss Dawes quickly. "I've
been told that you, Cap'n Whittaker, are the one directly
responsible for my being chosen for this place. I don't say that
you are presuming on that, but--"
"I ain't! I never thought of such a thing!"
"But if you are you mustn't, that's all. I didn't ask for the
position and, now that I've got it, I shall try to fill it without
regard to one person more than another. Emily stays here until her
lines are written. I don't think we need to say any more. Good
day."
She opened the door. Captain Cy picked up his hat, swallowed hard,
and stepped across the threshold. Then Miss Phoebe added one more
remark.
"Cap'n," she said, "when you were in command of a ship did you
allow outsiders to tell you how to treat the sailors?"
The captain opened his mouth to reply. He wanted to reply very
much, but somehow he couldn't find a satisfying answer to that
question.
"Ma'am," he said, "all I can say is that if you'd been in South
America, same as I have, and seen the way them half-breed young
ones act, you'd--"
The teacher smiled, in spite of an apparent effort not to.
"Perhaps so," she said, "but this is Massachusetts. And--well,
Emily isn't a half-breed."
Captain Cy strode through the vestibule. Just before the door
closed behind him he heard a stifled sob from poor Bos'n.
The Board of Strategy was waiting at the end of the yard. Its
members were filled with curiosity.
"Did you give it to her good?" demanded Asaph. "Did you let her
understand we wouldn't put up with such cruelizin'?"
"Where's Bos'n?" asked Mr. Bangs.
Their friend's answers were brief and tantalizingly incomplete. He
walked homeward at a gait which caused plump little Bailey to puff
in his efforts to keep up, and he would say almost nothing about
the interview in the schoolroom.
"Well," said Mr. Tidditt, when they reached the Whittaker gate, "I
guess she knows her place now; hey, Cy? I cal'late she'll be
careful who she keeps after school from now on."
"Didn't use no profane language, did you, Cy?" asked Bailey. "I
hope not, 'cause she might have you took up just out of spite. Did
she ask your pardon for her actions?"
"No!" roared the captain savagely. Then, banging the gate behind
him, he strode up the yard and into the house.
Bos'n came home a half hour later. Captain Cy was alone in the
sitting room, seated in his favorite rocker and moodily staring at
nothing in particular. The girl gazed at him for a moment and then
climbed into his lap.
"I wrote my fifty lines, Uncle Cyrus," she said. "Teacher said I'd
done them very nicely, too."
The captain grunted.
"Uncle Cy," whispered Bos'n, putting her arms around his neck, "I'm
awful sorry I was so bad."
"Bad? Who--you? You couldn't be bad if you wanted to. Don't talk
that way or I'll say somethin' I hadn't ought to."
"Yes, I could be bad, too. I was bad. I whispered."
"Whispered! What of it? That ain't nothin'. When I was a young
one in school I used to whis-- . . . Hum! Well, anyhow, don't you
think any more about it. 'Tain't worth while."
They rocked quietly for a time. Then Bos'n said:
"Uncle Cyrus, don't you like teacher?"
"Hey? LIKE her? Well, if that ain't a question? Yes, I like her
about as well as Lonesome likes Eben Salter's dog."
"I'm sorry. I like her ever so much."
"You DO? Go 'long! After the way she treated you, poor little
thing!"
"She didn't treat me any worse than she does the other girls and
boys when they're naughty. And I did know the rule about
whispering."
"Well, that's different. Comparin' you with that Bennie Edwards--
the idea! And then makin' you cry!"
"She didn't make me cry."
"Did, too. I heard you."
The child looked up at him and then hid her face in his waistcoat.
"I wasn't crying about her," she whispered. "It was you."
"ME!" The captain gasped. "Good land!" he muttered. "It's just
as I expected. She's studied too hard and it's touchin' her
brain."
"No, sir, it isn't. It isn't truly. I did cry about you because I
didn't like to hear you talk so. And I was so sorry to have you
come there."
"You WAS!"
"Yes, sir. Other children's folks don't come when they're bad.
And I kept feeling so sort of ashamed of you."
"Ashamed of ME?"
Bos'n nodded vigorously.
"Yes, sir. Everything teacher said sounded so right, and what you
said didn't. And I like to have you always right."
"Do, hey? Hum!" Captain Cy didn't speak again for some few
minutes, but he held the little girl very tight in his arms. At
length he drew a long breath.
"By the big dipper, Bos'n!" he exclaimed. "You're a wonder, you
are. I wouldn't be surprised if you grew up to be a mind reader,
like that feller in the show we went to at the townhall a spell
ago. To tell you the honest Lord's truth, I've been ashamed of
myself ever since I come out of that schoolhouse door. When that
teacher woman sprung that on me about my fo'mast hands aboard ship
I was set back about forty fathom. I never wanted to answer
anybody so bad in MY life, and I couldn't 'cause there wasn't
anything to say. I cal'late I've made a fool of myself."
Bos'n nodded again.
"We won't do so any more, will we?" she said.
"You bet we won't! _I_ won't, anyhow. You haven't done anything."
"And you'll like teacher?"
The captain stamped his foot.
"No, SIR!" he declared. "She may be all right in her way--I s'pose
she is; but it's too Massachusettsy a way for me. No, sir! I
don't like her and I WON'T like her. No, sir-ee, never! She--she
ain't my kind of a woman," he added stubbornly. "That's what's the
matter! She ain't my kind of a woman."
CHAPTER IX
POLITICS AND BIRTHDAYS
"Town meeting" was called for the twenty-first of November.
With the summer boarders gone, the cranberry picking finished,
state election over, school begun and under way, and real winter
not yet upon us, Bayport, in the late fall, distinctly needs
something to enliven it. The Shakespeare Reading Society and the
sewing circle continue, of course, to interest the "women folks,"
there is the usual every evening gathering at Simmons's, and the
young people are looking forward to the "Grand Ball" on Thanksgiving
eve. But for the men, on week days, there is little to do except to
"putter" about the house, banking its foundations with dry seaweed
as a precaution against searching no'theasters, whitewashing the
barns and outbuildings, or fixing things in the vegetable cellar
where the sticks of smoked herring hang in rows above the barrels of
cabbages, potatoes, and turnips. The fish weirs, most of them, are
taken up, lest the ice, which will be driven into the bay later on,
tear the nets to pieces. Even the hens grow lazy and lay less
frequently. Therefore, away back in the "airly days," some
far-sighted board of selectmen arranged that "town meeting" should
be held during this lackadaisical season. A town meeting--and
particularly a Bayport town meeting, where everything from personal
affairs to religion is likely to be discussed--can stir up excitement
when nothing else can.
This year there were several questions to be talked over and
settled at town meeting. Two selectmen, whose terms expired, were
candidates for re-election. Lem Myrick had resigned from the
school committee, not waiting until spring, as he had announced
that he should do. Then there was the usual sentiment in favor of
better roads and the usual opposition to it. Also there was the
ever-present hope of the government appropriation for harbor
improvement.
Mr. Tidditt was one of the selectmen whose terms expired. In his
dual capacity as selectman and town clerk Asaph felt himself to be
a very important personage. To elect some one else in his place
would be, he was certain, a calamity which would stagger the
township. Therefore he was a busy man and made many calls upon his
fellow citizens, not to influence their votes--he was careful to
explain that--but just, as he said, "to see how they was gettin'
along," and because he "thought consider'ble of 'em" and "took a
real personal interest, you understand," in their affairs.
To Captain Cy he came, naturally, for encouragement and help,
being--as was his habit at such times--in a state of gloom and
hopeless despair.
"No use, Whit," he groaned. "'Tain't no use at all. I'm licked.
I'm gettin' old and they don't want me no more. I guess I'd better
get right up afore the votin' begins and tell 'em my health ain't
strong enough to be town clerk no longer. It's better to do that
than to be licked. Don't you think so?"
"Sure thing!" replied his friend, with sarcasm. "If I was you I'd
be toted in on a bed so they can see you're all ready for the
funeral. Might have the doctor walkin' ahead, wipin' his eyes, and
the joyful undertaker trottin' along astern. What's the particular
disease that's got you by the collar just now--facial paralysis?"
"No. What made you think of that?"
"Oh, nothin'! Only I heard you stopped in at ten houses up to the
west end of the town yesterday, and talked three quarters of an
hour steady at everyone. That would fit me for the scrap heap
inside of a week, and you've been goin' it ever since September
nearly. What does ail you--anything?"
"Why, no; nothin' special that way. Only there don't seem to be
any enthusiasm for me, somehow. I just hint at my bein' a
candidate and folks say, 'Yes, indeed. Looks like rain, don't it?'
and that's about all."
"Well, that hadn't ought to surprise you. If anybody came to me
and says, 'The sun's goin' to rise to-morrer mornin',' I shouldn't
dance on my hat and crow hallelujahs. Enthusiasm! Why, Ase,
you've been a candidate every two years since Noah got the ark off
the ways, or along there. And there ain't been any opposition to
you yet, except that time when Uncle 'Bial Stickney woke up in the
wrong place and hollered 'No,' out of principle, thinkin' he was to
home with his wife. If I was you I'd go and take a nap. You'll
read the minutes at selectmen's meetings for another fifty year,
more or less; take my word for it. As for the school committee,
that's different. I ain't made up my mind about that."
There had been much discussion concerning the school committee.
Who should be chosen to replace Mr. Myrick on the board was the
gravest question to come before the meeting. Many names had been
proposed at Simmons's and elsewhere, but some of those named had
refused to run, and others had not, after further consideration,
seemed the proper persons for the office. In the absence of Mr.
Atkins, Tad Simpson was our leader in the political arena. But Tad
so far had been mute.
"Wait a while," he said. "There's some weeks afore town meetin'
day. This is a serious business. We can't have no more--I mean no
unsuitable man to fill such an important place as that. The
welfare of our posterity," he added, and we all recognized the
quotation, "depends upon the choice that's to be made."
A choice was made, however, on the very next day but one after this
declaration. A candidate announced himself. Asaph and Bailey
hurried to the Cy Whittaker place with the news. Captain Cy was in
the woodshed building a doll house for Bos'n. "Just for my own
amusement," he hastily explained. "Somethin' for her to take along
when she goes out West to Betsy."
Mr. Tidditt was all smiles.
"What do you think, Cy?" he cried. "The new school committee man's
as good as elected. 'Lonzo Snow's goin' to take it."
The captain laid down his plane.
"'Lonzo Snow!" he repeated. "You don't say! Humph! Well, well!"
"Yes, sir!" exclaimed Bailey. "He's come forward and says it's his
duty to do so. He--"
"Humph! His duty, hey? I wonder who pointed it out to him?"
"Well, I don't know. But even Tad Simpson's glad; he says that he
knows Heman will be pleased with THAT kind of a candidate and so he
won't have to do any more huntin'. He thinks 'Lonzo's comin' out
by himself this way is a kind of special Providence."
"Yes, yes! I shouldn't wonder. Did you ever notice how dead sure
Tad and his kind are that Providence is workin' with 'em? Seems to
me 'twould be more satisfactory if we could get a sight of the
other partner's signature to the deed."
"What's the matter with you?" demanded Asaph. "You ain't findin'
fault with 'Lonzo, are you? Ain't he a good man?"
"Good! Sure thing he's good! Nobody can say he isn't and tell the
truth."
No one could truthfully speak ill of Alonzo Snow, that was a fact.
He lived at the lower end of the village, was well to do, a leading
cranberry grower, and very prominent in the church. A mild,
easygoing person was Mr. Snow, with an almost too keen fear of doing
the wrong thing and therefore prone to be guided by the opinion of
others. He was distinctly not a politician.
"Then what ails you?" asked Asaph hotly.
"Why, nothin', maybe. Only I'm always suspicious when Tad pats
Providence on the back. I generally figure that I can see through
a doughnut, when there's a light behind the hole. Who is 'Lonzo's
best friend in this town? Who does he chum with most of anybody?"
"Why, Darius Ellis, I guess. You know it."
"Um--hum. And Darius is on the committee--why?"
"Well, I s'pose 'cause Heman Atkins thought he'd be a good feller
to have there. But--"
"Yes, and 'Lonzo's pew in church is right under the Atkins memorial
window. The light from it makes a kind of halo round his bald head
every Sunday."
"Well, what of it? Heman, nor nobody else, could buy 'Lonzo Snow."
"Buy him? Indeed they couldn't. But there are some things you get
without buyin'--the measles, for instance. And the one that's
catchin' 'em don't know he's in danger till the speckles break out.
Fellers, this committee voted in Phoebe Dawes by just two votes to
one, and one of the two was Lem Myrick. Darius was against her.
Now with Tad and his 'Providence' puttin' in 'Lonzo Snow, and Heman
Atkins settin' behind the screen workin' his Normal School music
box so's they can hear the tune--well, Phoebe MAY stay this term
out, but how about next?"
"Hey? Why, I don't know. Anyhow, you're down on Phoebe as a
thousand of brick. I don't see why you worry about HER. After the
way she treated poor Bos'n and all."
Captain Cy stirred uneasily and kicked a chip across the floor.
"Well," he said, "well, I--I don't know's that's-- That is,
right's right and wrong's wrong. I've seen bullfights down yonder--"
jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of
Buenos Ayres, "and every time my sympathy's been with the bull.
Not that I loved the critter for his own sake, but because all
Greaserdom was out to down him. From what I hear, this Phoebe
Dawes--for all her pesky down-East stubbornness--is teachin' pretty
well, and anyhow she's one little woman against Tad Simpson and
Heman Atkins and--and Tad's special brand of Providence. She
deserves a fair shake and, by the big dipper, she's goin' to have
it! Look here, you two! how would I look on the school committee?"
"You?" repeated the pair in concert. "YOU?"
"Yes, me. I ain't a Solomon for wisdom, but I cal'late I'd be as
near the top of the barrel as Darius Ellis, and only one or two
layers under Eben Salters or 'Lonzo Snow. I'm a candidate--see?"
"But--but, Whit," gasped the town clerk, "are you popular enough?
Could you get elected?"
"I don't know, but I can find out. You and Bailey 'll vote for me,
won't you?"
"Course we will, but--"
"All right. There's two votes. A hundred and odd more'll put me
in. Here goes for politics and popularity. I may be president
yet; you can't tell. And say! this town meetin' won't be DULL,
whichever way the cat jumps."
This last was a safe prophecy. All dullness disappeared from
Bayport the moment it became known that Captain Cyrus Whittaker was
"out" for the school committee. The captain began his electioneering
at once. That very afternoon he called upon three people--Eben
Salters, Josiah Dimick, and Lemuel Myrick.
Captain Salters was chairman of selectmen as well as chairman of
the committee. He was a hard-headed old salt, who had made money
in the Australian packet service. He had common sense, independence,
and considerable influence in the town. Next to Congressman Atkins
he was, perhaps, our leading citizen. And, more than all, he was
not afraid, when he thought it necessary, to oppose the great Heman.
"Well," he said reflectively, after listening to Captain Cy's brief
statement of his candidacy, "I cal'late I'll stand in with you, Cy.
I ain't got anything against 'Lonzo, but--but--well, consarn it!
maybe that's the trouble. Maybe he's so darned good it makes me
jealous. Anyhow, I'll do what I can for you."
Joe Dimick laughed aloud. He was an iconoclast, seldom went to
church, and was entirely lacking in reverence. Also he really
liked the captain.
"Ho, ho!" he crowed. "Whit, do you realize that you're underminin'
this town's constitution? Oh, sartin, I'm with you, if it's only
to see the fur fly! I do love a scrap."
With Lem Myrick Captain Cy's policy was different. He gently
reminded that gentleman of the painting contract, intimated that
other favors might be forthcoming, and then, as a clincher, spoke
of Tad Simpson's comment when Mr. Myrick voted for Phoebe Dawes.
"Of course," he added, "if you think Tad's got a right to boss all
hands and the cook, why, I ain't complainin'. Only, if _I_ was a
painter doin' a good, high-class trade, and a one-hoss barber tried
to dictate to me, I shouldn't bow down and tell him to kick easy as
he could. Seems to me I'd kick first. But I'M no boss; I mustn't
influence you."
Lemuel was indignant.
"No barber runs me," he declared. "You stand up for me when that
townhall paintin's to be done and I'll work hard for you now, Cap'n
Whittaker. 'Lonzo Snow's an elder and all that, but I can't help
it. Anyway, his place was all fixed up a year ago and I didn't get
the job. A feller has to look after himself these days."
With these division commanders to lead their forces into the
enemy's country and with Asaph and Bailey doing what they could to
help, Captain Cy's campaign soon became worthy of respectful
consideration. For a while Tad Simpson scoffed at the opposition;
then he began to work openly for Mr. Snow. Later he marshaled his
trusted officers around the pool table in the back room of the
barber shop and confided to them that it was anybody's fight and
that he was worried.
"It's past bein' a joke," he said. "It's mighty serious. We've
got to hustle, we have. Heman trusted me in this job, and if I
fall down it 'll be bad for me and for you fellers, too. I wish he
was home to run things himself, but he's got business down South
there--some property he owns or somethin'--and says he can't leave.
But we must win! By mighty! we've GOT to. So get every vote you
can. Never mind how; just get 'em, that's all."
Captain Cy was thoroughly enjoying himself. The struggle suited
him to perfection. He was young, in spite of his fifty-five years,
and this tussle against odds, reminding him of other tussles during
his first seasons in business, aroused his energies and, as he
expressed it, "stirred up his vitals and made him hop round like a
dose of 'pain killer.'"
He did not, however, forget Bos'n. He and she had their walks and
their pleasant evenings together in spite of politics. He took the
child into his confidence and told her of the daily gain, or loss,
in votes, as if she were his own age. She understood a little of
all this, and tried hard to understand the rest, preaching between
times to Georgianna how "the bad men were trying to beat Uncle
Cyrus because he was gooder than they, but they couldn't, 'cause
everybody loved him so." Georgianna had some doubts, but she kept
them to herself.
Among the things in Bos'n's "box" was a long envelope, sealed with
wax and with a lawyer's name printed in one corner. The captain
opened it, at Emily's suggestion, and was astonished to find that
the inclosure was a will, dated some years back, in which Mrs. Mary
Thomas, the child's mother, left to her daughter all her personal
property and also the land in Orham, Massachusetts, which had been
willed to her by her own mother. There was a note with the will in
which Mrs. Thomas stated that no one save herself had known of this
land, not even her husband. She had not told him because she
feared that, like everything else, it would be sold and the money
wasted in dissipation. "He suspected something of the sort," she
added, "but he did not find out the secret, although he--" She had
evidently scratched out what followed, but Captain Cy mentally
filled in the blank with details of abuse and cruelty. "If
anything happens to me," concluded the widow, "I want the land sold
and the money used for Emily's maintenance as long as it lasts."
The captain went over to Orham and looked up the land. It was a
strip along the shore, almost worthless, and unsalable at present.
The taxes had been regularly paid each year by Mary Thomas, who had
sent money orders from Concord. The self-denial represented by
these orders was not a little.
"Never mind, Bos'n," said Captain Cy, when he returned from the
Orham trip. "Your ancestral estates ain't much now but a sand-flea
menagerie. However, if this section ever does get to be the big
summer resort folks are prophesying for it, you may sell out to
some millionaire and you and me'll go to Europe. Meantime, we'll
try to keep afloat, if the Harniss Bank don't spring a leak."
On the day following this conversation he took a flying trip to
Ostable, the county seat, returning the same evening, and saying
nothing to anyone about his reasons for going nor what he had done
while there.
Bos'n's birthday was the eighteenth of November. The captain, in
spite of the warmth of his struggle for committee honors, determined
to have a small celebration on the afternoon and evening of that
day. It was to be a surprise for Emily, and, after school was over,
some of her particular friends among the scholars were to come in,
there was to be a cake with eight candles on it, and a supper at
which ice cream--lemon and vanilla, prepared by Mrs. Cahoon--was to
be the principal feature. Also there would be games and all sorts
of fun.
Captain Cy was tremendously interested in the party. He spent
hours with Georgianna and the Board of Strategy, preparing the list
of guests. His cunning in ascertaining from the unsuspecting child
who, among her schoolmates, she would like to invite, was deep and
guileful.
"Now, Bos'n," he would say, "suppose you was goin' to clear out and
leave this town for a spell, who--"
"But, Uncle Cyrus--" Bos'n's eyes grew frightened and moist in a
moment, "I ain't going, am I? I don't want to go."
"No, no! Course you ain't goin'--that is, not for a long while,
anyhow," with a sidelong look at the members of the "Board," then
present. "But just suppose you and me was startin' on that Europe
trip. Who'd you want to say good-by to most of all?"
Each name given by the child was surreptitiously penciled by Bailey
on a scrap of paper. The list was a long one and, when the great
afternoon came, the Whittaker house was crowded.
The supper was a brilliant success. So was the cake, brought in
with candles ablaze, by the grinning Georgianna. Beside the
children there were some older people present, Bailey and Asaph, of
course, and the "regulars" from the perfect boarding house, who had
been invited because it was fairly certain that Mr. Bangs wouldn't
be allowed to attend if his wife did not. Miss Dawes had also been
asked, at Bos'n's well-understood partiality, but she had declined.
Toward the end of the meal, when the hilarity at the long table was
at its height, an unexpected guest made his appearance. There was
a knock at the dining-room door, and Georgianna, opening it, was
petrified to behold, standing upon the step, no less a personage
than the Honorable Heman Atkins, supposed by most of us to be then
somewhere in that wide stretch of territory vaguely termed "the
South."
"Good evening, all," said the illustrious one, removing his silk
hat and stepping into the room. "What a charming scene! I trust I
do not intrude."
Georgianna was still speechless, in which unwonted condition she
was not alone, Messrs. Bangs and Tidditt being also stricken dumb.
But Captain Cy rose to the occasion grandly.
"Intrude?" he repeated. "Not a mite of it! Mighty glad to see
you, Heman. Here, give us your hat. Pull up to the table. When
did you get back? Thought you was in the orange groves somewheres."
"Ahem! I was. Yes, I was in that neighborhood. But it is hard to
stay away from dear old Bayport. Home ties, you know, home ties.
I came down on the morning train, but I stopped over at Harniss on
business and drove across. Ahem! Yes. The housekeeper informed
me that my daughter was here, and, seeing the lights and hearing
the laughter, I couldn't resist making this impromptu call. I'm
sure as an old friend and neighbor, Cyrus, you will pardon me.
Alicia, darling, come and kiss papa."
Darling Alicia accepted the invitation with a rustle of silk and
an ecstatic squeal of delight. During this affecting scene Asaph
whispered to Bailey that he "cal'lated" Heman had had a hurry-up
distress signal from Simpson; to which sage observation Mr. Bangs
replied with a vigorous nod, showing that Captain Cy's example had
had its effect, in that they no longer stood in such awe of their
representative at Washington.
However true Asaph's calculation might have been, Mr. Atkins made
no mention of politics. He was urbanity itself. He drew up to the
table, partook of the ice cream and cake, and greeted his friends
and neighbors with charming benignity.
"Wan't it sweet of him to come?" whispered Miss Phinney to Keturah.
"And him so nice and everyday and sociable. And when Cap'n
Whittaker's runnin' against his friend, as you might say."
Keturah replied with a dubious shake of the head.
"I think Captain Cyrus is goin' to get into trouble," she said.
"I've preached to Bailey more 'n a little about keepin' clear, but
he won't."
"Games in t'other room now," ordered Captain Cy. But Mr. Atkins
held up his hand.
"Pardon me, just a moment, Cyrus, if you please," he said. "I feel
that on this happy occasion, it is my duty and pleasure to propose
a toast." He held his lemonade glass aloft. "Permit me," he
proclaimed, to wish many happy birthdays and long life to Miss-- I
beg pardon, Cyrus, but what is your little friend's name?"
"Emily Richards Thayer," replied the captain, carried away by
enthusiasm and off his guard for once.
"To Em--" began Heman. Then he paused and for the first time in
his public life seemed at a loss for words. "What?" he asked, and
his hand shook. "I fear I didn't catch the name."
"No wonder," laughed Mr. Tidditt. "Cy's so crazy to-night he'd
forget his own name. Know what you said, Cy? You said she was
Emily Richards THAYER! Haw! haw! She ain't a Thayer, Heman; her
last name's Thomas. She's Emily Richards Thayer's granddaughter
though. Her granddad was John Thayer, over to Orham. Good land!
I forgot. Well, what of it, Cy? 'Twould have to be known some
time."
Everyone looked at Captain Cy then. No one observed Mr. Atkins for
the moment. When they did turn their gaze upon the great man he
had sunk back in his chair, the glass of lemonade was upset upon
the cloth before him, and he, with a very white face, was staring
at Emily Richards Thomas.
"What's the matter, Heman?" asked the captain anxiously. "Ain't
sick, are you?"
The congressman started.
"Oh, no!" he said hurriedly. "Oh, no! but I'm afraid I've soiled
your cloth. It was awkward of me. I--I really, I apologize--I--"
He wiped his face with his handkerchief. Captain Cy laughed.
"Oh, never mind the tablecloth," he said. "I cal'late it's too
soiled already to be hurt by a bath, even a lemon one. Well,
you've all heard the toast. Full glasses, now. Here's TO you,
Bos'n! Drink hearty, all hands, and give the ship a good name."
If the heartiness with which they drank is a criterion, the good
name of the ship was established. Then the assembly adjourned to
the sitting room and--yes, even the front parlor. Not since the
days when that sacred apartment had been desecrated by the
irreverent city boarders, during the Howes regime, had its walls
echoed to such whoops and shouts of laughter. The children played
"Post Office" and "Copenhagen" and "Clap in, Clap out," while the
grown folks looked on.
"Ain't they havin' a fine time, Cap?" gushed Miss Phinney. "Don't
it make you wish you was young again?"
"Angie," replied Captain Cy solemnly, "don't tempt me; don't! If
they keep on playin' that Copenhagen and you stand right alongside
of me, there's no tellin' what 'll happen."
Angeline declared that he was "turrible," but she faced the
threatened danger nevertheless, and bravely remained where she was.
Mr. Atkins went home early in the evening, taking Alicia with him.
He explained that his long railroad journey had--er--somewhat
fatigued him and, though he hated to leave such a--er--delightful
gathering, he really felt that, under the circumstances, his
departure would be forgiven. Captain Cy opened the door for him
and stood watching as, holding his daughter by the hand, he marched
majestically down the path.
"Hum!" mused the captain aloud. "I guess he has been travelin'
nights. Thought he ought to be here quick, I shouldn't wonder. He
does look tired, that's a fact, and kind of pale, seemed to me."
"Well, there, now!" exclaimed Mrs. Tripp, who was looking over his
shoulder. "Did you see that?"
"No; what was it?"
"Why, when he went to open his gate, one of them arbor vity bushes
he set out this spring knocked his hat off. And he never seemed to
notice, but went right on. If 'Licia hadn't picked it up, that
nice new hat would have been layin' there yet. That's the most
undignified thing ever I see Heman Atkins do. He MUST be tired
out, poor man!"
CHAPTER X
A LETTER AND A VISITOR
"Whit," asked Asaph next day, "wan't you surprised to see Heman
last night?"
Captain Cy nodded. He was once more busy with the doll house, the
construction of which had progressed slowly of late, owing to the
demands which the party and politics made upon its builder's time.
"Yup," he said, "I sartinly was. Pretty good sign, I shouldn't
wonder. Looks as if friend Tad had found the tide settin' too
strong against him and had whistled for a tug. All right; the more
scared the other side get, the better for us."
"But what in the world made Heman come over and have supper? He
never so much as stepped foot in the house afore, did he? That's
the biggest conundrum of all."
"Well, I guess I've got the answer. Strikes me that Heman's
sociableness is the best sign yet. Heman's a slick article, and
when he sees there's danger of losin' the frostin' on the cake he
takes care to scrape the burnt part off the bottom. I may be
school committeeman after town meetin'. He'll move all creation to
stop me, of course--in his quiet, round-the-corner way--but, if I
do win out, he wants to be in a position to take me one side and
tell me that he's glad of it; he felt all along I was the right
feller for the job, and if there's anything he can do to make
things easier for me just call on him. That's the way I size it
up, anyhow."
"Cy, I never see anybody like you. You're dead set against Heman,
and have been right along. And he's never done anything to you,
fur's I see. He's given a lot to the town, and he's always been
the most looked-up-to man we've got. Joe Dimick and two or three
more chronic growls have been the only ones to sling out hints
against him, till you come. Course I'm working for you, tooth and
nail, and I will say that you seem to be gettin' the votes some way
or other. But if Heman SHOULD step right out and say: 'Feller
citizens, I'm behind Tad Simpson in this fight, and as a favor to
me and 'cause I think it's right and best, I want 'Lonzo Snow
elected'--well, _I_ don't believe you'd have more'n one jack and a
ten spot to count for game."
"Probably not, Ase; I presume likely not. But you take a day off
some time and see if you can remember that Heman EVER stepped right
out and said things. Blame it! that's just it. As for WHY he
riles me up and makes me stubborn as a balky mule, I don't know
exactly. All I'm sure is that he does. Maybe it's 'cause I don't
like the way he wears his whiskers. Maybe it's because he's so
top-lofty and condescendin'. A feller can whistle to me and say:
'Come on, Bill,' and I'll trot at his heels all day. But when he
pats me on the head and says: 'There there! nice doggie. Go under
the bed and lay down,' my back bristles up and I commence to growl
right off. There's consider'ble Whittaker in me, as I've told you
before."
The town clerk pondered over this rather unsatisfactory line of
reasoning for some minutes. His companion fitted a wooden chimney
on the doll house, found it a trifle out of plumb, and proceeded to
whittle a shaving off the lower edge. Then Asaph sighed, as one
who gives up a perplexing riddle, put his hand in his pocket, and
produced a bundle of papers.
"I made out a list of fellers down to the east'ard that I'm goin'
to see this afternoon," he said. "Some of 'em I guess 'll vote for
you, but most of 'em are pretty sartin' for 'Lonzo. However, I--
Where is that list? I had it somewhere's. And--well, I swan! I
come pretty near forgettin' it myself. I'm 'most as bad as
Bailey."
From the bundle of papers he produced a crumpled envelope.
"That Bailey," he observed, "must be in love, I cal'late, though I
don't know who with. Ketury, I s'pose, 'cordin' to law and order,
but-- Well, anyhow, he's gettin' more absent-minded all the time.
Here's a letter for you, Cy, that he got at the post-office a week
ago Monday. 'Twas the night of the church sociable, and he had on
his Sunday cutaway, and he ain't worn it sence, till the party
yesterday. When he took off the coat, goin' to bed, the letter
fell out of it. I guess he was ashamed to fetch it round himself,
so he asked me to do it. Better late than never, hey? Here's that
list at last."
He produced the list and handed it to the captain for inspection.
The latter looked it over, made a few comments and suggestions, and
told his friend to heave ahead and land as many of the listed as
possible. This Mr. Tidditt promised to do, and, replacing the
papers in his pocket, started for the gate.
"Oh! Say, Ase!"
The town clerk, his hand on the gate latch, turned.
"Well, what is it?" he asked. "Don't keep me no longer'n you can
help. I got work to do, I have."
"All right, I won't stop you. Only fallin' in love is kind of
epidemic down at the boardin' house, I guess. Who is it that's got
you in tow--Matildy?"
"What are you talkin' about? Didn't I tell you to quit namin' me
with Matildy Tripp? I like a joke as well as most folks, but when
it's wore into the ground I--"
"Sho, sho! Don't get mad. It's your own fault. You said that
absent-mindedness was a love symptom, so I just got to thinkin',
that's all. That letter that Bailey forgot--you haven't given it
to me yet."
Asaph turned red and hastily snatched the papers from his pocket.
He strode back to the door of the woodshed, handed his friend the
crumpled envelope, and stalked off without another word. The
captain chuckled, laid the letter on the bench beside him and went
on with his work. It was perhaps ten minutes later when, happening
to glance at the postmark on the envelope, he saw that it was
"Concord, N. H."
Asaph's vote-gathering trip "to the east'ard" made a full day for
him. He returned to the perfect boarding house just at supper
time. During the meal he realized that Mr. Bangs seemed to be
trying to attract his attention. Whenever he glanced in that
gentleman's direction his glance was met by winks and mystifying
shakes of the head. Losing patience at last, he demanded to know
what was the matter.
"Want to say somethin' to me, do you?" he inquired briskly. "If
you do, out with it! Don't set there workin' your face as if 'twas
wound up, like a clockwork image."
This remark had the effect of turning all the other faces toward
Bailey's. He was very much upset.
"No, no!" he stammered. "No, no! I don't want you for nothin'.
Was I makin' my face go? I--I didn't know it. I've been washin'
carriages and cleanin' up the barn all day and I cal'late I've
overdone. I'm gettin' old, and hard work's likely to bring on
shakin' palsy to old folks."
His wife tartly observed that, if WORK was the cause of it, she
guessed he was safe from palsy for quite a spell yet. At any rate,
a marked recovery set in and he signaled no more during the meal.
But when it was over, and his task as dish-wiper completed, he
hurried out of doors and found Mr. Tidditt, shivering in the
November wind, on the front porch.
"Now what is it?" asked Asaph sharply. "I know there's somethin'
and I've froze to death by sections waitin' to hear it."
"Have you seen Cy?" whispered Bailey, glancing fearfully over his
shoulder at the lighted windows of the house.
"No, not sence mornin'. Why?"
"Well, there's somethin' the matter with him. Somethin' serious.
I was swabbin' decks in the barn about eleven o'clock, when he come
postin' in, white and shaky, and so nervous he couldn't stand
still. Looked as if he had had a stroke almost. I--"
"Godfrey scissors! You don't s'pose Heman's comin' back has
knocked out his chances for the committee, do you?"
"No, sir-ee! 'twan't that. Cy's anxious to be elected and all, but
you know his politics are more of a joke with him than anything
else. And any rap Heman or Tad could give him would only make him
fight harder. And he wouldn't talk politics at all; didn't seem to
give a durn about 'em, one way or t'other. No, 'twas somethin'
about that letter, the one I forgot so long. He wanted to know why
in time I hadn't given it to him when it fust come. He was real
ugly about it, for him, and kept pacin' up and down the barn floor
and layin' into me, till I begun to think he was crazy. I guess he
see my feelin's were hurt, 'cause, just afore he left, he held out
his hand and said I mustn't mind his talk; he'd been knocked on his
beam ends, he said, and wan't really responsible."
"Wouldn't he say what had knocked him?"
"No, couldn't get nothin' out of him. And when he quit he went off
toward home, slappin' his fists together and actin' as if he didn't
see the road across his bows. Now, you know how cool and easy
goin' Whit generally is. I swan to man, Ase! he made me so sorry
for him I didn't know what to do."
"Ain't you been up to see him sence?"
"No, Ketury was sot on havin' the barn cleaned, and she stood over
me with a rope's end, as you might say. I couldn't get away a
minute, though I made up more'n a dozen errands at Simmons's and
the like of that. You hold on till I sneak into the entry and get
my cap and we'll put for there now. I won't be but a jiffy. I'm
worried."
They entered the yard of the Cy Whittaker place together and
approached the side door. As they stood on the steps Asaph touched
his chum on the arm and pointed to the window beside them. The
shade was half drawn and beneath it they had a clear view of the
interior of the sitting room. Captain Cy was in the rocker before
the stove, holding Bos'n in his arms. The child was sound asleep,
her yellow braid hanging over the captain's broad shoulder. He was
gazing down into her face with a look which was so full of yearning
and love that it brought a choke into the throats of the pair who
saw it.
They entered the dining room. The captain sprang from his chair
and, still holding the little girl close against his breast, met
them at the sitting-room door. When he saw who the visitors were,
he caught his breath, almost with a sob, and seemed relieved.
"S-s-h-h!" he whispered warningly. "She's asleep."
The members of the Board of Strategy nodded understandingly and sat
down upon the sofa. Captain Cy tiptoed to the bedroom, turned back
the bedclothes with one hand and laid Bos'n down. They saw him
tuck her carefully in and then stoop and kiss her. He returned to
the sitting room and closed the door behind him.
"We see she was asleep afore we come in," explained Asaph. "We see
you and her through the window."
The captain looked hurriedly at the window indicated. Then he
stepped over and pulled the shade down to the sill, doing the same
with the curtains of the other two windows.
"What's the matter?" inquired Bailey, trying to be facetious.
"'Fraid of 'Lonzo's crowd spyin' on us?"
Captain Cy did not reply. He did not even sit down, but remained
standing, his back to the stove.
"Well?" he asked shortly. "Did you fellers want to see me for
anything 'special?"
"Wanted to see what had struck you all to once," replied Mr. Tidditt.
"Bailey says you scared him half to death this forenoon. And you
look now as if somebody's ghost had riz and hollered 'Boo!' at you.
For the land sakes, Whit, what IS it?"
The captain drew his hand across his forehead.
"Ghost?" he repeated absently. "No, I haven't SEEN a ghost.
There! there! don't mind me. I ain't real well to-day, I guess."
He smiled crookedly.
"Don't you want to hear about my vote-grabbin' cruise?" asked
Tidditt. "I was flatterin' myself you'd be tickled to hear I'd
done so well. Why, even Marcellus Parker says he may vote for
you--if he makes up his mind that way."
Marcellus was a next-door neighbor of Alonzo Snow's. But Captain
Cy didn't seem to care.
"Hey?" he murmured. "Yes. Well?"
"WELL! Is that all you've got to say? Are you really sick, Cy?
Or is Bos'n sick?"
"No!" was the answer, almost fierce in its utterance. "She isn't
sick. Don't be a fool."
"What's foolish about that? I didn't know but she might be.
There's mumps in town and--"
"She's all right; so shut up, will you! There, Ase!" he added.
"I'm the fool myself. Don't mind my barkin'; I don't mean it. I
am about sick, I cal'late. Be better to-morrer, maybe."
"What's got into you? Was that letter of Bailey's--"
"Hush!" The captain held up his hand. "I thought I heard a team."
"Depot wagon, most likely," said Bailey. "About time for it!
Humph! seems to be stoppin', don't it? Was you expectin' anybody?
Shall I go and--"
"No! Set still."
The pair on the sofa sat still. Captain Cy stood like a statue in
the middle of the floor. He squared his shoulders and jammed his
clenched fists into his pockets. Steps crunched the gravel of the
walk. There came a knock at the door of the dining room.
Walking steadily, but with a face set as the figurehead on one of
his own ships, the captain went to answer the knock. They heard
the door open, and then a man's voice asked:
"Is this Cap'n Whittaker?"
"Yes," was the short answer.
"Well, Cap, I guess you don't know me, though maybe you know some
of my family. Ha, ha! Don't understand that, hey? Well, you let
me in and I'll explain the joke."
The captain's reply was calm and deliberate.
"I shouldn't wonder if I understood it," he said. "Come in.
Don't--" The remainder of the sentence was whispered and the
listeners on the sofa could not hear it. A moment later Captain Cy
entered the sitting room, followed by his caller.
The latter was a stranger. He was a broad-shouldered man of medium
height, with a yellowish mustache and brown hair. He was dressed
in rather shabby clothes, without an overcoat, and he had a soft
felt hat in his hand. The most noticeable thing about him was a
slight hesitancy in his walk. He was not lame, he did not limp,
yet his left foot seemed to halt for an instant as he brought it
forward in the step. They learned afterwards that it had been hurt
in a mine cave-in. He carried himself with a swagger, and, after
his entrance, there was a perceptible aroma of alcohol in the room.
He stared at the Board of Strategy and the stare was returned in
full measure. Bailey and Asaph were wildly curious. They, of
course, connected the stranger's arrival with the mysterious letter
and the captain's perturbation of the day.
But their curiosity was not to be satisfied, at least not then.
"How are you, gents?" hailed the newcomer cheerfully. "Like the
looks of me, do you?"
Captain Cy cut off further conversation.
"Ase," he said, "this--er--gentleman and I have got some business
to talk over. I know you're good enough friends of mine not to
mind if I ask you to clear out. You'll understand. You WILL
understand, boys, won't you?" he added, almost entreatingly.
"Sartin sure!" replied Mr. Tidditt, rising hurriedly. "Don't say
another word, Whit." And the mystified Bangs concurred with a
"Yes, yes! Why, of course! Didn't have nothin' that amounts to
nothin' to stay for anyhow. See you to-morrer, Cy."
Outside and at the gate they stopped and looked at each other.
"Well!" exclaimed Asaph. "If that ain't the strangest thing! Who
was that feller? Where'd he come from? Did you notice how Cy
acted? Seemed to be holdin' himself in by main strength."
"Did you smell the rum on him?" returned Bailey. "On that t'other
chap, I mean? Didn't he look like a reg'lar no-account to you?
And say, Ase, didn't he remind you of somebody you'd seen
somewheres--kind of, in a way?"
They walked home in a dazed state, asking unanswerable questions
and making profitless guesses. But Asaph's final remark seemed to
sum up the situation.
"There's trouble comin' of this, Bailey," he declared. "And it's
trouble for Cy Whittaker, I'm afraid. Poor old Cy! Well, WE'LL
stand by him, anyhow. I don't believe he'll sleep much to-night.
Didn't look as though he would, did he? Who IS that feller?"
If he had seen Captain Cy, at two o'clock the next morning, sitting
by Bos'n's bedside and gazing hopelessly at the child, he would
have realized that, if his former predictions were wiped off the
slate and he could be judged by the one concerning the captain's
sleepless night, he might thereafter pose as a true prophet.
CHAPTER XI
A BARGAIN OFF
"Mornin', Georgianna," said Captain Cy to his housekeeper as the
latter unlocked the back door of the Whittaker house next morning.
"I'm a little ahead of you this time."
Miss Taylor, being Bayport born and bred, was an early riser. She
lodged with her sister, in Bassett's Hollow, a good half mile from
the Cy Whittaker place, but she was always on hand at the latter
establishment by six each morning, except Sundays. Now she glanced
quickly at the clock. The time was ten minutes to six.
"Land sakes!" she exclaimed. "I should say you was! What in the
world got you up so early? Ain't sick, are you?"
"No," replied the captain wearily. "I ain't sick. I didn't sleep
very well last night, that's all."
Georgianna looked sharply at him. His face was haggard and his
eyes had dark circles under them.
"Humph!" she grunted. "No, I guess you didn't. Looks to me as if
you'd been up all night." Then she added an anxious query:
"'Tain't Bos'n--she ain't sick, I hope?"
"No. She's all right. I say, Georgianna, you put on an extry
plate this mornin'. Got company for breakfast."
The housekeeper was surprised.
"For breakfast?" she repeated. "Land of goodness! who's comin' for
breakfast? I never heard of company droppin' in for breakfast.
That's one meal folks generally get to home. Who is it? Mr.
Tidditt? Has Ketury turned him out door because he's too bad an
example for her husband?"
"No, 'tain't Ase. It's a--a friend of mine. Well, not exactly a
friend, maybe, but an acquaintance from out of town. He came last
evenin'. He's up in the spare bedroom."
"Well, I never! Come unexpected, didn't he? I wish I'd known he
was comin'. That spare room bed ain't been aired I don't know
when."
"I guess he can stand it. I cal'late he's slept in consider'ble
worse--Hum! Yes, he did come kind of sudden."
"What's his name?"
"What difference does that make? I don't know's his name makes any
odds about gettin' his breakfast for him."
Georgianna was hurt. Her easy-going employer had never used this
tone before when addressing her.
"Oh!" she sniffed. "Is THAT the way you feel? All right! I can
mind my own business, thank you. I only asked because it's
convenient sometimes to know whether to call a person Bill Smith or
Sol Jones. But I don't care if it's Nebuchadnezzar. I know when
to keep my tongue still, I guess."
She flounced over to the range. Captain Cy looked ashamed of
himself.
"I'm kind of out of sorts to-day," he said. "Got some headache.
Why, his name is--is--yes, 'tis Smith, come to think of it--John
Smith. Funny you should guess right, wan't it?"
"Humph!" was the ungracious answer. "Names don't interest me, I
tell you."
The captain was in the dining room when Bos'n appeared.
"Good morning, Uncle Cyrus," she said. "You've been waiting,
haven't you? Am I late? I didn't mean to be."
"No, no! you ain't late. Early, if anything. Breakfast ain't
quite ready yet. Come here and set in my lap. I want to talk to
you."
He took her on his knee. She looked up into his face.
"What's the matter, Uncle Cy?" she asked. "What makes you so
sober?"
"Sober? If you ain't the oldest young one for eight years I ever
saw! Why, I ain't sober. No, no! Say, Bos'n, do you like your
school as well as ever?"
"Yes, sir. I like it better all the time."
"Do, hey? And that teacher woman--go on likin' her?"
The child nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir," she said. "And I
haven't been kept after since that once."
"Sho! sho! Course you ain't'! So you think Bayport's as nice as
Concord, do you?"
"Oh! lots nicer! If mamma was only here I'd never want to be
anywhere else. And not then, maybe, unless you was there, too."
"Hum! Want to know! Say, Bos'n, how would you feel if you had to
go somewheres else?"
"To live? Have we got to? I'd feel dreadful, of course. But if
you've got to go, Uncle Cyrus, why--"
"Me? No; I ain't got to go anywheres. But 'twas you I was thinkin'
of. Wouldn't want to leave the old man, hey?"
"To leave YOU! Oh, Uncle Cyrus!"
She was staring at him now and her chin was trembling.
"Uncle," she demanded, "you ain't going to send me away? Haven't I
been a good girl?"
The captain's lips shut tight. He waited a moment before replying.
"'Deed you've been a good girl!" he said brusquely. "I never saw a
better one. No, I ain't goin' to SEND you away. Don't you worry
about that."
"But Alicia Atkins said one time you told somebody you was going to
send me out West, after a while. I didn't believe it, then, she's
so mean, but she said you said--"
"SAID!" Captain Cy groaned. "The Lord knows what I ain't said!
I've been a fool, dearie, and it's a judgment on me, I guess."
"But ain't you goin' to keep me? I--I--"
She sobbed. The captain stroked her hair.
"Keep you?" he muttered. "Yes, by the big dipper! I'm goin' to
keep you, if I can--if I can."
"Hello!" said a voice. The pair looked up. The man who had
arrived on the previous night stood in the sitting-room doorway.
How long he had been standing there the captain did not know. What
he did know was that Mr. John Smith by daylight was not more
prepossessing than the same individual viewed by the aid of a lamp.
Emily saw the stranger and slid from Captain Cy's knees. The
captain rose.
"Bos'n," he said, "this is Mr.--er--Smith, who's goin' to make us a
little visit. I want you to shake hands with him."
The girl dutifully approached Mr. Smith and extended her hand. He
took it and held it in his own.
"Is this the--" he began.
Captain Cy bowed assent.
"Yes," he said, his eyes fixed on the visitor's face. "Yes. Don't
forget what you said last night."
Smith shook his head.
"No," he replied. "I ain't the kind that forgets, unless it pays
pretty well. There's some things I've remembered for quite a few
years."
He looked the child over from head to foot and his brows drew
together in an ugly frown.
"So this is her, hey?" he muttered musingly. "Humph! Well, I
don't know as I'd have guessed it. Favors the other side of the
house more--the respectable side, I should say. Still, there's a
little brand of the lost sheep, hey? Enough to prove property,
huh? Mark of the beast, I s'pose the psalm-singin' relations would
call it. D--n em! I--"
"Steady!" broke in the captain. Mr. Smith started, seemed to
remember where he was, and his manner changed.
"Come and see me, honey," he coaxed, drawing the girl toward him by
the hand he was holding. "Ain't you got a nice kiss for me this
fine mornin'? Don't be scared. I won't bite."
Bos'n looked shrinkingly at Mr. Smith's unshaven cheeks and then at
Captain Cy. The latter's face was absolutely devoid of expression.
He merely nodded.
So Emily kissed one of the bristling cheeks. The kiss was returned
full upon the mouth. She wiped her lips and darted away to her
chair by the table.
"What's your hurry?" inquired the visitor. "Don't I do it right?
Been some time since I kissed a girl--a little one, anyhow," he
added, winking at his host. "Never mind, we'll know each other
better by and by."
He looked on in wondering disgust as Bos'n said her "grace."
"What in blazes!" he burst out when the little blessing was
finished. "Who put her up to that? A left-over from the psalm-
singers, is it?"
"I don't know," answered the captain, speaking with deliberation.
"I do know that I like to have her do it and that she shall do it
as long's she's at this table."
"Oh! she shall, hey? Well, I reckon--"
"She shall--AS LONG AS SHE'S AT THIS TABLE. Is that real plain and
understandable, or shall I write it down?"
There was an icy clearness in the captain's tone which seemed to
freeze further conversation on the part of Mr. Smith. He merely
grunted and ate his breakfast in silence. He ate a great deal and
ate it rapidly.
Bos'n departed for school when the meal was over. Captain Cy
helped her on with her coat and hood. Then, as he always did of
late, he kissed her good-by.
"Hi!" called Mr. Smith from the sitting room. "Ain't I in on that?
If there's any kisses goin' I want to take a hand before the deal's
over."
"Must I?" whispered Bos'n pleadingly. "Must I, Uncle Cy? I don't
want to. I don't like him."
"Come on!" called Mr. Smith. "I'm gettin' over my bashfulness
fast. Hurry up!"
"Must I kiss him, Uncle Cyrus?" whispered Bos'n. "MUST I?"
"No!" snapped the captain sharply. "Trot right along now, dearie.
Be a good girl. Good-by."
He entered the sitting room. His guest had found the Sunday box
and was lighting one of his host's cigars.
"Well," he inquired easily, "what's next on the bill? Anything
goin' on in this forsaken hole?"
"There's a barber shop down the road. You might go there first, I
should say. Not that you need it, but just as a novelty like."
"Humph! I don't know. What's the matter with your razor?"
"Nothin'. At least I ain't found anything wrong with it yet."
"Oh! Say, look here! you're a queer guy, you are. I ain't got you
right in my mind yet. One minute butter wouldn't melt in your
mouth, and the next you're fresh as a new egg. What IS your little
game, anyway? You've got one, so don't tell me you ain't."
Captain Cy was plainly embarrassed. He gazed at the "Shore to
Shore" picture on the wall as he answered.
"No game about it," he said. "Last night you and I agreed that
nothin' was to be said for a few days. You was to stay here and
I'd try to make you comfort'ble, that's all. Then we'd see about
that other matter, settle on a fair price, and--"
"Yes, I know. That's all right. But you're too willin'. There's
something else. Say!" The ugly scowl was in evidence again.
"Say, look here, you! you ain't got somethin' up your sleeve, have
you? There ain't somethin' more that I don't know about, is there?
No more secrets than that--"
"No! You hear me? No! You'll get your rights, and maybe a little
more than your rights, if you're decent. And it'll pay you to be
decent."
"Humph!" Mr. Smith seemed to be thinking. Then he added, looking
up keenly under his brows: "How about the--the incumbrance on the
property? Of course, when I go I'll have to take that with me,
and--"
Captain Cy interrupted.
"There! there!" he exclaimed, and there was a shake in his voice,
"there! there! Don't let's talk about such things now. I--I--
Let's wait a spell. We'll have some more plans to make, maybe. If
you want to use my razor it's right in that drawer. Just help
yourself."
The visitor laughed aloud. He nodded as if satisfied. "Ho! ho!"
he chuckled. "I see! Humph! yes--I see. The fools ain't all
dead, and there's none to beat an old one. Well! well! All right,
pard! I guess you and me'll get along fine. I've changed my mind;
I WILL go to the barber shop, after all. Only I'm a little shy of
dust just at present. So, to oblige a friend, maybe you'll hand
over, huh?"
The captain reached into his pocket, extracted a two-dollar bill,
and passed it to the speaker. Mr. Smith smiled and shook his head.
"You can't come in on that, pard," he said. "The limit's five."
Captain Cy took back the bill and exchanged it for one with a V in
each corner. The visitor took it and turned toward the door.
"Ta! ta!" he said, taking his hat from the peg in the dining room.
"I'm off for the clippers. When I come back I'll be the sweetest
little Willie in the diggin's. So long."
Bos'n and the captain sat down to the dinner at noon alone. Mr.
Smith had not returned from his trip to the barber's. He came in,
however, just before the meal was over, still in an unshorn
condition, somewhat flushed and very loquacious.
"Say!" he exclaimed genially. "That Simpson's the right sort,
ain't he? Him and me took a shine to each other from the go-off.
He's been West himself and he's got some width to him. He's no
psalm singer."
"Humph!" commented the captain, with delicate sarcasm. "He don't
seem to be much of a barber, either. What's the matter? Gone out
of business, has he? Or was you so wild or woolly he got discouraged
before he begun?"
"Great snakes!" exclaimed the visitor. "I forgot all about the
clippers! Well, that's one on me, pard! I'll make a new try
soon's grub's over. Don't be so tight-fisted with the steak; this
is a plate I'm passin', not a contribution box."
He winked at Bos'n and would have chucked her under the chin if she
had not dodged. She seemed to have taken a great aversion to Mr.
Smith and was plainly afraid of him.
"Is he going to stay very long, Uncle Cyrus?" she whispered, when
it was school time once more. "Do you think he's nice?"
Captain Cy did not answer. When she had gone and the guest had
risen from the table and put on his hat, the captain said
warningly:
"There's one little bit of advice I want to give you, Mister Man:
A bargain's a bargain, but it takes two to keep it. Don't let your
love for Tad Simpson lead you into talkin' too much. Talk's cheap,
they say, but too much of it might be mighty dear for you.
Understand?"
Smith patted him on the back. "Lord love you, pard!" he chuckled,
"I'm no spring chicken. I'm as hard to open as a safe, I am. It
takes a can opener to get anything out of me."
"Yes; well, you can get inside some folks easier with a corkscrew.
I've been told that Tad's a kind of a medium sometimes. If he
raises any spirits in that back room of his, I'd leave 'em alone,
if I was you. So long as you're decent, I'll put up with--"
But Mr. Smith was on his way to the gate, whistling as if he hadn't
a care in the world. Captain Cy watched him go down the road, and
then, with the drawn, weary look on his face which had been there
since the day before, he entered the sitting room and threw himself
into a chair.
Miss Phoebe Dawes, the school teacher, worked late that evening.
There were examination papers to be gone over, and experience had
demonstrated that the only place where she could be free from
interruptions was the schoolroom itself. At the perfect boarding
house the shrill tones of Keturah's voice and those of Miss Phinney
and Mrs. Tripp penetrated through shut doors. It is hard to figure
percentages when the most intimate details of Bayport's family life
are being recited and gloated over on the other side of a thin
partition. And when Matilda undertook to defend the Come-Outer
faith against the assaults of the majority, the verbal riot was, as
Mr. Tidditt described it, "like feedin' time in a parrot shop."
So Miss Phoebe came to the boarding house for supper and then
returned to the schoolroom, where, with a lighted bracket lamp
beside her on the desk, she labored until nine o'clock. Then she
put on her coat and hat, extinguished the light, locked the door,
and started on her lonely walk home.
"The main road" in our village is dark after nine o clock. There
is a street light--a kerosene lamp--on a post in front of the
Methodist meeting house, but the sexton forgets it, generally
speaking, or, at any rate, neglects to fill it except at rare
intervals. Simmons's front windows are ablaze, of course, and so
are the dingy panes of Simpson's barber shop. But these two
centers of sociability are both at the depot road corner, and when
they are passed the only sources of illumination are the scattered
gleams from the back windows of dwellings. As most of us retire by
half-past eight, the glow along the main road is not dazzling, to
say the very least.
Miss Dawes was not afraid of the dark. She had been her own escort
for a good many years. She walked briskly on, heard the laughter
and loud voices in the barber shop die away behind her, passed the
schoolhouse pond, now bleak and chill with the raw November wind
blowing across it, and began to climb the slope of Whittaker's
Hill. And here the wind, rushing in unimpeded over the flooded
salt meadows from the tumbled bay outside, wound her skirts about
her and made climbing difficult and breath-taking.
She was, perhaps, half way up the long slope, when she heard, in
the intervals between the gusts, footsteps behind her. She knew
most of the village people by this time and the thought of company
was not unpleasant. So she paused and pantingly waited for whoever
was coming. She could not see more than a few yards, but the
footsteps sounded nearer and nearer, and, a moment later, a man's
voice began singing "Annie Rooney," a melody then past its prime in
the cities, but popularized in Bayport by some departed batch of
summer boarders.
She did not recognize the voice and she did not particularly
approve of singing in the streets, especially such loud singing.
So she decided not to wait longer, and was turning to continue her
climb, when the person behind stopped his vocalizing and called.
"Hi!" he shouted. "Hello, ahead there! Who is it? Hold on a
minute, pard! I'm comin'."
She disobeyed the order to "hold on," and began to hurry. The
hurry was of no avail, however, for the follower broke into a run
and soon was by her side. He was a stranger to her.
"Whee! Wow!" he panted. "This is no race track, pard. Pull up,
and let's take it easy. My off leg's got a kink in it, and I don't
run so easy as I used to. Great snakes; what's your rush? Ain't
you fond of company? Hello! I believe it's a woman!"
She did not answer. His manner and the smell of liquor about him
were decidedly unpleasant. The idea that he might be a tramp
occurred to her. Tramps are our bugaboos here in Bayport.
"A woman!" exclaimed the man hilariously. "Well, say! I didn't
believe there was one loose in this tail-end of nowhere. Girlie,
I'm glad to see you. Not that I can see you much, but never mind.
All cats are gray in the dark, hey? You can't see me, neither, so
we'll take each other on trust. 'She's my sweetheart, I'm her
beau.' Say, Maud, may I see you home?"
She was frightened now. The Whittaker place on the hilltop was the
nearest house, and that was some distance off.
"What's the matter, Carrie?" inquired the man. "Don't be scared.
I wouldn't hurt you. I'm just lonesome, that's all, and I need
society. Don't rush, you'll ruin your complexion. Here! come
under my wing and let's toddle along together. How's mamma?"
He seized her arm and pulled her back beside him. She tried to
free herself, but could not. Her unwelcome escort held her fast
and she was obliged to move as slowly as he did. It was very dark.
"Say, what IS your name?" coaxed the man. "Is is Maud, hey? Or
Julia? I always liked Julia. Don't be peevish. Tell us, that's a
good girl."
She gave a quick jerk and managed to pull her arm from his grasp,
giving him a violent push as she did so. He, being unsteady on his
feet, tumbled down the low bank which edged the sidewalk. Then she
ran on up the hill as fast as she could. She heard him swear as he
fell.
She had nearly reached the end of the Whittaker fence when he
caught her. He was laughing, and that alarmed her almost as much
as if he had been angry.
"Naughty! naughty!" he chuckled, holding her fast. "Tryin' to
sneak, was you? Not much! Not this time! Did you ever play
forfeits when you was little? Well, this is a forfeit game and
you're It. You must bow to the prettiest, kneel to the wittiest,
and kiss the one you love best. And I'll let you off on the first
two. Come now! Pay up!"
Then she screamed. And her scream was answered at once. A gate
swung back with a bang and she heard some one running along the
walk toward her.
"O Cap'n Whittaker!" she called. "Come! Come quick, please!"
How she knew that the person running toward her was Captain Cy has
not been satisfactorily explained even yet. She cannot explain it
and neither can the captain. And equally astonishing was the
latter's answer. He certainly had not heard her voice often enough
to recognize it under such circumstances.
"All right, teacher!" he shouted. "I'm comin'! Let go of that
woman, you-- Oh, it's you, is it?"
He had seized Mr. Smith by the coat collar and jerked him away from
his victim. Miss Dawes took refuge behind the captain's bulky
form. The two men looked at each other. Smith was recovering his
breath.
"It's you, is it?" repeated Captain Cy. Then, turning to Miss
Phoebe, he asked: "Did he hurt you?"
"No! Not yet. But he frightened me dreadfully. Who is he? Do
you know him?"
Her persecutor answered the question.
"You bet your life he knows me!" he snarled. "He knows me mighty
well! Pard, you keep your nose out of this, d'you see! You mind
your own business. I wan't goin' to hurt her any."
The captain paid no attention to him.
"Yup, I know him," he said grimly. Then he added, pointing toward
the lighted window of the house ahead: "You--Smith, you go in
there and stay there! Trot! Don't make me speak twice."
But Mr. Smith was too far gone with anger and the "spirits" raised
by Tad Simpson to heed the menace in the words.
"Smith, hey?" he sneered. "Oh, yes, SMITH! Well, Smith ain't
goin', d'you see! He's goin' to do what he pleases. I reckon I'm
on top of the roost here! I know what's what! You can't talk to
me. I've got rights, I have, and--"
"Blast your rights!"
"What? WHAT? Blast my rights, hey? Oh, yes! Think because
you've got money you can cheat me out of 'em, do you? Well, you
can't! And how about the other part of those rights? S'pose I
walk right into that house and--"
"Stop it! Shut up! You'd better not--"
"And into that bedroom and just say: 'Emmie, here's your--'"
He didn't finish the sentence. Captain Cy's big fist struck him
fairly between the eyes, and the back of his head struck the walk
with a "smack!" Then, through the fireworks which were
illuminating his muddled brain, he heard the captain's voice.
"You low - down, good - for - nothin' scamp!" growled Captain Cy.
"All this day I've been hatin' myself for the way I've acted to
you. I've hated myself and been tryin' to spunk up courage to say
'It's all off!' But I was too much of a coward, I guess. And now
the Lord A'mighty has MADE me say it. You want your rights, do
you? So? Then get 'em if you can. It's you and me for it, and
we'll see who's the best man. Teacher, if you're ready I'll walk
home with you now."
Mr. Smith was not entirely cowed.
"You go!" he yelled. "Go ahead! And I'll go to a lawyer's to-
morrow. But to-night, and inside of five minutes, I'll walk into
that house of yours and get my--"
The captain dropped Miss Dawes's arm and strode back to where his
antagonist was sitting in the dust of the walk. Stooping down, he
shook a big forefinger in the man's face.
"You've been out West, they tell me," he whispered sternly. "Yes!
Well, out West they take the law into their own hands, sometimes, I
hear. I've been in South America, and they do it there, too. Just
so sure as you go into my house to-night and touch--well, you know
what I mean--just so sure I'll kill you like a dog, if I have to
chase you to Jericho. Now you can believe that or not. If I was
you I'd believe it."
Taking the frightened schoolmistress by the arm once more he walked
away. Mr. Smith said nothing till they had gone some distance.
Then he called after them.
"You wait till to-morrow!" he shouted. "You just wait and see
what'll happen to-morrow!"
Captain Cy was silent all the way to the gate of the perfect
boarding house. Miss Dawes was silent likewise, but she thought a
great deal. At the gate she said:
"Captain Whittaker, I'm EVER so much obliged to you. I can't thank
you enough."
"Don't try, then. That's what you said to me about the cow."
"But I'm almost sorry you were the one to come. I'm afraid that
man will get you into trouble. Has he--can he-- What did he mean
about to-morrow? Who IS he?"
The captain pushed his cap back from his forehead.
"Teacher," he said, "there's a proverb, ain't there, about lettin'
to-morrow take care of itself? As for trouble--well, I did think
I'd had trouble enough in my life to last me through, but I
cal'late I've got another guess. Anyhow, don't you fret. I did
just the right thing, and I'm glad I did it. If it was only me I
wouldn't fret, either. But there's--" He stopped, groaned, and
pulled the cap forward again. "Good night," he added, and turned
to go.
Miss Dawes leaned forward and detained him.
"Just a minute, Cap'n Whittaker," she said. "I was a little
prejudiced against you when I came here. I was told that you got
me the teacher's position, and there was more than a hint that you
did it for selfish reasons of your own. When you called that
afternoon at the school I was--"
"Don't say a word! I was the biggest fool in town that time, and
I've been ashamed to look in the glass ever since. I ain't always
such an idiot."
"But I've had to judge people for myself in my lifetime," continued
the schoolmistress, " and I've made up my mind that I was mistaken
about you. I should like to apologize. Will you shake hands?"
She extended her hand. Captain Cy hesitated.
"Hadn't you better wait a spell?" he asked. "You've heard that
swab call me partner. Hadn't--"
"No; I don't know what your trouble is, of course, and I certainly
shan't mention it to anyone. But whatever it is I'm sure you are
right and it's not your fault. Now will you shake hands?"
The captain did not answer. He merely took the proffered hand,
shook it heartily, and strode off into the dark.
CHAPTER XII
"TOWN-MEETIN'"
"This is goin' to be a meMOriable town meetin'!" declared Sylvanus
Cahoon, with unction, rising from the settee to gaze about him over
the heads of the voters in the townhall. "I bet you every able-
bodied man in Bayport 'll be here this forenoon. Yes, sir! that's
what I call it, a me-MO-riable meetin'!"
"See anything of Cy?" inquired Josiah Dimick, who sat next to
Sylvanus.
"No, he ain't come yet. And Heman ain't here, neither. Hello!
there's Tad. Looks happy, seems to me."
Captain Dimick stood up to inspect Mr. Simpson.
"Humph!" he muttered. "Well, unless my count's wrong, he ain't got
much to be happy about. 'Lonzo Snow's with him. Tad does look
sort of joyful, don't he? Them that laughs last laughs best. When
the vote for school committee's all in we'll see who does the
grinnin'. But I can't understand-- Hello! there's Tidditt.
Asaph! Ase! S-s-t-t! Come here a minute."
Mr. Tidditt, trembling with excitement, and shaking hands effusively
with everyone he met, pushed his way up the aisle and bent over
his friend.
"Say, Ase," whispered Josiah, "where's Whit? Why ain't he on hand?
Nothin's happened, has it?"
"No," replied the town clerk. "Everything seems to be all right.
I stopped in on the way along and Cy said not to wait; he'd be here
on time. He's been kind of off his feed for the last day or so,
and I cal'late he didn't feel like hurryin'. Say, Joe, now honest,
what do you think of my chances?"
Such a confirmed joker as Dimick couldn't lose an opportunity like
this. With the aid of one trying to be cheerful under discouragement
he answered that, so far, Asaph's chances looked fair, pretty fair,
but of course you couldn't always sometimes tell. Mr. Tidditt
rushed away to begin the handshaking all over again.
From this round of cordiality he was reluctantly torn and conducted
to the platform. After thumping the desk with his fist he announced
that the gathering would "come to order right off, as there was
consider'ble business to be done and it ought to be goin' ahead."
He then proceeded to read the call for the meeting. This ceremony
was no sooner over than Abednego Small, "Uncle Bedny," was on his
feet loudly demanding to be informed why the town "hadn't done
nothin'" toward fixing up the Bassett's Hollow road. Uncle Bedny's
speech had proceeded no further than "Feller citizens, in the name
of an outrageous--I should say outraged portion of our community
I--" when he was choked off by a self-appointed committee who knew
Mr. Small of old and had seated themselves near him to be ready for
just such emergencies. The next step, judged by meetings of other
years, should have been to unanimously elect Eben Salters moderator;
but as Captain Eben refused to serve, owing to his interest in the
Whittaker campaign, Alvin Knowles was, by a small majority, chosen
for that office. Mr. Knowles was a devout admirer of the great
Atkins, and his election would have been considered a preliminary
victory for the opposition had it not been that many of Captain Cy's
adherents voted for Alvin from a love of mischief, knowing from
experience his ignorance of parliamentary law and his easy-going
rule. "Now there'll be fun!" declared one delighted individual.
"Anything's in order when Alvin's chairman."
The proceedings of the first half hour were disappointingly tame.
Most of us had come there to witness a political wrestling match
between Tad Simpson and Cyrus Whittaker. Some even dared hope that
Congressman Atkins might direct his fight in person. But neither
the Honorable nor Captain Cy was in the hall as yet. Solon
Eldridge was re-elected selectman and so also was Asaph Tidditt.
Nobody but Asaph seemed surprised at this result. His speech of
acceptance would undoubtedly have been a triumph of oratory had it
not been interrupted by Uncle Bedny, who rose to emphatically
protest against "settin' round and wastin' time" when the Bassett's
Hollow road "had ruts deep enough to drown a cat in whenever there
was a more'n average heavy dew."
The Bassett's Hollow delegate being again temporarily squelched,
Moderator Knowles announced that nominations for the vacant place
on the school committee were in order. There was a perceptible
stir on the settees. This was what the meeting had been waiting
for.
"No sign of Cy or Heman yet," observed Mr. Cahoon, craning his neck
in the direction of the door. "It's the queerest thing ever I
see."
"Queer enough about Cy, that's a fact," concurred Captain Dimick.
"I ain't so surprised about Heman's not comin'. Looks as if Whit
was right; he always said Atkins dodged a row where folks could
watch it. Does most of his fightin' from round the corner. Hello!
there's Tad. Now you'll see the crown of glory set on 'Lonzo
Snow's head. Hope the crown's padded nice and soft. Anything with
sharp edges would sink in."
But Mr. Simpson, it seemed, was not yet ready to proceed with the
coronation. He had risen to ask permission of the meeting to defer
the school committee matter for a short time. Persons, important
persons, who should be present while the nominating was going on,
had not yet arrived. He was sure that the gathering would wish to
hear from these persons. He asked for only a slight delay.
Matters such as this, affecting the welfare of our posterity, ought
not to be hurried, etc., etc.
Mr. Simpson's request was unexpected. The meeting, apparently,
didn't know how to take it. Uncle Bedny was firmly held in his
seat by those about him. Lemuel Myrick took the floor to protest.
"I must say," he declared, "that I don't see any reason for waitin'.
If folks ain't here, that's their own fault. Mr. Moderator, I
demand that the nominatin' go ahead."
Tad was on his feet instantly.
"I'm goin' to appeal," he cried, "to the decency and gratitude of
the citizens of the town of Bayport. One of the persons I'm--that
is, we're waitin' for has done more for our beautiful village than
all the rest of us put together. There ain't no need for me to
name him. A right up-to-date town pump, a lovely memorial window,
a--"
"How about that harbor appropriation?" cried a voice from the
settees.
Mr. Simpson was taken aback. His face flushed and he angrily
turned toward the interrupter.
"That's you, Joe Dimick!" he shouted, pointing an agitated
forefinger. "You needn't scooch down. I know your tongue. The
idea of you findin' fault because a big man like Congressman Atkins
don't jump when you holler 'Git up!' What do YOU know about doin's
at Washington? That harbor appropriation 'll go through if anybody
on earth can get it through. There's other places besides Bayport
to be provided for and--"
"And their congressmen provide for 'em," called another voice. Tad
whirled to face his new tormentor.
"Huh!" he grunted with sarcasm. "That's Lem Myrick, _I_ know.
Lem, the great painter, who votes where he paints and gets paid
accordin'."
"Order!" cried several.
"Oh, all right, Mr. Moderator! I'll keep order all right. But I
say to you, Lem, and you, Joe Dimick, that I know who put these
smart notions into your heads. We all know, unless we're born
fools. Who is it that's been sayin' the Honorable Heman Atkins
was shirkin' that appropriation? Who was it said if HE was
representative the thing would have gone through afore this? Who's
been makin' his brags that he could get it through if he had the
chance? You know who! So do I! I wish he was here. I only wish
he was here! I'd say it to his face."
"Well, he is. Heave ahead and say it."
Everyone turned toward the door. Captain Cy had entered the hall.
He was standing in the aisle, and with him was Bailey Bangs. The
captain looked very tired, almost worn out, but he nodded coolly to
Mr. Simpson, who had retired to his seat with surprising quickness
and apparent discomfiture.
"Here I am, Tad," continued the captain. "Say your piece."
But Tad, it appeared, was not anxious to "say his piece." He was
whispering earnestly with a group of his followers. Captain Cy
held up his hand.
"Mr. Moderator," he asked, "can I have the floor a minute? All I
want to say is that I cal'late I'm the feller the last speaker had
reference to. I HAVE said that I didn't see why that appropriation
was so hard to get. I say it again. Other appropriations are got,
and why not ours? I DID say if I was a congressman I'd get it.
Yes, and I'll say more," he added, raising his voice, "I'll say
that if I was sent to Washin'ton by this town, congressman or not,
I'd move heaven and earth, and all creation from the President down
till I did get it. That's all. So would any live man, I should
think."
He sat down. There was some applause. Before it had subsided Abel
Leonard, one of the quickest-witted of Mr. Simpson's workers, was
on his feet, gesticulating for attention.
"Mr. Moderator," he shouted, "I want to make a motion. We've all
heard the big talk that's been made. All right, then! I move you,
sir, that Captain Cyrus Whittaker be appointed a committee of one
to GO to Washin'ton, if he wants to, or anywheres else, and see
that we get the appropriation. And if we don't get it the blame's
his! There, now!"
There was a roar of laughter. This was exactly the sort of "tit-
for-tat" humor that appeals to a Yankee crowd. The motion was
seconded half a dozen times. Moderator Knowles grinned and shook
his head.
"A joke's a joke," he said, "and we all like a good one. However,
this meetin' is supposed to be for business, not fun, so--"
"Question! Question! It's been seconded! We've got to vote on
it!" shouted a chorus.
"Don't you think--seems to me that ain't in order," began the
moderator, but Captain Cy rose to his feet. The grim smile had
returned to his face and he looked at the joyous assemblage with
almost his old expression of appreciative alertness.
"Never mind the vote," he said. "I realize that Brother Leonard
has rather got one on me, so to speak. All right, I won't dodge.
I'll BE a committee of one on the harbor grab, and if nothin' comes
of it I'll take my share of kicks. Gentlemen, I appreciate your
trustfulness in my ability."
This brief speech was a huge success. If, for a moment, the
pendulum of public favor had swung toward Simpson, this trumping of
the latter's leading card pushed it back again. The moderator had
some difficulty in restoring order to the hilarious meeting.
Then Mr. Myrick was accorded the privilege of the floor, in spite
of Tad's protests, and proceeded to nominate Cyrus Whittaker for
the school committee. Lem had devoted hours of toil and wearisome
mental struggle to the preparation of his address, and it was
lengthy and florid. Captain Cy was described as possessing all the
virtues. Bailey, listening with a hand behind his ear, was moved
to applause at frequent intervals, and even Asaph forgot the
dignity of his exalted position on the platform and pounded the
official desk in ecstasy. The only person to appear uninterested
was the nominee himself. He sat listlessly in his seat, his eyes
cast down, and his thoughts apparently far away.
Josiah Dimick seconded the captain's nomination. Then Mr. Simpson
stepped to the front and, after a wistful glance at the door, began
to speak.
"Feller citizens," he said, "it is my privilege to put in nomination
for school committee a man whose name stands for all that's good and
clean and progressive in this township. But afore I do it I'm goin'
to ask you to let me say a word or two concernin' somethin' that
bears right on this matter, and which, I believe, everyone of you
ought to know. It's somethin' that most of you don't know, and
it'll be a surprise, a big surprise. I'll be as quick as I can, and
I cal'late you'll thank me when I'm done."
He paused. The meeting looked at each other in astonishment.
There was whispering along the settees. Moderator Knowles was
plainly puzzled. He looked inquiringly at the town clerk, but
Asaph was evidently quite as much in the dark as he concerning the
threatened disclosure.
"Feller Bayporters," went on Tad, "there's one thing we've all
agreed on, no matter who we've meant to vote for. That is, that a
member of our school committee should be an upright, honest man,
one fit morally to look out for our dear children. Ain't that so?
Well, then, I ask you this: Would you consider a man fit for that
job who deliberately came between a father and his child, who
pizened the mind of that child against his own parent, and when
that parent come to claim that child, first tried to buy him off
and then turned him out of the house? Yes, and offered violence to
him. And done it--mark what I say--for reasons which--which--well,
we can only guess 'em, but the guess may not be so awful bad. Is
THAT the kind of man we want to honor or to look out for our own
children's schoolin'?"
Mr. Simpson undoubtedly meant to cause a sensation by his opening
remarks. He certainly did so. The stir and whispering redoubled.
Asaph, his mouth open, stared wildly down at Captain Cy. The
captain rose to his feet, then sank back again. His listlessness
was gone and, paying no attention to those about him, he gazed
fixedly at Tad.
"Gentlemen," continued the speaker, "last night I had an experience
that I shan't forget as long as I live. I met a poor man, a poor,
lame man who'd been away out West and got hurt bad. Folks thought
he was dead. His wife thought so and died grievin' for him. She
left a little baby girl, only seven or eight year old. When this
man come back, well again but poor, to look up his family, he found
his wife had passed away and the child had been sent off, just to
get rid of her, to a stranger in another town. That stranger fully
meant to send her off, too; he said so dozens of times. A good
many of you folks right here heard him say it. But he never sent
her--he kept her. Why? Well, that's the question. _I_ shan't
answer it. _I_ ain't accusin' nobody. All I say is, what's easy
enough for any of you to prove, and that is that it come to light
the child had property belongin' to her. Property! land, wuth
money!"
He paused once more and drew his sleeve across his forehead. Most
of his hearers were silent now, on tiptoe of expectation. Dimick
looked searchingly at Captain Cy. Then he sprang to his feet.
"Order!" he shouted. "What's all this got to do with nominatin'
for school committee? Ain't he out of order, Alvin?"
The moderator hesitated. His habitual indecision was now complicated
by the fact that he was as curious as the majority of those before
him. There were shouts of, "Go ahead, Tad!" "Tell us the rest!"
"Let him go on, Mr. Moderator!"
Cy Whittaker slowly rose.
"Alvin," he said earnestly, "don't stop him yet. As a favor to me,
let him spin his yarn."
Simpson was ready and evidently eager to spin it.
"This man," he proclaimed, "this father, mournin' for his dead wife
and longin' for his child, comes to the town where he was to find
and take her. And when he meets the man that's got her, when he
comes, poor and down on his luck, what does this man--this rich
man--do? Why; fust of all, he's sweeter'n sirup to him, takes him
in, keeps him overnight, and the next day he says to him: 'You
just be quiet and say nothin' to nobody that she's your little
girl. I'll make it wuth your while. Keep quiet till I'm ready for
you to say it.' And he gives the father money--not much, but some.
All right so fur, maybe; but wait! Then it turns out that the
father knows about this land--this property. And THEN the kind,
charitable man--this rich man with lots of money of his own--turns
the poor father out, tellin' him to get the girl and the land if he
can, knowin'--KNOWIN', mind you--that the father ain't got a cent
to hire lawyers nor even to pay for his next meal. And when the
father says he won't go, but wants his dear one that belongs to
him, the rich feller abuses him, knocks him down with his fist!
Knocks down a poor, weak, lame invalid, just off a sick bed! Is
THAT the kind of a man we want on our school committee?"
He asked the question with both hands outspread and the perspiration
running down his cheeks. The meeting was in an uproar.
"No need for me to tell you who I mean," shouted Tad, waving his
arms. "You know who, as well as I do. You've just heard him
praised as bein' all that's good and great. But _I_ say--"
"You've said enough! Now let me say a word!"
It was Captain Cy who interrupted. He had pushed his way through
the crowd, down the aisle, and now stood before the gesticulating
Mr. Simpson, who shrank back as if he feared that the treatment
accorded the "poor weak invalid" might be continued with him.
"Knowles," said Captain Cy, turning to the moderator, "let me
speak, will you? I won't be but a minute. Friends," he continued,
facing the excited gathering--"for some of you are my friends, or
I've come to think you are--a part of what this man says is so.
The girl at my house is Emily Thomas; her mother was Mary Thomas,
who some of you know, and her father's name is Henry Thomas. She
came to me unexpected, bein' sent by a Mrs. Oliver up to Concord,
because 'twas either me or an orphan asylum. I took her in meanin'
to keep her a little while, and then send her away. But as time
went on I kept puttin' off and puttin' off, and at last I realized
I couldn't do it; I'd come to think too much of her.
"Fellers," he went on, slowly, "I--I hardly know how to tell you
what that little girl's come to be to me. When I first struck
Bayport, after forty years away from it, all I thought of was
makin' over the old place and livin' in it. I cal'lated it would
be a sort of Paradise, and HOW I was goin' to live or whether or
not I'd be lonesome with everyone of my folks dead and gone, never
crossed my mind. But the longer I lived there alone the less like
Paradise it got to be; I realized more and more that it ain't
furniture and fixin's that make a home; it's them you love that's
in it. And just as I'd about reached the conclusion that 'twas a
failure, the whole business, why, then, Bos'n--Emily, that is--
dropped in, and inside of a week I knew I'd got what was missin' in
my life.
"I never married and children never meant much to me till I got
her. She's the best little--little . . . There! I mustn't talk
this way. I bluffed a lot about not keepin' her permanent, bein'
kind of ashamed, I guess, but down inside me I'd made up my mind to
bring her up like a daughter. She and me was to live together till
she grew up and got married and I . . . Well, what's the use? A
few days ago come a letter from the Oliver woman in Concord sayin'
that this Henry Thomas, Bos'n's father, wan't dead at all, but had
turned up there, havin' learned somehow or 'nother that his wife
was gone and that his child had been willed a little bit of land
which belonged to her mother. He had found out that Emmie was with
me, and the letter said he would likely come after her--and the
land.
"That letter was like a flash of lightnin' to me. I was dismasted
and on my beam ends. I didn't know what to do. I'd learned enough
about this Henry Thomas to know that he was no use, a drunken,
good-for-nothin' scamp who had cruelized his wife and then run off
and left her and the baby. But when he come, the very night I got
the letter, I gave him a chance. I took him in; I was willin' to
give him a job on the place; I was willin' to pay for his keep, and
more. I DID ask him to keep his mouth shut and even to use another
name. 'Twas weak of me, maybe, but you want to remember this had
come on me sudden. And last night--the very second night, mind
you--he went out somewhere, perhaps we can guess where, bought
liquor with the money I gave him, got drunk, and then insulted one
of the best women in this town. Yes, sir! I say it right here,
one of the best, pluckiest little women anywhere, although she and
I ain't always agreed on certain matters. I DID tell him to clear
out, and I DID knock him down. Yes, and by the big dipper, I'd do
it again under the same circumstances!
"As for the property," he added fiercely, "why, darn the property,
I say! It ain't wuth much, anyhow, and, if 'twas anybody's else,
he should have it and welcome. But it's Bos'n's, and, bein' what
he is, he SHAN'T have it. And he shan't have HER to cruelize,
neither! By the Almighty! he shan't, so long as I've got a dollar
to fight him with. I say that to you, Tad Simpson, and to the man--
to whoever put you up to this. There! I've said my say. Now,
gentlemen, you can choose your side."
He strode back to his seat. There was silence for a moment. Then
Josiah Dimick sprang up and waved his hat.
"That's the way to talk!" he shouted. "That's a MAN! Three cheers
for Cap'n Whittaker! Come on, everybody!"
But everybody did not "come on." The cheers were feeble. It was
evident that the majority of those present did not know how to meet
this unexpected contingency. It had taken them by surprise and
they were undecided. The uproar of argument and question began
again, louder than ever. The bewildered moderator thumped his desk
and shouted feebly for order. Tad Simpson took the floor and, in a
few words and at the top of his lungs, nominated Alonzo Snow. Abel
Leonard seconded the nomination. There were yells of "Question!
Question!" and "Vote! Vote!"
Eben Salters was recognized by the chair. Captain Salters made few
speeches, and when he did make one it was because he had something
to say.
"Mr. Moderator," he said, "I, for one, hate to vote just now. It
isn't that the school committee is so important of itself. But I
do think that the rights of a father with his child IS pretty
important, and our vote for Cap'n Whittaker--and most of you know I
intended votin' for him and have been workin' for him--might seem
like an indorsement of his position. This whole thing is a big
surprise to me. I don't feel yet that we know enough of the inside
facts to give such an indorsement. I'd like to see this Thomas man
before I decide to give it--or not to give it, either. It's a
queer thing to come up at town meetin', but it's up. Hadn't we
better adjourn until next week?"
He sat down. The meeting was demoralized. Some were shouting for
adjournment, others to "Vote it out." A straw would turn the scale
and the straw was forthcoming. While Captain Cy was speaking the
door had silently opened and two men entered the hall and sought
seclusion in a corner. Now one of these men came forward--the
Honorable Heman Atkins.
Mr. Atkins walked solemnly to the front, amidst a burst of
recognition. Many of the voters rose to receive him. It was
customary, when the great man condescended to attend such
gatherings, to offer him a seat on the platform. This the
obsequious Knowles proceeded to do. Asaph was too overcome by
the disclosure of "John Smith's" identity and by Mr. Simpson's
attack on his friend to remember even his manners. He did not
rise, but sat stonily staring.
The moderator's gavel descended "Order!" he roared. "Order, I say!
Congressman Atkins is goin' to talk to us."
The Honorable Heman faced the excited crowd. One hand was in the
breast of his frock coat; the other was clenched upon his hip. He
stood calm, benignant, dignified--the incarnation of wisdom and
righteous worth. The attitude had its effect; the applause began
and grew to an ovation. Men who had intended voting against his
favored candidate forgot their intention, in the magnetism of his
presence, and cheered. He bowed and bowed again.
"Fellow townsmen," he began, "far be it from me to influence your
choice in the matter of the school committee. Still further be it
from me to influence you against an old boyhood friend, a neighbor,
one whom I believe--er--had believed to be all that was sincere and
true. But, fellow townsmen, my esteemed friend, Captain Salters,
has expressed a wish to see Mr. Thomas, the father whose story you
have heard to-day. I happen to be in a position to gratify that
wish. Mr. Thomas, will you kindly come forward?"
Then from the rear of the hall Mr. Thomas came. But the drunken
rowdy of the night before had been transformed. Gone was the
scrubby beard and the shabby suit. Shorn was the unkempt mop of
hair and vanished the impudent swagger. He was dressed in clean
linen and respectable black, and his manner was modest and subdued.
Only a discoloration of one eye showed where Captain Cy's blow had
left its mark.
He stepped upon the platform beside the congressman. The latter
laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"Gentlemen and friends," said Heman, "my name has been brought into
this controversy, by Mr. Simpson directly, and in insinuation by--
er--another. Therefore it is my right to make my position clear.
Mr. Thomas came to me last evening in distress, both of mind and
body. He told me his story--substantially the story which has just
been told to you by Mr. Simpson--and, gentlemen, I believe it. But
if I did not believe it, if I believed him to have been in the past
all that his opponent has said; even if I believed that, only last
evening, spurned, driven from his child, penniless and hopeless, he
had yielded to the weakness which has been his curse all his life--
even if I believed that, still I should demand that Henry Thomas,
repentant and earnest as you see him now, should be given his
rightful opportunity to become a man again. He is poor, but he is
not--shall not be--friendless. No! a thousand times, no! You may
say, some of you, that the affair is not my business. I affirm
that it IS my business. It is my business as a Christian, and that
business should come before all others. I have not allowed
sympathy to influence me. If that were the case, my regard for my
neighbor and friend of former days would have held me firm. But,
gentlemen, I have a child of my own. I know what a father's love
is, as only a father can know it. And, after a sleepless night, I
stand here before you to-day determined that this man shall have
his own, if my money--which you will, I'm sure, forgive my
mentioning--and my unflinching support can give it to him. That
is my position, and I state it regardless of consequences." He
paused, and with raised right hand, like the picture of Jove in the
old academy mythology, launched his final thunderbolt. "Whom God
hath joined," he proclaimed, "let no one put asunder!"
That settled it. The cheers shook the walls. Amidst the tumult
Dimick and Bailey Bangs seized Captain Cy by the shoulders and
endeavored to lift him from his seat.
"For the love of goodness, Whit!" groaned Josiah, desperately,
"stand up and answer him. If you don't, we'll founder sure."
The captain smiled grimly and shook his head. He had not taken his
eyes from the face of the great Atkins since the latter began
speaking.
"What?" he replied. "After that 'put asunder' sockdolager? Man
alive! do you want me to add Sabbath breakin' to my other crimes?"
The vote, by ballot, followed almost immediately. It was pitiful
to see the erstwhile Whittaker majority melt away. Alonzo Snow was
triumphantly elected. But a handful voted against him.
Captain Cy, still grimly smiling, rose and left the hall. As he
closed the door, he heard the shrill voice of Uncle Bedny demanding
justice for the Bassett's Hollow road.
It had, indeed, been a "memoriable" town meeting.
CHAPTER XIII
THE REPULSE
When Deacon Zeb Clark--the same Deacon Zeb who fell into the
cistern, as narrated by Captain Cy--made his first visit to the
city, years and years ago, he stayed but two days. As he had
proudly boasted that he should remain in the metropolis at least a
week, our people were much surprised at his premature return. To
the driver of the butcher cart who found him sitting contentedly
before his dwelling, amidst his desolate acres, the nearest
neighbor a half mile away, did Deacon Zeb disclose his reason for
leaving the crowded thoroughfares. "There was so many folks
there," he said, "that I felt lonesome."
And Captain Cy, returning from the town meeting to the Whittaker
place, felt lonesome likewise. Not for the Deacon's reason--he met
no one on the main road, save a group of school children and Miss
Phinney, and, sighting the latter in the offing, he dodged behind
the trees by the schoolhouse pond and waited until she passed. But
the captain, his trouble now heavy upon him, did feel the need of
sympathy and congenial companionship. He knew he might count upon
Dimick and Asaph, and, whenever Keturah's supervision could be
evaded, upon Mr. Bangs. But they were not the advisers and
comforters for this hour of need. All the rest of Bayport, he felt
sure, would be against him. Had not King Heman the Great from the
steps of the throne, banned him with the royal displeasure! "If
Heman ever SHOULD come right out and say--" began Asaph's warning.
Well, strange as it might seem, Heman had "come right out."
As to why he had come out there was no question in the mind of the
captain. The latter had left Mr. Thomas, the prodigal father,
prostrate and blasphemous in the road the previous evening. His
next view of him was when, transformed and sanctified, he had been
summoned to the platform by Mr. Atkins. No doubt he had returned
to the barber shop and, in his rage and under Mr. Simpson's cross
examination, had revealed something of the truth. Tad, the
politician, recognizing opportunity when it knocked at his door,
had hurried him to the congressman's residence. The rest was plain
enough, so Captain Cy thought.
However, war was already declared, and the reasons for it mattered
little. The first skirmish might occur at any moment. The
situation was desperate. The captain squared his shoulders, thrust
forward his chin, and walked briskly up the path to the door of the
dining room. It was nearly one o'clock, but Bos'n had not yet
gone. She was waiting, to the very last minute, for her "Uncle
Cyrus."
"Hello, shipmate," he hailed. "Not headed for school yet? Good!
I cal'late you needn't go this afternoon. I'm thinkin' of hirin' a
team and drivin' to Ostable, and I didn't know but you'd like to go
with me. Think you could, without that teacher woman havin' you
brought up aft for mutiny?"
Bos'n thought it over.
"Yes, sir," she said; "I guess so, if you wrote me an excuse. I
don't like to be absent, 'cause I haven't been before, but there's
only my reading lesson this afternoon and I know that ever so well.
I'd love to go, Uncle Cy."
The captain removed his coat and hat and pulled a chair forward to
the table.
"Hello!" he exclaimed. "What's this--the mail?"
Bos'n smiled delightedly.
"Yes, sir," she replied. "I knew you was at the meeting and so I
brought it from the office. Ain't you glad?"
"Sure! Yes, indeed! Much obliged. Tryin' to keep house without
you would be like steerin' without a rudder."
Even as he said it there came to him the realization that he might
have to steer without that rudder in the near future. His smile
vanished. He smothered a groan and picked up the mail.
"Hum!" he mused, "the Breeze, a circular, and one letter. Hello!
it isn't possible that-- Well! well!"
The letter was in a long envelope. He hastily tore it open. At
the inclosure he glanced in evident excitement. Then his smile
returned.
"Bos'n," he said, after a moment's reflection, "I guess you and me
won't have to go to Ostable after all." Noticing the child's look
of disappointment, he added: "But you needn't go to school. Maybe
you'd better not. You and me'll take a tramp alongshore. What do
you say?"
"Oh, yes, Uncle Cy! Let's--shall we?"
"Why, I don't see why not. We'll cruise in company as long as we
can, hey, little girl? The squall's likely to strike afore night,"
he muttered half aloud. "We'll enjoy the fine weather till it's
time to shorten sail."
They walked all that afternoon. Captain Cy was even more kind and
gentle with his small companion than usual. He told her stories
which made her laugh, pointed out spots in the pines where he had
played Indian when a boy, carried her "pig back" when she grew
tired, and kissed her tenderly when, at the back door of the
Whittaker place, he set her on her feet again.
"Had a good time, dearie?" he asked.
"Oh, splendid! I think it's the best walk we ever had, don't you,
Uncle Cy?"
"I shouldn't wonder. You won't forget our cruises together when
you are a big girl and off somewheres else, will you?"
"I'll NEVER forget 'em. And I'm never going anywhere without you."
It was after five as they entered the kitchen.
"Anybody been here while I was out?" asked the captain of Georgianna.
The housekeeper's eyes were red and swollen, and she hugged Bos'n
as she helped her off with her jacket and hood.
"Yes, there has," was the decided answer. "First Ase Tidditt, and
then Bailey Bangs, and then that--that Angie Phinney."
"Humph!" mused Captain Cy slowly. "So Angie was here, was she?
Where the carcass is the vultures are on deck, or words similar.
Humph! Did our Angelic friend have much to say?"
"DID she? And _I_ had somethin' to say, too! I never in my life!"
"Humph!" Her employer eyed her sharply. "So? And so soon? Talk
about the telegraph spreadin' news! I'd back most any half dozen
tongues in Bayport to spread more news, and add more trimmin' to
it, in a day than the telegraph could do in a week. Especially if
all the telegraph operators was like the one up at the depot.
Well, Georgianna, when you goin' to leave?"
"Leave? Leave where? What are you talkin' about?"
"Leave here. Of course you realize that this ship of ours,"
indicating the house by a comprehensive wave of his hand around the
room, "is goin' to be a mighty unpopular craft from now on. We may
be on a lee shore any minute. You've got your own well-bein' to
think of."
"My own well-bein'! What do you s'pose I care for my well-bein'
when there's--Cap'n Whittaker, you tell me now! Is it so?"
"Some of it is--yes. He's come back and he's who he says he is.
You've seen him. He was here all day yesterday."
"So Angie said, but I couldn't scarcely believe it. That toughy!
Cap'n Whittaker, do you intend to hand over that poor little
innocent thing to--to such a man as THAT?"
"No. There'll be no handin' over about it. But the odds are
against us, and there's no reason why you should be in the rumpus,
Georgianna. You may not understand what we're facin'."
The housekeeper drew herself up. Her face was very red and her
small eyes snapped.
"Cy Whittaker," she began, manners and deference to employer alike
forgotten, "don't you say no more of that wicked foolishness to me.
I'll leave the minute you're mean-spirited enough to let that child
go and not afore. And when THAT happens I'll be GLAD to leave.
Land sakes! there's somebody at the door; and I expect I'm a
perfect sight."
She rubbed her face with her apron, thereby making it redder than
ever, and hurried into the dining room.
"Bos'n," said Captain Cy quickly, "you stay here in the kitchen."
Emmie looked at him in surprised bewilderment, but she suppressed
her curiosity concerning the identity of the person who had
knocked, and obeyed. The captain pulled the kitchen door almost
shut and listened at the crack.
The first spoken words by the visitor appeared to relieve Captain
Cy's anxiety; but they seemed to astonish him greatly.
"Why!" he exclaimed in a whisper. "Ain't that-- It sounds like--"
"It's teacher," whispered Bos'n, who also had been listening.
"She's come to find out why I wasn't at school. You tell her,
Uncle Cy."
Georgianna returned to announce:
"It's Miss Dawes. She says she wants to see you, Cap'n. She's in
the settin' room."
The captain drew a long breath. Then, repeating his command to
Emmie to stay where she was, he left the room, closing the door
behind him. The latter procedure roused Bos'n's indignation.
"What made him do that?" she demanded. "I haven't been bad. He
NEVER shut me up before!"
The schoolmistress was standing by the center table in the sitting
room when Captain Cy entered.
"Good evenin'," he said politely. "Won't you sit down?"
But Miss Dawes paid no attention to trivialities. She seemed much
agitated.
"Cap'n Whittaker," she began, "I just heard something that--"
The captain interrupted her.
"Excuse me," he said, "but I think we'll pull down the curtains and
have a little light on the subject. It gets dark early now,
especially of a gray day like this one."
He drew the shades at the windows and lit the lamp on the table.
The red glow behind the panes of the stove door faded into
insignificance as the yellow radiance brightened. The ugly
portraits and the stiff old engravings on the wall retired into a
becoming dusk. The old-fashioned room became more homelike.
"Now won't you sit down?" repeated Captain Cy. "Take that rocker;
it's the most comf'table one aboard--so Bos'n says, anyhow."
Miss Phoebe took the rocker, under protest. Her host remained
standing.
"It's been a nice afternoon," he said. "Bos'n--Emmie, of course--
and I have been for a walk. 'Twan't her fault, 'twas mine. I kept
her out of school. I was--well, kind of lonesome."
The teacher's gray eyes flashed in the lamplight.
"Cap'n Whittaker," she cried, "please don't waste time. I didn't
come here to talk about the weather nor Emily's reason for not
attending school. I don't care why she was absent. But I have
just heard of what happened at that meeting. Is it true that--"
She hesitated.
"That Emmie's dad is alive and here? Yes, it's true."
"But--but that man last night? Was he THAT man?"
The captain nodded.
"That's the man," he said briefly.
Miss Dawes shuddered.
"Cap'n Whittaker," she asked earnestly, "are you sure he is really
her father? Absolutely sure?"
"Sure and sartin."
"Then she belongs to him, doesn't she? Legally, I mean?"
"Maybe so."
"Are--are you going to give her up to him?"
"No."
"Then what I heard was true. You did say at the meeting that you
were going to do your best to keep him from getting her."
"Um--hum! What I said amounts to just about that."
"Why?"
Captain Cy was surprised and a little disappointed apparently.
"Why?" he repeated.
"Yes. Why?"
"Well, for reasons I've got."
"Do you mind telling me the reasons?"
"I cal'late you don't want to hear 'em. If you don't understand
now, then I can't make it much plainer, I'm afraid."
The little lady sprang to her feet.
"Oh, you are provoking!" she cried indignantly. "Can't you see
that I want to hear the reasons from you yourself? Cap'n Whittaker,
I shook hands with you last night."
"You remember I told you you'd better wait."
"I didn't want to wait. I believed I knew something of human
nature, and I believed I had learned to understand you. I made up
my mind to pay no more attention to what people said against you.
I thought they were envious and disliked you because you did things
in your own way. I wouldn't believe the stories I heard this
afternoon. I wanted to hear you speak in your own defense and you
refuse to do it. Don't you know what people are saying? They say
you are trying to keep Emily because-- Oh, I'm ashamed to ask it,
but you make me: HAS the child got valuable property of her own?"
Captain Cy had been, throughout this scene, standing quietly by the
table. Now he took a step forward.
"Miss Dawes," he said sharply, "sit down."
"But I--"
"Sit down, please."
The schoolmistress didn't mean to obey the order, but for some
reason she did. The captain went on speaking.
"It's pretty plain," he said, "that what you heard at the boardin'
house--for I suppose that's where you did hear it--was what you
might call a Phinneyized story of the doin's at the meetin'. Well,
there's another yarn, and it's mine; I'm goin' to spin it and I
want you to listen."
He went on to spin his yarn. It was practically a repetition of
his reply to Tad Simpson that morning. Its conclusion was also
much the same.
"The land ain't worth fifty dollars," he declared, "but if it was
fifty million he shouldn't have it. Why? Because it belongs to
that little girl. And he shan't have her until he and those back
of him have hammered me through the courts till I'm down forty
fathom under water. And when they do get her--and, to be honest, I
cal'late they will in the end--I hope to God I won't be alive to
see it! There! I've answered you."
He was walking up and down the room, with the old quarter-deck
stride, his hands jammed deep in his pockets and his face working
with emotion.
"It's pretty nigh a single-handed fight for me," he continued, "but
I've fought single-handed before. The other side's got almost all
the powder and the men. Heman and Tad and that Thomas have got
seven eighths of Bayport behind 'em, not to mention the 'Providence'
they're so sure of. My crowd is a mighty forlorn hope: Dimick and
Ase Tidditt, and Bailey, as much as his wife 'll let him. Oh, yes!"
and he smiled whimsically, "there's another one. A new recruit's
just joined; Georgianna's enlisted. That's my army. Sort of
rag-jacketed cadets, we are, small potatoes, and few in a hill."
The teacher rose and laid a hand on his arm. He turned toward her.
The lamplight shone upon her face, and he saw, to his astonishment,
that there were tears in her eyes.
"Cap'n Whittaker," she said, "will you take an other recruit? I
should like to enlist, please."
"You? Oh, pshaw! I'm thick-headed to-night. I didn't see the
joke of it at first."
"There isn't any joke. I want you to know that I admire you for
the fight you're making. Law or no law, to let that dear little
girl go away with that dreadful father of hers is a sin and a
crime. I came here to tell you so. I did want to hear your story,
and you made me ask that question; but I was certain of your answer
before you made it. I don't suppose I can do anything to help, but
I'm going to try. So, you see, your army is bigger than you
thought it was--though the new soldier isn't good for much, I'm
afraid," she added, with a little smile.
Captain Cy was greatly disturbed.
"Miss Phoebe," he said, "I--I won't say that it don't please me to
have you talk so, for it does, more'n you can imagine. Sympathy
means somethin' to the under dog, and it gives him spunk to keep on
kickin'. But you mustn't take any part in the row; you simply
mustn't. It won't do."
"Why not? Won't I be ANY help?"
"Help? You'd be more help than all the rest of us put together.
You and me haven't seen a great deal of each other, and my part in
the few talks we have had has been a mean one, but I knew the first
time I met you that you had more brains and common sense than any
woman in this county--though I was too pig-headed to own it. But
that ain't it. I got you the job of teacher. It's no credit to
me; 'twas just bull luck and for the fun of jarrin' Heman. But I
did it. And, because I did it, the Atkins crowd--and that means
most everybody now--haven't any love for you. My tryin' for school
committee was really just to give you a fair chance in your
position. I was licked, so the committee's two to one against you.
Don't you see that you mustn't have anything to do with me? Don't
you SEE it?"
She shook her head.
"I see that common gratitude alone should be reason enough for my
trying to help you," she said. "But, beside that, I know you are
right, and I SHALL help, no matter what you say. As for the
teacher's position, let them discharge me. I--"
"Don't talk that way. The youngsters need you, and know it, no
matter what their fool fathers and mothers say. And you mustn't
wreck your chances. You're young--"
She laughed.
"Oh, no! I'm not," she said. "Young! Cap'n Whittaker, you
shouldn't joke about a woman's age."
"I ain't jokin'. You ARE young." As she stood there before him he
was realizing, with a curiously uncomfortable feeling, how much
younger she was than he. He glanced up at the mirror, where his
own gray hairs were reflected, and repeated his assertion. "You're
young yet," he said, "and bein' discharged from a place might mean
a whole lot to you. I'm glad you take such an interest in Bos'n,
and your comin' here on her account--"
He paused. Miss Dawes colored slightly and said:
"Yes."
"Your comin' here on her account was mighty good of you. But
you've got to keep out of this trouble. And you mustn't come here
again. That's owner's orders. Why, I'm expectin' a boardin' party
any minute," he added. "I thought when you knocked it was 'papa'
comin' for his child. You'd better go."
But she stood still.
"I shan't go," she declared. "Or, at least, not until you promise
to let me try to help you. If they come, so much the better.
They'll learn where my sympathies are."
Captain Cy scratched his head.
"See here, Miss Phoebe," he said. "I ain't sure that you fully
understand that Scripture and everything else is against us. Did
Angie turn loose on you the 'Whom the Lord has joined' avalanche?"
The schoolmistress burst into a laugh. The captain laughed, too,
but his gravity quickly returned. For steps sounded on the walk,
there was a whispering outside, and some one knocked on the dining-
room door.
The situation was similar to that of the evening when the Board of
Strategy called and "John Smith" made his first appearance. But
now, oddly enough, Captain Cy seemed much less troubled. He looked
at Miss Dawes and there was a dancing twinkle in his eye.
"Is it--" began the lady, in an agitated whisper.
"The boardin' party? I presume likely."
"But what can you do?"
"Stand by the repel, I guess," was the calm reply. "I told you
that they had most of the ammunition, but ours ain't all blank
cartridges. You stay below and listen to the broadsides."
They heard Georgianna cross the dining room. There was a murmur of
voices at the door. The captain nodded.
"It's them," he said. "Well, here goes. Now don't you show
yourself."
"Do you think I am afraid? Indeed, I shan't stay 'below' as you
call it! I shall let them see--"
Captain Cy held up his hand.
"I'm commodore of this fleet," he said; "and that bein' the case, I
expect my crew to obey orders. There's nothin' you can do, and--
Why, yes! there is, too. You can take care of Bos'n. Georgianna,"
to the housekeeper who, looking frightened and nervous, had
appeared at the door, "send Bos'n in here quick."
"They're there," whispered Georgianna. "Mr. Atkins and Tad and
that Thomas critter, and lots more. And they've come after her.
What shall we do?"
"Jump when I speak to you, that's the first thing. Send Bos'n in
here and you stay in your galley."
Emily came running. Miss Dawes put an arm about her. Captain Cy,
the battle lanterns still twinkling under his brows, stepped forth
to meet the "boarding party."
They were there, as Georgianna had said. Mr. Thomas on the top
step, Heman and Simpson on the next lower, and behind them Abel
Leonard and a group of interested volunteers, principally recruited
from the back room of the barber shop.
"Evenin', gentlemen," said the captain, opening the door so briskly
that Mr. Thomas started backward and came down heavily upon the
toes of the devoted Tad. Mr. Simpson swore, Mr. Thomas clawed
about him to gain equilibrium, and the dignity of the group was
seriously impaired.
"Evenin'," repeated Captain Cy. "Quite a surprise party you're
givin' me. Come in."
"Cyrus," began the Honorable Atkins, "we are here to claim--"
"Give me my daughter, you robber!" demanded Thomas, from his new
position in the rear of the other two.
"Mr. Thomas," said Heman, "please remember that I am conducting
this affair. I respect the natural indignation of an outraged
father, but--ahem! Cyrus, we are here to claim--"
"Then do your claimin' inside. It's kind of chilly to-night,
there's plenty of empty chairs, and we don't need to hold an
overflow meetin'. Come ahead in."
The trio looked at each other in hesitation. Then Mr. Atkins
majestically entered the dining room. Thomas and Simpson followed
him.
"Abe," observed Captain Cy to Leonard, who was advancing toward the
steps, "I'm sorry not to be hospitable, but there's too many of you
to invite at once, and 'tain't polite to show partiality. You and
the rest are welcome to sit on the terrace or stroll 'round the
deer park. Good night."
He closed the door in the face of the disappointed Abel and turned
to the three in the room.
"Well," he said, "out with it. You've come to claim somethin', I
understand."
"I come for my rights," shouted Mr. Thomas.
"Yes? Well, this ain't State's prison or I'd give 'em to you with
pleasure. Heman, you'd better do the talkin'. We'll probably get
ahead faster."
The Honorable cleared his throat and waved his hand.
"Cyrus," he began, "you are my boyhood friend and my fellow
townsman and neighbor. Under such circumstances it gives me pain--"
"Then don't let us discuss painful subjects. Let's get down to
business. You've come to rescue Bos'n--Emily, that is,--from the
'robber'--I'm quotin' Deacon Thomas here--that's got her, so's to
turn her over to her sorrowin' father. Is that it? Yes. Well,
you can't have her--not yet."
"Cyrus," said Mr. Atkins, "I'm sorry to see that you take it this
way. You haven't the shadow of a right. We have the law with us,
and your conduct will lead us to invoke it. The constable is
outside. Shall I call him in?"
"Uncle Bedny" was the town constable and had been since before the
war. The purely honorary office was given him each year as a joke.
Captain Cy grinned broadly, and even Tad was obliged to smile.
"Don't be inhuman, Heman," urged the captain. "You wouldn't turn
me over to be man-handled by Uncle Bedny, would you?"
"This is not a humorous affair--" began the congressman, with
dignity. But the "bereaved father" had been prospecting on his own
hook, and now he peeped into the sitting room.
"Here she is!" he shouted. "I see her. Come on, Emmie! Your
dad's come for you. Let go of her, you woman! What do you mean by
holdin' on to her?"
The situation which was "not humorous" immediately became much less
so. The next minute was a lively one. It ended as Mr. Thomas was
picked up by Tad from the floor, where he had fallen, having been
pushed violently over a chair by Captain Cy. Bos'n, frightened and
sobbing, was clinging wildly to Miss Dawes, who had clung just as
firmly to her. The captain's voice rang through the room.
"That's enough," he said. "That's enough and some over. Atkins,
take that feller out of this house and off my premises. As for the
girl, that's for us to fight out in the courts. I'm her guardian,
lawfully appointed, and you nor nobody else can touch her while
that appointment's good. Here it is--right here. Now look at it
and clear out."
He held, for the congressman's inspection, the document which,
inclosed in the long envelope, had been received that morning. His
visit to Ostable, made some weeks before, had been for the purpose
of applying to the probate court for the appointment as Emily's
guardian. He had applied before the news of her father's coming to
life reached him. The appointment itself had arrived just in time.
Mr. Atkins studied the document with care. When he spoke it was
with considerable agitation and without his usual diplomacy.
"Humph!" he grunted. "Humph! I see. Well, sir, I have some
influence in this section and I shall see how long your--your TRICK
will prevent the child's going where she belongs. I wish you to
understand that I shall continue this fight to the very last. I--I
am not one to be easily beaten. Simpson, you and Thomas come with
me. This night's despicable chicanery is only the beginning. This
is bad business for you, Cy Whittaker," he snarled, his self-control
vanishing, "and"--with a vindictive glance at the schoolmistress--
"for those who are with you in it. That appointment was obtained
under false pretenses and I can prove it. Your tricks don't scare
me. I've had experience with TRICKS before."
"Yup. So I've heard. Well, Heman, I ain't as well up in tricks as
you claim to be, nor my stockin' isn't as well padded as yours,
maybe. But while there's a ten-cent piece left in the toe of it
I'll fight you and the skunk whose 'rights' you seem to have taken
such a shine to. And, after that, while there's a lawyer that 'll
trust me. And, meantime, that little girl stays right here, and
you touch her if you dare, any of you! Anything more to say?"
But the Honorable's dignity had returned. Possibly he thought he
had said too much already. A moment later the door banged behind
the discomforted boarding party.
Captain Cy pulled his beard and laughed.
"Well, we repelled 'em, didn't we?" he observed. "But, as friend
Heman says, the beginnin's only begun. I wish he hadn't seen you
here, teacher."
Miss Dawes looked up from the task of stroking poor Bos'n's hair.
"I don't," she said, "I'm glad of it." Then she added, laughing
nervously: "Cap'n Whittaker, how could you be so cool? It was
like a play. I declare, you were just splendid!"
CHAPTER XIV
A CLEW
Josiah Dimick has a unique faculty of grasping a situation and
summing it up in an out-of-the-ordinary way.
"I think," observed Josiah to the excited group at Simmons's, "that
this town owes Cy Whittaker a vote of thanks."
"Thanks!" gasped Alpheus Smalley, so shocked and horrified that he
put the one-pound weight on the scales instead of the half pound.
"THANKS! After what we've found out? Well, I must say!"
"Ya-as," drawled Captain Josiah, "thanks was what I said. If it
wan't for him this gang and the sewin' circle wouldn't have nothin'
to talk about but their neighbors. Our reputations would be as
full of holes as a skimmer by this time. Now all hands are so busy
jumpin' on Whit, that the rest of us can feel fairly safe. Ain't
that so, Gabe?"
Mr. Lumley, who had stopped in for a half pound of tea, grinned
feebly, but said nothing. If he noticed the clerk's mistake in
weights he didn't mention it, but took his package and hurried out.
After his departure Mr. Smalley himself discovered the error and
charged the Lumley account with "1 1/4 lbs. Mixed Green and Black."
Meanwhile the assemblage about the stove had put Captain Cy on the
anvil and was hammering him vigorously.
Bayport was boiling over with rumor and surmise. Heman had
appealed to the courts asking that Captain Cy's appointment as
Bos'n's guardian be rescinded. Cy had hired Lawyer Peabody, of
Ostable, to look out for his interests. Mr. Atkins and the captain
had all but come to blows over the child. Thomas, the poor father,
had broken down and wept, and had threatened to commit suicide.
Mrs. Salters had refused to speak to Captain Cy when she met the
latter after meeting on Sunday. The land in Orham had been sold
and the captain was using the money. Phoebe Dawes had threatened
to resign if Bos'n came to school any longer. No, she had
threatened to resign if she didn't come to school. She hadn't
threatened to resign at all, but wanted higher wages because of the
effect the scandal might have on her reputation as a teacher.
These were a few of the reports, contradicted and added to from day
to day.
To quote Josiah Dimick again: "Sortin' out the truth from the lies
is like tryin' to find a quart of sardines in a schooner load of
herrin'. And they dump in more herrin' every half hour."
Angeline Phinney was having the time of her life. The perfect
boarding house hummed like a fly trap. Keturah and Mrs. Tripp had
deserted to the enemy, and the minority, meaning Asaph and Bailey,
had little opportunity to defend their friend's cause, even if they
had dared. Heman Atkins, his Christian charity and high-mindedness,
his devotion to duty, regardless of political consequences, and the
magnificent speech at town meeting were lauded and exalted. The
Bayport Breeze contained a full account of the meeting, and it was
read aloud by Keturah, amidst hymns of praise from the elect.
"'Whom the Lord hath joined,'" read Mrs. Bangs, "'let no man put
asunder.' Ain't that splendid? Ain't that FINE? The paper says:
'When Congressman Atkins delivered this noble sentiment a hush fell
upon the excited throng.' I should think 'twould. I remember when
I was married the minister said pretty nigh the same thing, and I
COULDN'T speak. I couldn't have opened my mouth to save me. Don't
you remember I couldn't, Bailey?"
Mr. Bangs nodded gloomily. It is possible that he wished the
effect of the minister's declaration might have been more lasting.
Asaph stirred in his chair.
"I don't care," he said. "This puttin' asunder business is all
right, but there's always two sides to everything. I see this
Thomas critter when he fust come, and he didn't look like no saint
then--nor smell like one, neither, unless 'twas a specimen pickled
in alcohol."
Here was irreverence almost atheistic. Keturah's face showed her
shocked disapproval. Matilda Tripp voiced the general sentiment.
"Humph!" she sniffed. "Well, all I can say is that I've met Mr.
Thomas two or three times, and _I_ didn't notice anything but
politeness and good manners. Maybe my nose ain't so fine for
smellin' liquor as some folks's--p'raps it ain't had the
experience--but all _I_ saw was a poor lame man with a black eye.
I pitied him, and I don't care who hears me say it."
"Yes," concurred Miss Phinney, "and if he was a drinkin' man, do
you suppose Mr. Atkins would have anything to do with him? Cyrus
Whittaker made a whole lot of talk about his insultin' some woman
or other, but nobody knows who the woman was. 'Bout time for her
to speak up, I should think. Teacher," turning to Miss Dawes, "you
was at the Whittaker place when Mr. Atkins and Emily's father come
for her, I understand. I wish I'd have been there. It must have
been wuth seein'."
"It was," replied Miss Dawes. She had kept silent throughout the
various discussions of the week following the town meeting, but
now, thus appealed to, she answered promptly.
Angeline's news created a sensation. The schoolmistress immediately
became the center of interest.
"Is that so? Was you there, teacher? Well, I declare!" The
questions and exclamations flew round the table.
"Tell us, teacher," pleaded Keturah. "Wasn't Heman grand? I
should so like to have heard him. Didn't Cap'n Whittaker look
ashamed of himself?"
"No, he did not. If anyone looked ashamed it was Mr. Atkins and
his friends. Perhaps I ought to tell you that my sympathies are
entirely with Captain Whittaker in this affair. To give that
little girl up to a drunken scoundrel like her father would, in my
opinion, be a crime."
The boarders and the landlady gasped. Asaph grinned and nudged
Bailey under the table. Keturah was the first to recover.
"Well!" she exclaimed. "Everybody's got a right to their opinion,
of course. But I can't see the crime, myself. And as for the
drunkenness, I'd like to know who's seen Mr. Thomas drunk. Cyrus
Whittaker SAYS he has, but--"
She waved her hand scornfully. Phoebe rose from her chair.
"I have seen him in that condition," she said. "In fact, I am the
person he insulted. I saw Captain Whittaker knock him down, and I
honored the captain for it. I only wished I were a man and could
have done it myself."
She left the room, and, a few moments later, the house. Mr.
Tidditt chuckled aloud. Even Bailey dared to look pleased.
"There!" sneered the widow Tripp. "Ain't that-- Perhaps you
remember that Cap'n Whittaker got her the teacher's place?"
"Yes," put in Miss Phinney, "and nobody knows WHY he got it for
her. That is, nobody has known up to now. Maybe we can begin to
guess a little after this."
"She was at his house, was she?" observed Keturah. "Humph! I
wonder why? Seems to me if _I_ was a young--that is, a single
woman like her, I'd be kind of careful about callin' on bachelors.
Humph! it looks funny to me."
Asaph rose and pushed back his chair.
"I cal'late she called to see Emily," he said sharply. "The child
was her scholar, and I presume likely, knowin' the kind of father
that has turned up for the poor young one, she felt sorry for her.
Of course, nobody's hintin' anything against Phoebe Dawes's
character. If you want a certificate of that, you've only got to
go to Wellmouth. Folks over there are pretty keen on that subject.
I guess the town would go to law about it rather'n hear a word
against her. Libel suits are kind of uncomf'table things for them
that ain't sure of their facts. I'D hate to get mixed up in one,
myself. Bailey, I'm going up street. Come on, when you can, won't
you?"
As if frightened at his own display of spirit, he hurried out.
There was silence for a time; then Miss Phinney spoke concerning
the weather.
Up at the Cy Whittaker place the days were full ones. There, also,
legal questions were discussed, with Georgianna, the Board of
Strategy, Josiah Dimick occasionally, and, more infrequently still,
Miss Dawes, as participants with Captain Cy in the discussions.
Rumors were true in so far as they related to Mr. Atkins's appeal
to the courts, and the captain's retaining Lawyer Peabody, of
Ostable. Mr. Peabody's opinion of the case was not encouraging.
"You see, captain," he said, when his client visited him at his
office, "the odds are very much against us. The court appointed
you as guardian with the understanding that this man Thomas was
dead. Now he is alive and claims his child. More than that, he
has the most influential politician in this county back of him.
We wouldn't stand a fighting chance except for one thing--Thomas
himself. He left his wife and the baby; deserted them, so she
said; went to get work, HE says. We can prove he was a drunken
blackguard BEFORE he went, and that he has been drunk since he came
back. But THEY'LL say--Atkins and his lawyer--that the man was
desperate and despairing because of your refusal to give him his
child. They'll hold him up as a repentant sinner, anxious to
reform, and needing the little girl's influence to help keep him
straight. That's their game, and they'll play it, be sure of that,
It sounds reasonable enough, too, for sinners have repented before
now. And the long-lost father coming back to his child is the one
sure thing to win applause from the gallery, you know that."
Captain Cy nodded.
"Yup," he said, "I know it. The other night, when Miss Ph--when a
friend of mine was at the house, she said this business was like a
play. I didn't say so to her, but all the same I realize it ain't
like a play at all. In a play dad comes home, havin' been snaked
bodily out of the jaws of the tomb by his coat collar, and the
young one sings out 'Papa! Papa!' and he sobs, 'Me child! Me
child!' and it's all lovely, and you put on your hat feelin' that
the old man is goin' to be rich and righteous for the rest of his
days. But here it's different; dad's a rascal, and anybody who's
seen anything of the world knows he's bound to stay so; and as for
the poor little girl, why--why--"
He stopped, rose, and, striding over to the window, stood looking
out. After an interval, during which the good-natured attorney
read a dull business letter through for the second time, he spoke
again.
"I hope you understand, Peabody," he said. "It ain't just
selfishness that makes me steer the course I'm runnin'. Course,
Bos'n's got to be the world and all to me, and if she's taken away
I don't know's I care a tinker's darn what happens afterwards.
But, all the same, if her dad was a real man, sorry for what he's
done and tryin' to make up for it--why, then, I cal'late I'm decent
enough to take off my hat, hand her over, and say: 'God bless you
and good luck.' But to think of him carryin' her off the Lord
knows where, to neglect her and cruelize her, and to let her grow
up among fellers like him, I--I--by the big dipper, I can't do it!
That's all; I can't!"
"How does she feel about it, herself?" asked Peabody.
"Her? Bos'n? Why, that's the hardest of all. Some of the
children at school pester her about her father. I don't know's you
can blame 'em; young ones are made that way, I guess--but she comes
home to me cryin', and it's 'O Uncle Cy, he AIN'T my truly father,
is he?' and 'You won't let him take me away from you, will you?'
till it seems as if I should fly out of the window. The poor
little thing! And that puffed-up humbug Atkins blowin' about his
Christianity and all! D--n such Christianity as that, I say! I've
seen heathen Injuns, who never heard of Christ, with more of His
spirit inside 'em. There! I've shocked you, I guess. Sometimes
I think this place is too narrer and cramped for me. I've been
around, you know, and my New England bringin' up has wore thin in
spots. Seem's if I must get somewheres and spread out, or I'll
bust."
He threw himself into a chair. The lawyer clapped him on the
shoulder.
"There, there, captain," he said. "Don't 'bust' yet awhile. Don't
give up the ship. If we lose in one court, we can appeal to
another, and so on up the line. And meantime we'll do a little
investigating of friend Thomas's career since he left Concord.
I've written to a legal acquaintance of mine in Butte, giving him
the facts as we know them, and a description of Thomas. He will
try to find out what the fellow did in his years out West. It's
our best chance, as I told you. Keep your pluck up and wait and
see."
The captain repeated this conversation to the Board of Strategy
when he returned to Bayport. Miss Dawes had walked home from
school with Bos'n, and had stopped at the house to hear the report.
She listened, but it was evident that something else was on her
mind.
"Captain Whittaker," she asked, "has it ever struck you as queer
that Mr. Atkins should take such an interest in this matter? He is
giving time and counsel and money to help this man Thomas, who is a
perfect stranger to him. Why does he do it?"
Captain Cy smiled.
"Why?" he repeated. "Why, to down me, of course. I was gettin'
too everlastin' prominent in politics to suit him. I'd got you in
as teacher, and I had 'Lonzo Snow as good as licked for school
committee. Goodness knows what I might have run for next, 'cordin'
to Heman's reasonin', and I simply had to be smashed. It worked
all right. I'm so unhealthy now in the sight of most folks in this
town, that I cal'late they go home and sulphur-smoke their clothes
after they meet me, so's not to catch my wickedness."
But the teacher shook her head.
"That doesn't seem reason enough to me," she declared. "Just see
what Mr. Atkins has done. He never openly advocated anything in
town meeting before; you said so yourself. Even when he must have
realized that you had the votes for committeeman he kept still.
He might have taken many of them from you by simply coming out and
declaring for Mr. Snow; but he didn't. And then, all at once, he
takes this astonishing stand. Captain Whittaker, Mr. Tidditt says
that, the night of Emily's birthday party, you and he told who she
was, by accident, and that Mr. Atkins seemed very much surprised
and upset. Is that so?"
Captain Cy laughed.
"His lemonade was upset; that's all I noticed special. Oh! yes,
and he lost his hat off, goin' home. But what of it? What are you
drivin' at?"
"I was wondering if--if it could be that, for some reason, Mr.
Atkins had a spite against Emily or her people. Or if he had any
reason to fear her."
"Fear? Fear Bos'n? Oh, my, that's funny! You've been readin'
novels, I'm 'fraid, teacher, 'though I didn't suspect it of you."
He laughed heartily. Miss Dawes smiled, too, but she still
persisted.
"Well," she said, "I don't know. Perhaps it is because I'm a
woman, and politics don't mean as much to me as to you men, but to
me political reasons don't seem strong enough to account for such
actions as those of Mr. Atkins. Emily's mother was a Thayer,
wasn't she? and the Thayers once lived in Orham. I wish we could
find out more about them while they lived there."
Asaph Tidditt pulled his beard thoughtfully.
"Well," he observed, "maybe we can, if we want to, though I don't
think what we find out 'll amount to nothin'. I was kind of
cal'latin' to go to Orham next week on a little visit. Seth
Wingate over there--Barzilla Wingate's cousin, Whit--is a sort of
relation of mine, and we visit back and forth every nine or ten
year or so. The ten year's most up, and he's been pesterin' me to
come over. Seth's been Orham town clerk about as long as I've been
the Bayport one, and he's lived there all his life. What he don't
know about Orham folks ain't wuth knowin'. If you say so, I'll
pump him about the Thayers and the Richards. 'Twon't do no harm,
and the old fool likes to talk, anyhow. I don't know's I ought to
speak that way about my relations," he added doubtfully, "but Seth
IS sort of stubborn and unlikely at odd times. We don't always
agree as to which is the best town to live in, you understand."
So it was settled that Mr. Wingate should be subjected to the
"pumping" process when Asaph visited him. He departed for this
visit the following week, and remained away for ten days.
Meanwhile several things happened in Bayport.
One of these things was the farewell of the Honorable Heman Atkins.
Congress was to open at Washington, and the Honorable heeded the
call of duty. Alicia and the housekeeper went with him, and the
big house was closed for the winter. At the gate between the stone
urns, and backed by the iron dogs, the great man bade a group of
admiring constituents good-by. He thanked them for their trust in
him, and promised that it should not be betrayed.
"I leave you, my fellow townsmen, er--ladies and friends," he said,
"with regret, tempered by pride--a not inexcusable pride, I
believe. In the trying experience which my self-respect and
sympathy has so recently forced upon me, you have stood firm and
cheered me on. The task I have undertaken, the task of restoring
to a worthy man his own, shall be carried on to the bitterest
extremity. I have put my hand to the plow, and it shall not be
withdrawn. And, furthermore, I go to my work at Washington
determined to secure for my native town the appropriation which it
so sorely needs. I shall secure it if I can, even though--" and
the sarcasm was hugely enjoyed by his listeners--"I am, as I seem
likely to be, deprived of the help of the 'committee,' self-
appointed at our recent town meeting. If I fail--and I do not
conceal the fact that I may fail--I am certain you will not blame
me. Now I should like to shake each one of you by the hand."
The hands were shaken, and the train bore the Atkins delegation
away. And, on the day following, Mr. Thomas, the prodigal father,
also left town. A position in Boston had been offered him, he
said, and he felt that he must accept it. He would come back some
of these days, with the warrant from the court, and get his little
girl.
"Position offered him! Um--ya-as!" quoth Dimick the cynical, in
conversation with Captain Cy. "Inspector of sidewalks, I shouldn't
wonder. Well, please don't ask me if I think Heman sent him to
Boston so's to have him out of the way, and 'cause he'd feel
consider'ble safer than if he was loose down here. Don't ask me
that, for, with my strict scruples against the truth I might say,
No. As it is, I say nothin'--and wink my port eye."
The ten-day visit ended, Mr. Tidditt returned to Bayport. On the
afternoon of his return he and Bailey called at the Whittaker
place, and there they were joined by Miss Dawes, who had been
summoned to the conclave by a note intrusted to Bos'n.
"Now, Ase," ordered Captain Cy, as the quartet gathered in the
sitting room, "here we are, hangin' on your words, as the feller
said. Don't keep us strung up too long. What did you find out?"
The town clerk cleared his throat. When he spoke, there was a
trace of disappointment in his tone. To have been able to
electrify his audience with the news of some startling discovery
would have been pure joy for Asaph.
"Well," he began, "I don't know's I found out anything much. Yet I
did find out somethin', too; but it don't really amount to nothin'.
I hoped 'twould be somethin' more'n 'twas, but when nothin' come of
it except the little somethin' it begun with, I--"
"For the land sakes!" snapped Bailey Bangs, who was a trifle
envious of his friend's position in the center of the stage, "stop
them 'nothin's' and 'somethin's,' won't you? You keep whirlin' 'em
round and over and over till my head's FULL of 'nothin',' and--"
"That's what it's full of most of the time," interrupted Asaph
tartly. Captain Cy hastened to act as peacemaker.
"Never mind, Bailey," he said; "you let Ase alone. Tell us what
you did find out, Ase, and cut out the trimmin's."
"Well," continued Mr. Tidditt, with a glare at Bangs, "I asked Seth
about the Thayers and the Richards folks the very fust night I
struck Orham. He remembered 'em, of course; he can remember Adam,
if you let him tell it. He told me a whole mess about old man
Thayer and old man Richards and their granddads and grandmarms, and
what houses they lived in, and how many hens they kept, and what
their dog's name was, and how they come to name him that, and
enough more to fill a hogshead. 'Twas ten o'clock afore he got out
of Genesis, and down so fur as John and Emily. He remembered their
bein' married, and their baby--Mary Thayer, Bos'n's ma--bein' born.
"Folks used to call John Thayer a smart young feller, so Seth said.
They used to cal'late that he'd rise high in the seafarin' and
ship-ownin' line. Maybe he would, only he died somewheres in
Californy 'long in '54 or thereabouts. 'Twas the time of the gold
craziness out there, and he left his ship and went gold huntin'.
And the next thing they knew he was dead and buried."
"When was that?" inquired the schoolmistress.
"In '54, I tell you. So Seth says."
"What ship was he on?" asked Bailey.
"Wan't on any ship. Why don't you listen, instead of settin' there
moonin'? He was gold diggin', I tell you."
"He'd BEEN on a ship, hadn't he? What was the name of her?"
"I didn't ask. What diff'rence does that make?"
"Wasn't Mr. Atkins at sea in those days?" put in the teacher. The
captain answered her.
"Yes, he was," he said. "That is, I think he was. He was away
from here when I skipped out, and he didn't get back till '61 or
thereabouts."
"Well, anyhow," went on Asaph, "that's all I could find out. Seth
and me went rummagin' through town records from way back to glory,
him gassin' away and stringin' along about this old settler and
that, till I 'most wished he'd choke himself with the dust he was
raisin'. We found John's grandad's will, and Emily's dad's will,
and John's own will, and that's all. John left everything he had
and all he might become possessed of to his wife and baby and their
heirs forever. He died poorer'n poverty. What's the use of a will
when you ain't got nothin' to leave?"
"Why!" exclaimed Captain Cy. "The answer to that's easy. John was
goin' to sea, and, more'n likely, intended to have a shy at the
diggin's afore he got back. So, if he did make any money, he
wanted his wife and baby to have it."
"Well, what they got wan't wuth havin'. Emily had to scrimp along
and do dressmakin' till she died. She done fairly well at that,
though, and saved somethin' and passed it over to Mary. And Mary
married Henry Thomas, after she went with the Howes tribe to
Concord, and he got rid of it for her in double quick time--all but
the Orham land."
"So that was all you could find out, hey, Ase?" asked the captain.
"Well, it's at least as much as I expected. You see, teacher,
these story-book notions don't work out when it comes to real
life."
Miss Dawes was plainly disappointed.
"I wish we knew more," she said. "Who was on this ship with Mr.
Thayer? And who sent the news of his death home?"
"Oh, I can tell you that," said Asaph. "'Twas some one-hoss doctor
out there, gold minin' himself, he was. John died of a quick
fever. Got cold and went off in no time. Seth remembered that
much, though he couldn't remember the doctor's name. He said, if I
wanted to learn more about the Thayers, I might go see-- Humph,
well, never mind that. 'Twas just foolishness, anyhow."
But Phoebe persisted.
"To see whom?" she asked. "Some one you knew? A friend of yours?"
Asaph turned red.
"Friend of mine!" he snarled. "No, SIR! she ain't no friend of
mine, I'm thankful to say. More a friend of Bailey's, here, if
she's anybody's. One of his pets, she was, for a spell. A patient
of his, you might say; anyhow, he prescribed for her. 'Twas that
deef idiot, Debby Beasley, Cy; that's who 'twas. Her name was
Briggs afore she married Beasley, and she was hired help for Emily
Thayer, when Mary was born, and until John died."
Captain Cy burst into a roar of laughter. Bailey sprang out of his
chair.
"De--Debby Beasley!" he stammered. "Debby Beasley!"
"She was that deef housekeeper Bailey hired for me, teacher,"
explained the captain. "I've told you about her. Ho! ho! so
that's the end of the mystery huntin'. We go gunnin' for Heman
Atkins, and we bring down Debby! Well, Ase, goin' to see the old
lady?"
Mr. Tidditt's retort was emphatic.
"Goin' to SEE her?" he repeated. "I guess not! Godfrey scissors!
I told Seth, says I, 'I've had all the Debby Beasley _I_ want, and
I cal'late Cy Whittaker feels the same way.' Go to see her! I
wouldn't go to see her if she was up in Paradise a-hollerin' for
me."
"Nobody up there's goin' to holler for YOU, Ase Tidditt," remarked
Bailey, with sarcasm; "so don't let that worry you none."
"Are YOU going to see her, Captain Whittaker?" asked Phoebe.
The captain shook his head.
"Why, no, I guess not," he said. "I don't take much stock in what
she'd be likely to know; besides, I'm a good deal like Ase--I've
had about all the Debby Beasley I want."
CHAPTER XV
DEBBY BEASLEY TO THE RESCUE
"Mrs. Bangs," said the schoolmistress, as if it was the most casual
thing in the world, "I want to borrow your husband to-morrow."
It was Friday evening, and supper at the perfect boarding house
had advanced as far as the stewed prunes and fruit-cake stage.
Keturah, who was carefully dealing out the prunes, exactly four to
each saucer, stopped short, spoon in air, and gazed at Miss Dawes.
"You--you want to WHAT?" she asked.
"I want to borrow your husband. I want him all day, too, because
I'm thinking of driving over to Trumet, and I need a coachman.
You'll go, won't you, Mr. Bangs?"
Bailey, who had been considering the advisability of asking for a
second cup of tea, brightened up and looked pleased.
"Why, yes," he answered, "I'll go. I can go just as well as not.
Fact is, I'd like to. Ain't been to Trumet I don't know when."
Miss Phinney and the widow Tripp looked at each other. Then they
both looked at Keturah. That lady's mouth closed tightly, and she
resumed her prune distribution.
"I'm sorry," she said crisply, "but I'm 'fraid he can't go. It's
Saturday, and I'll need him round the house. Do you care for cake
to-night, Elviry? I'm 'fraid it's pretty dry; I ain't had time to
do much bakin' this week."
"Of course," continued the smiling Phoebe, "I shouldn't think of
asking him to go for nothing. I didn't mean borrow him in just
that way. I was thinking of hiring your horse and buggy, and, as
I'm not used to driving, I thought perhaps I might engage Mr. Bangs
to drive for me. I expected to pay for the privilege. But, as you
need him, I suppose I must get my rig and driver somewhere else.
I'm so sorry."
The landlady's expression changed. This was the dull season, and
opportunities to "let" the family steed and buggy--"horse and
team," we call it in Bayport--were few.
"Well," she observed, "I don't want to be unlikely and disobligin'.
Far's he's concerned, he'd rather be traipsin' round the country
than stay to home, any day; though it's been so long sence he took
ME to ride that I don't know's I'd know how to act."
"Why, Ketury!" protested her husband. "How you talk! Didn't I
drive you down to the graveyard only last Sunday--or the Sunday
afore?"
"Graveyard! Yes, I notice our rides always fetch up at the
graveyard. You're always willin' to take me THERE. Seems
sometimes as if you enjoyed doin' it."
"Now, Keturah! you know yourself that 'twas you proposed goin'
there. You said you wanted to look at our lot, 'cause you was
afraid 'twan't big enough, and you didn't know but we'd ought to
add on another piece. You said that it kept you awake nights
worryin' for fear when I passed away you wouldn't have room in that
lot for me. Land sakes! don't I remember? Didn't you give me the
blue creeps talkin' about it?"
Mrs. Bangs ignored this outburst. Turning to the school teacher,
she said with a sigh:
"Well, I guess he can go. I'll get along somehow. I hope he'll be
careful of the buggy; we had it painted only last January."
Mrs. Tripp ventured a hinted question concerning the teacher's
errand at Trumet. The reply being noncommittal, the widow
cheerfully prophesied that she guessed 'twas going to rain or snow
next day. "It's about time for the line storm," she added.
But it did not storm, although a brisk, cold gale was blowing when,
after breakfast next morning, the "horse and team," with Bailey in
his Sunday suit and overcoat, and Miss Dawes on the buggy seat
beside him, turned out of the boarding-house yard and started on
the twelve-mile journey to Trumet.
It was a bleak ride. Denboro, the village adjoining Bayport on the
bay side, is a pretty place, with old elms and silverleafs shading
the main street in summer, and with substantial houses set each in
its trim yard. But beyond Denboro the Trumet road winds out over
rolling, bare hills, with cranberry bogs, now flooded and skimmed
with ice, in the hollows between them, clumps of bayberry and
beach-plum bushes scattered over their rounded slopes, and white
scars in their sides showing where the cranberry growers have cut
away the thin layer of coarse grass and moss to reach the sand
beneath, sand which they use in preparing their bogs for the new
vines.
And the wind! There is always a breeze along the Trumet road,
even in summer--when the mosquitoes lie in wait to leeward like
buccaneers until, sighting the luckless wayfarer in the offing,
they drive down before the wind in clouds, literally to eat him
alive. They are skilled navigators, those Trumet road mosquitoes,
and they know the advantage of snug harbors under hat brims and
behind spreading ears. And each individual smashed by a frantic
palm leaves a thousand blood relatives to attend his funeral and
exact revenge after the Corsican fashion.
Now, in December, there were, of course, no mosquitoes, but the
wind tore across those bare hilltops in gusts that rocked the buggy
on its springs. The bayberry bushes huddled and crouched before
it. The sky was covered with tumbling, flying clouds, which
changed shape continually, and ripped into long, fleecy ravelings,
that broke loose and pelted on until merged into the next billowy
mass. The bay was gray and white, and in the spots where an
occasional sunbeam broke through and struck it, flashed like a
turned knife blade.
Bailey drove with one hand and held his hat on his head with the
other. The road had been deeply rutted during the November rains,
and now the ruts were frozen. The buggy wheels twisted and scraped
as they turned in the furrows.
"What's the matter?" asked the schoolmistress, shouting so as to be
heard above the flapping of the buggy curtains. "Why do you watch
that wheel?"
"'Fraid of the axle," whooped Mr. Bangs in reply. "Nut's kind of
loose, for one thing, and the way the wheel wobbles I'm scart
she'll come off. Call this a road!" he snorted indignantly. "More
like a plowed field a consider'ble sight. Jerushy, how she blows!
No wonder they raise so many deef and dumb folks in Trumet. I'd
talk sign language myself if I lived here. What's the use of
wastin' strength pumpin' up words when they're blowed back down
your throat fast enough to choke you? Git dap, Henry! Don't you
see the meetin' house steeple? We're most there, thank the
goodness."
In Trumet Center, which is not much of a center, Miss Dawes
alighted from the buggy and entered a building bearing a sign with
the words "Metropolitan Variety Store, Joshua Atwood, Prop'r,
Groceries, Coal, Dry Goods, Insurance, Boots and Shoes, Garden
Seeds, etc." A smaller sign beneath this was lettered "Justice of
the Peace," and one below that read "Post Office."
She emerged a moment later, followed by an elderly person in a red
cardigan jacket and overalls.
"Take the fust turnin' to the left, marm," he said pointing. "It's
pretty nigh to East Trumet townhall. Fust house this side of the
blacksmith shop. About two mile, I'd say. Windy day for drivin',
ain't it? That horse of yours belongs in Bayport, I cal'late.
Looks to me like-- Hello, Bailey!"
"Hello, Josh!" grunted Mr. Bangs, adding an explanatory aside to
the effect that he knew Josh Atwood, the latter having once lived
in Bayport.
"But say," he asked as they moved on once more, "have we got to go
to EAST Trumet? Jerushy! that's the place where the wind COMES
from. They raise it over there; anyhow, they don't raise much
else. Whose house you goin' to?"
He had asked the same question at least ten times since leaving
home, and each time Miss Dawes had evaded it. She did so now,
saying that she was sure she should know the house when they got to
it.
The two miles to East Trumet were worse than the twelve which they
had come. The wind fairly shrieked here, for the road paralleled
the edge of high sand bluffs close by the shore, and the ruts and
"thank-you-marms" were trying to the temper. Bailey's was
completely wrecked.
"Teacher," he snapped as they reached the crest of a long hill, and
a quick grab at his hat alone prevented its starting on a balloon
ascension, "get out a spell, will you? I've got to swear or bust,
and 'long's you're aboard I can't swear. What you standin' still
for, you?" he bellowed at poor Henry, the horse, who had stopped to
rest. "I cal'late the critter thinks that last cyclone must have
blowed me sky high, and he's waitin' to see where I light. Git
dap!"
"I guess I shall get out very soon now," panted Phoebe. "There's
the blacksmith shop over there near the next hill, and this house
in the hollow must be the one I'm looking for."
They pulled up beside the house in the hollow. A little, story-
and-a-half house it was, and, judging by the neglected appearance
of the weeds and bushes in the yard, it had been unoccupied for
some time. However, the blinds were now open, and a few fowls
about the back door seemed to promise that some one was living
there. The wooden letter box by the gate had a name stenciled upon
it. Miss Dawes sprang from the buggy and looked at the box.
"Yes," she said. "This is the place. Will you come in, Mr. Bangs?
You can put your horse in that barn, I'm sure, if you want to."
But Bailey declined to come in. He declared he was going on to the
blacksmith's shop to have that wheel fixed. He would not feel safe
to start for home with it as it was. He drove off, and Miss Dawes,
knowing from lifelong experience that front doors are merely for
show, passed around the main body of the house and rapped on the
door in the ell. The rap was not answered, though she could hear
some one moving about within, and a shrill voice singing "The Sweet
By and By." So she rapped again and again, but still no one came
to the door. At last she ventured to open it.
A thin woman, with her head tied up in a colored cotton handkerchief,
was in the room, vigorously wielding a broom. She was singing in a
high cracked voice. The opening of the door let in a gust of cold
wind which struck the singer in the back of the neck, and caused her
to turn around hastily.
"Hey?" she exclaimed. "Land sakes! you scare a body to death!
Shut that door quick! I ain't hankering for influenzy. Who are
you? What do you want? Why didn't you knock? Where's my specs?"
She took a pair of spectacles from the mantel shelf, rubbed them
with her apron, and set them on the bridge of her thin nose. Then
she inspected the schoolmistress from head to foot.
"I beg pardon for coming in," shouted Phoebe. "I knocked, but you
didn't hear. You are Mrs. Beasley, aren't you?"
"I don't want none," replied Debby, with emphasis. "So there's no
use your wastin' your breath."
"Don't want--" repeated the astonished teacher. "Don't want what?"
"Hey? I say I don't want none."
"Don't want WHAT?"
"Whatever 'tis you're peddlin'. Books or soap or tea, or whatever
'tis. I don't want nothin'."
After some strenuous minutes, the visitor managed to make it clear
to Mrs. Beasley's mind that she was not a peddler. She tried to
add a word of further explanation, but it was effort wasted.
"'Tain't no use," snapped Debby, "I can't hear you, you speak so
faint. Wait till I get my horn; it's in the settin' room."
Phoebe's wonder as to what the "horn" might be was relieved by the
widow's appearance, a moment later, with the biggest ear trumpet
her caller had ever seen.
"There, now!" she said, adjusting the instrument and thrusting the
bell-shaped end under the teacher's nose. "Talk into that. If you
ain't a peddler, what be you--sewin' machine agent?"
Phoebe explained that she had come some distance on purpose to see
Mrs. Beasley. She was interested in the Thayers, who used to live
in Orham, particularly in Mr. John Thayer, who died in 1854. She
had been told that Debby formerly lived with the Thayers, and
could, no doubt, remember a great deal about them. Would she mind
answering a few questions, and so on?
Mrs. Beasley, her hearing now within forty-five degrees of the
normal, grew interested. She ushered her visitor into the
adjoining room, and proffered her a chair. That sitting room was a
wonder of its kind, even to the teacher's accustomed eyes. A gilt-
framed crayon enlargement of the late Mr. Beasley hung in the
center of the broadest wall space, and was not the ugliest thing
in the apartment. Having said this, further description is
unnecessary--particularly to those who remember Mr. Beasley's
personal appearance.
"What you so interested in the Thayers for?" inquired Debby. "One
of the heirs, be you? They didn't leave nothin'."
No, the schoolmistress was not an heir. Was not even a relative of
the family. But she was--was interested, just the same. A friend
of hers was a relative, and--
"What is your friend?" inquired the inquisitor. "A man?"
There was no reason why Miss Dawes should have changed color, but,
according to Debby's subsequent testimony, she did; she blushed, so
the widow declares.
"No," she protested. "Oh, no! it's a--she's a child, that's all--a
little girl. But--"
"Maybe you're gettin' up one of them geographical trees," suggested
Mrs. Beasley. "I've seen 'em, fust settlers down in the trunk, and
children and grandchildren spreadin' out in the branches. Is that
it?"
Here was an avenue of escape. Phoebe stretched the truth a trifle,
and admitted that that, or something of the sort, was what she was
engaged in. The explanation seemed to be satisfactory. Debby
asked her visitor's name, and, misunderstanding it, addressed her
as "Miss Dorcas" thereafter. Then she proceeded to give her
reminiscences of the Thayers, and it did not take long for the
disappointed teacher to discover that, for all practical purposes,
these reminiscences were valueless. Mrs. Beasley remembered many
things, but nothing at all concerning John Thayer's life in the
West, nor the name of the ship he sailed in, nor who his shipmates
were.
"He never wrote home but once or twice afore he died," she said.
"And when he did Emily, his wife, never told me what was in his
letters. She always burnt 'em, I guess. I used to hunt around for
'em when she was out, but she burnt 'em to spite me, I cal'late.
Her and me didn't get along any too well. She said I talked too
much to other folks about what was none of their business. Now,
anybody that knows me knows THAT ain't one of my failin's. I told
her so; says I--"
And so on for ten minutes. Then Phoebe ventured to repeat the
words "out West," and her companion went off on a new tack. She
had just been West herself. She had been on a visit to her
husband's niece, who lived in Arizona. In Blazeton, Arizona.
"It's the nicest town ever you see," she continued. "And the
smartest, most up-to-date place. Talk about the West bein'
oncivilized! My land! you ought to see that town! Electric
lights, and telephones, and--and--I don't know what all! Why, Miss
What's-your-name--Miss Dorcas, marm, you just ought to see the
photygraphs I've got that was took out there. My niece, she took
'em with one of them little mites of cameras. You wouldn't believe
such a little box of a thing could take such photygraphs. I'm
goin' to get 'em and show 'em to you. No, sir! you ain't got to
go, neither. Set right still and let me fetch them photygraphs.
'Twon't be a mite of trouble. I'd love to do it."
Protests were unavailing. The photographs, at least fifty of them,
were produced, and the suffering caller was shown the Blazeton City
Hall, and the Blazeton "Palace Hotel," and the home of the Beasley
niece, taken from the front, the rear, and both sides. With each
specimen Debby delivered a descriptive lecture.
"You see that house?" she asked. "Well, 'tain't much of a one to
look at, but it's got the most interestin' story tagged on to it.
I made Eva, that's my niece, take a picture of it just on that
account. The woman that lives there's had the hardest time. Her
fust name's Desire, and that kind of made me take an interest in
her right off, 'cause I had an Aunt Desire once, and it's a name
you don't hear very often. Afterwards I got to know her real well.
She was a widder woman, like me, only she didn't have as much sense
as I've got, and went and married a second time. 'Twas 'long in
1886 she done it. This man Higgins, he went to work for her on
her place, and pretty soon he married her. They lived together,
principally on her fust husband's insurance money, I cal'late,
until a year or so ago. Then the insurance money give out, and Mr.
Higgins he says: 'Old woman,' he says--I'D never let a husband of
mine call me 'old woman,' but Desire didn't seem to mind--'Old
woman,' he says, 'I'm goin' over to Phoenix'--that's another city
in Arizona--'to look for a job.' And he went, and she ain't heard
hide--I mean seen hide nor heard hair--What DOES ail me? She ain't
seen nor heard of him since. And she advertised in the weekly
paper, and I don't know what all. She thinks he was murdered, you
know; that's what makes it so sort of creepy and interestin'.
Everybody was awful kind to her, and we got to be real good
friends. Why, I--"
This was but the beginning. It was evident that Mrs. Beasley had
thoroughly enjoyed herself in Blazeton, and that the sorrows of the
bereaved Desire Higgins had been one of the principal sources of
that enjoyment. The schoolmistress endeavored to turn the subject,
but it was useless.
"I fetched home a whole pile of them newspapers," continued Debby.
"They was awful interestin'; full of pictures of Blazeton buildin's
and leadin' folks and all. And in some of the back numbers was the
advertisement about Mr. Higgins. I do wish I could show 'em to
you, but I lent 'em to Mrs. Atwood up to the Center. If 'twan't
such a ways I'd go and fetch 'em. Mrs. Atwood's been awful nice to
me. She took care of my trunks and things when I went West--yes,
and afore that when I went to Bayport to keep house for that
miser'ble Cap'n Whittaker. I ain't told you about that, but I will
by and by. Them trunks had lots of things in 'em that I didn't
want to lose nor have anybody see. My diaries--I've kept a diary
since 1850--and--"
"Diaries?" interrupted Phoebe, grasping at straws. "Did you keep a
diary while you were at the Thayers?"
"Yes. Now, why didn't I think of that afore? More'n likely
there'd be somethin' in that to help you with that geographical
tree. I used to put down everything that happened, and-- Where
you goin'?"
Miss Dawes had risen and was peering out of the window.
"I was looking to see if my driver was anywhere about," she
replied. "I thought perhaps he would drive over to Mrs. Atwood's
and get the diary for you. But I don't see him."
Just then, from around the corner of the house, peeped an agitated
face; an agitated forefinger beckoned. Debby stepped to the window
beside her visitor, and the face and finger went out of sight as if
pulled by a string.
Miss Phoebe smiled.
"I think I'll go out and look for him," she said. "He must be near
here. I'll be right back, Mrs. Beasley."
Without stopping to put on her jacket, she hurried through the
dining room, out of the door, and around the corner. There she
found Mr. Bangs in a highly nervous state.
"Why didn't you tell me 'twas Debby Beasley you was comin' to see?"
he demanded. "If you'd mentioned that deef image's name you'd
never got ME to drive you, I tell you that!"
"Yes," answered the teacher sweetly. "I imagined that. That's why
I didn't tell you, Mr. Bangs. Now I want you to do me a favor.
Will you drive over to Trumet Center, and deliver a note and get a
package for me? Then you can come back here, and I shall be ready
to start for home."
"Drive! Drive nothin'! The blacksmith's out, and won't be back
for another hour. His boy's there, but he's a big enough lunkhead
to try bailin' out a dory with a fork, and that buggy axle is bent
so it's simply got to be fixed. I'd no more go home to Ketury with
that buggy as 'tis than I'd-- Oh! my land of love!"
The ejaculation was almost a groan. There at the corner, ear
trumpet adjusted, and spectacles glistening, stood Debby Beasley.
Bailey appeared to wilt under her gaze as if the spectacles were
twin suns. Miss Dawes looked as if she very much wanted to laugh.
The widow stared in silence.
"How--how d'ye do, Mrs. Beasley?" faltered Mr. Bangs, not
forgetting to raise his voice. "I hope you're lookin' as well as
you feel. I mean, I hope you're smart."
Mrs. Beasley nodded decisively.
"Yes," she answered. "I'm pretty toler'ble, thank you. What was
the matter, Mr. Bangs? Why didn't you come in? Do you usually
make your calls round the corner?"
The gentleman addressed seemed unable to reply. The schoolmistress
came to the rescue.
"You mustn't blame Mr. Bangs, Mrs. Beasley," she explained. "He
wasn't responsible for what happened at Captain Whittaker's. He is
the gentleman who drove me over here. I was going to send him to
Mrs. Atwood's for the diary."
"Who said I was blamin' him?" queried the widow. "If 'twas that
little Tidditt thing I might feel different. But, considerin' that
I got this horn from Mr. Bangs, I'm willin' to let bygones be past.
It helps my hearin' a lot. Them ear-fixin's was good while they
lasted, but they got out of kilter quick. _I_ shan't bother Mr.
Bangs. If he can square his own conscience, I'm satisfied."
Bailey's conscience was not troubling him greatly, and he seemed
relieved. Phoebe told of the damaged buggy.
"Humph!" grunted the widow. "The horse didn't get bent, too, did
he?"
Mr. Bangs indignantly declared that the horse was all right.
"Um--hum. Well, then, I guess I can supply a carriage. My fust
cousin Ezra that died used to be doctor here, and he give me his
sulky when he got a new one. It's out in the barn. Go fetch your
horse, and harness him in. I'll be ready time the harnessin's
done."
"You?" gasped the teacher. "You don't need to go, Mrs. Beasley. I
wouldn't think of giving you that trouble."
"No trouble at all. I wouldn't trust nobody else with them trunks.
And besides, I always do enjoy ridin'. You could go, too, Miss
Dorcas, but the sulky seat's too narrer for three. You can set in
the settin' room till we get back. 'Twon't take us long. Don't
say another word; I'm A-GOIN'."
CHAPTER XVI
A REMARKABLE DRIVE AND WHAT FOLLOWED
The number of reasons given by Mr. Bangs one after the other, to
prove that it would be quite impossible for him to be Mrs.
Beasley's charioteer was a credit to the resources of his
invention. The blacksmith might be back any minute; it was dinner
time, and he was hungry; Henry, the horse, was tired; it wasn't a
nice day for riding, and he would come over some other time and
take the widow out; he-- But Debby had a conclusive answer for
each protest.
"You said yourself the blacksmith wouldn't be back for an hour,"
she observed. "And you can leave word with the boy what he's to do
when he does come. As for dinner, I'll be real glad to give you
and Miss Dorcas a snack soon's we get back. I don't mind if it
ain't a pleasant day; a little fresh air 'll do me good. I been
shut up here house-cleanin' ever since I got back from out West.
Now, hurry right along, and fetch your horse. I'll unlock the
barn."
"But, Mrs. Beasley," put in the schoolmistress, "why couldn't you
give us a note to Mrs. Atwood and let us stop for the diary on our
way home? I could return it to you by mail. Or you might get it
yourself some other day and mail it to me."
"No, no! Never put off till to-morrer what you can do to-day. My
husband was a great hand to put off and put off. For the last
eight years of his life I was at him to buy a new go-to-meetin'
suit of clothes. The one he had was blue to start with, but it
faded to a brown, and, toward the last of it, I declare if it
didn't commence to turn green. Nothin' I could say would make him
heave it away even then. Seemed to think more of it than ever.
Said he wanted to hang to it a spell and see what 'twould turn
next. But he died and was laid out in that same suit, and I was so
mortified at the funeral I couldn't think of nothin' else. No,
I'll go after them papers and the diary while they're fresh in my
mind. And besides, do you s'pose I'd let Sarah Ann Atwood rummage
through my trunks? I guess not!"
Phoebe began to be sorry she had thought of sending for the diary,
particularly as the chance of its containing valuable information
was so remote. Mrs. Beasley went into the house to dress for the
ride. The schoolmistress went with her as far as the sitting room.
The perturbed Bailey stalked off, muttering, to the blacksmith's.
In a little while he returned, leading Henry by the bridle. Debby,
adorned with the beflowered bonnet she had worn when she arrived at
the Cy Whittaker place, and with a black cloth cape over her lean
shoulders, was waiting for him by the open door of the barn. The
cape had a fur collar--"cat fur," so Mr. Bangs said afterwards in
describing it.
"Pull the sulky right out," commanded the widow.
Bailey stared into the black interior of the barn.
"Which is it?" he shouted.
Mrs. Beasley pointed with her ear trumpet.
"Why, that one there, of course. 'Tother's a truck cart. You
wouldn't expect me to ride in that, would you?"
Mr. Bangs entered the barn, seized the vehicle indicated by the
shafts, and drew it out into the yard. He inspected it deliberately,
and then sat weakly down on the chopping block near by. Apparently
he was overcome by emotion.
The "sulky" bequeathed by the late doctor had been built to order
for its former owner. It was of the "carryall" variety, except
that it had but a single narrow seat. Its top was square and was
curtained, the curtains being tightly buttoned down. Altogether it
was something of a curiosity. Miss Dawes, who had come out to see
the start, looked at the "sulky," then at Mr. Bangs's face, and
turned her back. Her shoulders shook:
"It used to be a real nice carriage when Ezra had it," commented
the widow admiringly. "It needs ilin' and sprucin' up now, but I
guess 'twill do. Come!" to Bailey, who had not risen from the
chopping block. "Hurry up and harness or we'll never get started.
Thought you wanted to get back for dinner?"
Mr. Bangs stood up and heaved a sigh.
"I did," he answered slowly, "but," with a glance at the sulky,
"somethin' seems to have took away my appetite. Teacher, do you
mean to--"
But Miss Dawes had withdrawn to the corner of the house, from which
viewpoint she seemed to be inspecting the surrounding landscape.
Bailey seized Henry by the bridle and backed him into the shafts.
"Back up!" he roared. "Back up, I tell you! You needn't look at
me that way," he added, in a lower tone. "_I_ can't help it. You
ain't any worse ashamed than I am. There! the ark's off the ways.
All aboard!"
Turning to the expectant widow, he "boosted" her, not too tenderly,
up to the narrow seat. Then he climbed in himself. Two on that
seat made a tight fit. Bailey took up the reins. Debby leaned
forward and peered around the edge of the curtains.
"You!" she shouted. "You, Miss What's-your-name--Dorcas! Come
here a minute. I want to tell you somethin'."
The schoolmistress, her face red and her eyes moist, approached.
"I just wanted to say," explained Debby, "that I ain't real sure as
that diary's there. I burnt up a lot of my old letters and things
a spell ago, and seems to me I burnt some old diaries, too, but
maybe that wan't one of 'em. Anyhow, I can get them Arizona
papers, and I do want you to see 'em. They're the most INTERESTIN'
things. Now," she added, turning to her companion on the seat,
"you can git dap just as soon as you want to."
Whether or not Mr. Bangs wanted to "git dap" is a doubtful
question. But at all events he did. Before the astonished Miss
Dawes could think of an answer to the observation concerning the
diary, the carriage, its long unused axles shrieking protests,
moved out of the yard. The schoolmistress watched it go. Then she
returned to the sitting room and collapsed in a rocking chair.
Once out from the shelter of the house and on the open road, the
sulky received the full force of the wind. The first gust that
howled in from the bay struck its curtained side with a sudden
burst of power that caused Mrs. Beasley to clutch her driver's arm.
"Good land of mercy!" she screamed. "It blows real hard, don't
it?"
Mr. Bangs's answer was in the form of delicate sarcasm, bellowed
into the ear trumpet.
"Sho!" he exclaimed. "I want to know! You don't say! Now you
mention it, seems as if I had noticed a little air stirrin'."
Another gust tilted the carriage top. Debby clutched the arm still
tighter.
"Why, it blows awful hard!" she cried. "I'd no idee it blew like
this."
"Want to 'bout ship and go home again?" whooped Bailey, hopefully.
But the widow didn't intend to give up the rare luxury of a "ride"
which a kind Providence had cast in her way.
"No, no!" she answered. "I guess if you folks come all the way
from Bayport I can stand it as fur's the Center. But hurry all you
can, won't you? I'm kind of 'fraid of the springs."
"Springs? What springs? Let go my arm, will you? It's goin' to
sleep."
Mrs. Beasley let go of the arm momentarily.
"I mean the springs on this carriage," she explained. "Last time
I lent it to anybody--Solon Davis, 'twas--he said the bolts
underneath was pretty nigh rusted out, and about all that held the
wagon part on was its own weight. So we'll have to be kind of
careful."
"Well--I--swan--to--MAN!" was Mr. Bangs's sole comment on the
amazing disclosure; however, as an expression of concentrated and
profound disgust it was quite sufficient. He spoke but once during
the remainder of the trip to the "Center." Then, when his
passenger begged to know if "that Whittaker man" had been well
since she left, he shouted: "Yes--EVER since," and relapsed into
his former gloomy silence.
The widow's stop at the Atwood house, which was in the immediate
rear of the Atwood store, was of a half hour's duration. Bailey
refused to leave the seat of the sulky and sat there, speaking to
no one; not even replying to the questions of a group of loungers
who gathered to inspect the ancient vehicle, and professed to be
in doubt as to whether it had been washed in with the tide or been
"left" to him in a will.
At last Debby made her appearance, her arms filled with newspapers.
The latter she piled under the carriage seat, and then climbed to
her former place beside the driver. Henry, in response to a slap
from the reins, got under way once more. The axles squeaked and
screamed.
"Gee!" cried one youngster, from the steps of the store. "It's the
steam calliope. When's the rest of the show comin'?"
"Hi!" yelled another. "See how close they're hugged up together.
Ain't they lovin'! It's a weddin'!"
"Shut up!" roared the tortured Bailey, whose hat had blown back
into the body of the sulky, leaving his bald head exposed to the
cutting wind.
The audience begged him to give them a lock of his hair, and added
other remarks of a personal nature concerning the youth and beauty
of the bridal couple and their chariot. Mr. Bangs was in a state
of dumb frenzy. Debby, who, without her trumpet, had heard nothing
of all this, was smiling and garrulous.
"I found all the papers," she said. "They're right under the seat.
I'm goin' to look 'em over so's to have the interestin' parts all
ready to show Miss Dorcas when we get home. Ain't it nice I found
'em?"
In spite of her driver's remonstrances, unheard because of the
nonadjustment of the trumpet, she reached under the seat and
brought out the pile of Blazeton weeklies. With her feet upon the
pile to keep it from blowing away, she proceeded to unfold one of
the papers. It crackled and snapped in the wind like a loose
mainsail.
"Keep that dratted thing out of my face, won't you?" shrieked the
agonized Bailey. "How'm I goin' to see to steer with that smackin'
me between the eyes every other second?"
"Hey? Did you speak to me?" asked the widow sweetly.
"Did I SPEAK? No, I screeched! What in tunket--"
"I want you to see this picture of the mayor's house in Blazeton.
Eva, my husband's niece, lives right acrost the road from him.
Many's the time I've set on their piazza and seen him come out and
go to the City Hall."
"Keep it out of my face, I tell you! Reef it! Furl it, you--you
woman! I wish to thunder the piazza had caved in on you! I never
see such an old fool in my born days. TAKE IT AWAY!"
Mrs. Beasley removed the paper, but only to substitute another.
"Here's Eva's brother-in-law," she screamed. "He's one of the
prominent business men out there, so they put him in the paper.
Ain't he nice lookin'?"
Bailey's comments on the prominent business man's appearance were
anything but flattering. Debby continued to reach for more papers,
carefully replacing those she had inspected in the pile beneath her
feet. The wind blew as hard as ever; even harder, for it was now
almost dead ahead. Henry plodded along. They were in the hollow
at the foot of the last long hill, that from which the blacksmith
shop had first been sighted.
"I know what I'll do," declared the passenger. "I'll hunt for that
missin' husband advertisement of Desire Higgins's. Let's see now!
'Twill be down at the bottom of the pile, 'cause the paper it's in
is a last year one."
She bobbed down behind the high dashboard. Mr. Bangs stood up in
order that her gymnastics might interfere, to a lesser degree, with
his driving. The equipage began to move up the slope of the hill,
bouncing and twisting in the frozen ruts.
"Here 'tis!" exclaimed Debby. "I remember it's in this number,
'cause there's a picture of the Palace Hotel on the front page.
Let's see--'Dog lost'--no, that ain't it. 'Corner lot for sale'--
wish I had money enough to buy it; I'd like nothin' better than to
live out there. 'Information wanted of my husband'--Here 'tis!
Um--hum!"
She straightened up and eagerly began reading the advertisement.
The hill was very steep just at its top, and the sulky slanted
backward at a sharp angle. A terrific burst of wind tore around
the corner of the bluff. It eddied through the sulky between the
dashboard and the curtained sides. The widow, in her excitement at
finding the advertisement, had inadvertently removed her feet from
the pile of papers. In an instant the air was filled with whirling
copies of the Blazeton Weekly Courier.
Henry, the horse, was a sober animal who had long ago reached the
age of discretion. But to have his old ears and eyes suddenly
blanketed with a flapping white thing swooping apparently from
nowhere was too much even for his sedate nerves. He jumped
sidewise. The reins were jerked from the driver's hands and fell
in the road.
"Mercy on us!" shrieked Debby, clutching her companion about the
waist. "What--"
"Let go of me!" howled Bailey, pushing her violently aside. "Whoa!
Stand still!"
But Henry refused to stand still. The flapping paper still clung
to his agitated head. He reared and pranced, jerking the sulky
back and forth, its wheels still wedged in the ruts. Bailey sprang
to the ground to pick up the reins. He seized them, but fell as he
did so. The tug at his bits turned Henry's head, literally and
figuratively. He reared and whirled about. The sulky rose on two
wheels. The screaming Mrs. Beasley collapsed against its downward
side. Another moment, and the whole upper half of the sulky--body,
seat, curtains, and Debby--tilted over the lower wheels, and, the
rusted bolts failing to hold, slid with a thump to the frozen road.
The wind, catching it underneath as it slid, tipped it backward.
Then Henry ran away.
Miss Dawes, left alone in the house at the foot of the hill, had
amused herself for a time with the Beasley library, which partially
filled a shelf in the sitting room. But "The Book of Martyrs" and
"A Believer's Thoughts on Death" were not cheering literature,
particularly as the author of the latter volume "thought" so
dismally concerning the future of all who did not believe precisely
as he did. So the teacher laid down the book, with a shudder, and
wandered about the room, inspecting the late Mr. Beasley's
portrait, the photographs in splintwork frames, the "alum basket"
on the mantel, the blue castles, blue trees, and blue people
pictured on the window shades, and other works of art in the
apartment. She even peeped into the parlor, but the musty, shut-up
smell of that dusky tomb was too much for her, and she sat down by
the sitting-room window, under the empty bird cage, to look up the
road and watch for the return of the sulky and its occupants.
Sitting there, she was a witness of the alarming catastrophe on the
hilltop, and reached the front gate just in time to see Henry go
galloping by, dragging the four wheels and springs of the sulky,
while, sprawled across the rear axle and still clinging to the
reins, hung a familiar, howling, and most wickedly profane
individual by the name of Bangs.
The runaway dashed on toward the blacksmith shop. Phoebe,
bareheaded and coatless, ran up the hill. Before she reached the
crest, she was aware of muffled screams, which sounded as if the
screamer was shut up in a trunk.
"O-o-oh!" screamed Mrs. Beasley. "O-o-oh! Ow! Let me out! Help!
I'm stuck! My back's broke! He-e-lp!"
The upper part of the sulky, with its boxlike curtained top, lay on
its side in the road. From somewhere within the box came the
groans and screams. The gale swept the hilltop, and, for a quarter
mile to leeward, the scenery was animated by soaring, fluttering
copies of the Blazeton Courier, that swooped and ducked like
mammoth white butterflies.
The panting and alarmed teacher stooped and peered into the dark
shadow between the dashboard and the back curtain. All she could
make out at first were a pair of thin ankles and "Congress" shoes
in agitated motion. These bobbed up and down behind the overturned
seat and its displaced cushion.
"O Mrs. Beasley!" screamed Phoebe. "Are you hurt?"
Debby, of course, did not hear the question. She continued to
groan and scream for help. Her lungs were not injured, at all
events. The schoolmistress, dropping on her knees, reached into
the sulky top and tugged at the seat. It was rather tightly
wedged, but she managed to loosen it and pull it toward her.
The widow raised herself on an elbow and looked out between the
flowers of her smashed bonnet.
"Who is it?" she demanded. "Oh, is that you, Miss Dorcas? Oh, my
soul and body! Oh, my stars! Oh, my goodness me!"
"Are you hurt?" shrieked Phoebe.
"Hey? I don't know! I don't know WHAT I be! I don't know
nothin'!"
"Can you help yourself? Can you get up?"
"Hey? I don't know. Maybe I can if you haul that everlastin' seat
out of the way. Oh, my sakes alive!"
Her rescuer pulled the seat forward, and, with an effort, tumbled
it clear of the curtains. Debby raised herself still higher.
"Oh!" she groaned. "Talk about-- Land sakes! who's comin'? Men,
ain't it? Let me out of here quick! QUICK!"
She scrambled out of her prison on hands and knees, and jumped to
her feet with reassuring alacrity. Her fur-collared cape was
draped in a roll about her neck, and her bonnet hung jauntily over
her left eye.
"I'm a sight, ain't I?" she asked. "Haul this bunnet straight,
quick's ever you can. Hurt? No, no! I ain't hurt none but my
feelin's. Hurry UP! S'pose I want them men folks to see me with
everything all hind side to?"
Miss Dawes, relieved to find that the accident had had no serious
consequences, and trying her hardest not to laugh, assisted the
widow to rearrange her wearing apparel. The blacksmith and his
helper came running up the hill.
"Hello, Debby!" hailed the former. "What's the matter? Hurt, be
you?"
Mrs. Beasley, whether she heard or not, did not deign to reply.
"Get my horn out of that carriage," she ordered. "Don't stand
there gapin'. Get it."
The ear trumpet was resurrected from the interior of the vehicle.
The widow adjusted it with dignity.
"Had a spill, didn't you, Debby?" inquired the blacksmith. "Upset,
didn't you?"
Debby glared at him.
"No," she replied with sarcasm. "Course I didn't upset! Just
thought I'd roll round in the road for the fun of it. Smart
question, that is! Where's that Bailey Bangs gone to with the rest
of my carriage?"
The blacksmith pointed to his shop in the hollow. Before it stood
Mr. Bangs, holding Henry by the bridle, and staring in their
direction.
"He's all right," volunteered the "helper." "The horse stopped
runnin' soon's he got to the foot of the next hill."
Mrs. Beasley was not, apparently, overjoyed at the news.
"Humph!" she grunted. "I 'most wish he'd broke his neck! Pesky,
careless thing! gettin' us run away with and upset. Who's goin' to
pay for fixin' my sulky, I want to know?"
"Mr. Bangs will pay for it, I'm sure," said Phoebe soothingly. "If
he doesn't, I will. Oh, Mrs. Beasley! did you find the diary?"
"Diary? No, no! I told you I was afraid I'd burnt it up. Well, I
had, and a whole lot more of them old ones. But I did get all them
Arizona papers, and took the trouble to tote 'em all the way here
so's you could look at 'em. And now"--she shook with indignation
and waved her hand toward a section of horizon where little white
dots indicated the whereabouts of the Couriers--"now look where
they be! Blowed from Dan to Beersheby! Come on to the house and
let me set down. I been standin' on my head till I'm tired. Here,
Jabez," to the blacksmith, "you tend to that carriage, will you?"
She stalked off down the hill. The schoolmistress turning to
follow her, caught a glimpse of the "helper" doubled up with silent
laughter, and the blacksmith grinning broadly as he stooped toward
the capsized sulky.
Phoebe was downcast and disappointed. She was convinced, in her
own mind, that the Honorable Atkins had some hidden motive for his
espousal of the Thomas cause. Asaph's fruitless quest in Orham had
not shaken her faith. Captain Cy had refused to seek Debby Beasley
for information concerning the Thayers, and so she, on her own
responsibility, had done so. And this was the ridiculous ending of
her journey. The diary had been a forlorn hope; now that was
burned. Poor Bos'n! and poor--some one else!
Debby marching down the hill, continued to sputter about the lost
weeklies.
"It's an everlastin' shame!" she declared. "I'd just found the one
with that advertisement in it and was readin' it. I remember the
part I read, plain as could be. While we're eatin' dinner I'll
tell you about it."
But Miss Dawes did not care for dinner. Like Mr. Tidditt and the
captain, she had had about all the Debby Beasley she wanted.
"Yes, yes, you will stop, too," affirmed the widow. "I want to
tell you more about Blazeton. I can see that advertisement this
minute, right afore my eyes--'Information wanted of my husband,
Edward Higgins. Five foot eight inches tall, sandy complected,
brown hair, and yellowish mustache; not lame, but has a peculiar
slight limp with his left foot--'"
"What?" asked the schoolmistress, stopping short.
"Hey? 'Has a peculiar limp with his left foot.' I remember how
Desire used to talk about that limp. She said 'twas almost as if
he stuttered with his leg. He hurt it when he was up in Montana,
and--"
"Oh!" cried Miss Dawes. The color had left her face.
"Yes. You see he used to be a miner or somethin' up there. He'd
never say much about his younger days, but one time he did tell
that. I'd just got as far as that limp when the sulky upset. Talk
about bein' surprised! I never was so surprised in my life as when
that horse critter rared up and--"
Phoebe interrupted. Her color had come back, and her eyes were
shining.
"Mrs. Beasley," she cried, "I think I shall change my mind. I
believe I will stay to dinner after all. I'm EVER so much
interested in Arizona."
Bailey and the teacher began their long drive home about four
o'clock. The buggy axle had been fixed, and the wind was less
violent. Mr. Bangs was glum and moody. He seemed to be thinking.
"Say, teacher," he said at length, "I'd like to ask a favor of you.
If it ain't necessary, I wish you wouldn't say nothin' about that
upsettin' business to the folks to home. It does sound so dum
foolish! I'll never hear the last of it."
Miss Dawes, who had been in high spirits, now took a moment for
reflection.
"All right!" she said, nodding vigorously. "We won't mention it,
then. We won't tell a soul. You can say that I called at the
Atwoods', if you want to; that will be true, because I did. And
we'll have Mrs. Beasley for our secret--yours and mine--until we
decide to tell. It's a bargain, Mr. Bangs. We must shake hands on
it."
They shook hands, and Bailey, looking in her face, thought he never
saw her look so well or as young. She was pretty, he decided.
Then he thought of his own choice of a wife, and--well, if he had
any regrets, he hasn't mentioned them, not even to his fellow-
member of the Board of Strategy.
CHAPTER XVII
THE CAPTAIN REMEMBERS HIS AGE
December was nearly over. Christmas had come. Bos'n had hung up
her stocking by the base-burner stove, and found it warty and
dropsical the next morning, with a generous overflow of gifts piled
on the floor beneath it. The Board of Strategy sent presents; so
did Miss Dawes and Georgianna. As for Captain Cy he spent many
evening hours, after the rest of his household was in bed, poring
over catalogues of toys and books, and the orders he sent to the
big shops in Boston were lengthy and costly. The little girl's
eyes opened wide when she saw the stocking and the treasures heaped
on the floor. She sat in her "nighty" amidst the wonders, books,
and playthings in a circle about her, and the biggest doll of all
hugged close in her arms. Captain Cy, who had arisen at half past
five in order to be with her on the great occasion, was at least as
happy as she.
"Like 'em, do you?" he asked, smiling.
"like 'em! O Uncle Cy! What makes everybody so good to me?"
"I don't know. Strange thing, ain't it--considerin' what a hard
little ticket you are."
Bos'n laughed. She understood her "Uncle Cy," and didn't mind
being called a "hard ticket" by him.
"I--I--didn't believe anybody COULD have such a nice Christmas. I
never saw so many nice things."
"Humph! What do you like best?"
The answer was a question, and was characteristic.
"Which did you give me?" asked Bos'n.
The captain would have dodged, but she wouldn't let him. So one by
one the presents he had given were indicated and put by themselves.
The remainder were but few, but she insisted that the givers of
these should be named. When the sorting was over she sat silently
hugging her doll and, apparently, thinking.
"Well?" inquired the amused captain. "Made up your mind yet?
Which do you like best?"
The child nodded.
"Why, these, of course," she declared with emphasis, pointing with
her dollie's slippered foot at Captain Cy's pile.
"So? Do, hey? Didn't know I could pick so well. All right; the
first prize is mine. Who takes the second?"
This time Bos'n deliberated before answering. At last, however,
she bent forward and touched the teacher's gifts.
"These," she said. "I like these next best."
Captain Cy was surprised.
"Sho!" he exclaimed. "You don't say!"
"Yes. I think I like teacher next to you. I like Georgianna and
Mr. Tidditt and Mr. Bangs, of course, but I like her a little
better. Don't you, uncle Cyrus?"
The captain changed the subject. He asked her what she should name
her doll.
The Board of Strategy came in during the forenoon, and the presents
had to be shown to them. While the exhibition was in progress Miss
Dawes called. And before she left Gabe Lumley drove up in the
depot wagon bearing a big express package addressed to "Miss Emily
Thomas, Bayport."
"Humph!" exclaimed Captain Cy. "Somethin' more for Bos'n, hey!
Who in the world sent it, do you s'pose?"
Asaph and Bailey made various inane suggestions as to the sender.
Phoebe said nothing. There was a frown on her face as she watched
the captain get to work on the box with chisel and hammer. It
contained a beautiful doll, fully and expensively dressed, and
pinned to the dress was a card--"To dear little Emmie, from her
lonesome Papa."
The Board of Strategy looked at the doll in wonder and astonishment.
Captain Cy strode away to the window.
"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bangs. "I didn't believe he had that much
heart inside of him. I bet you that cost four or five dollars;
ain't that so, Cy?"
The captain did not answer.
"Don't you think so, teacher?" repeated Bailey, turning to Phoebe.
"What ails you? You don't seem surprised."
"I'm not," replied the lady. "I expected something of that sort."
Captain Cy wheeled from the window.
"You DID?" he asked.
"Yes. Miss Phinney said the other day she had heard that that man
was going to give his daughter a beautiful present. She was very
enthusiastic about his generosity and self-sacrifice. I asked who
told her and she said Mr. Simpson."
"Oh! Tad? Is that so!" The captain looked at her.
"Yes. And I think there is no doubt that Simpson had orders to
make the 'generosity' known to as many townspeople as possible."
"Hum! I see. You figure that Thomas cal'lates 'twill help his
popularity and make his case stronger; is that it?"
"Not exactly. I doubt if he ever thought of such a thing himself.
But some one thought for him--and some one must have supplied the
money."
"Well, they say he's to work up in Boston."
"I know. But no one can tell where he works. Captain Whittaker,
this is Mr. Atkins's doing--you know it. Now, WHY does he, a busy
man, take such an interest in getting this child away from you?"
Captain Cy shook his head and smiled.
"Teacher," he said, "you're dead set on taggin' Heman with a
mystery, ain't you?"
"Miss Dawes," asked the forgetful Bailey, "when you and me went
drivin' t'other day did you find out anything from--"
Phoebe interrupted quickly.
"Mr. Bangs," she said, "at what time do we distribute Christmas
presents at your boarding house? I suppose you must have many
Christmas secrets to keep. You keep a secret SO well."
Mr. Bangs turned red. The hint concerning secret keeping was not
wasted. He did not mention the drive again.
A little later Captain Cy found Bos'n busily playing with the doll
he had given her. The other, her father's gift, was nowhere in
sight.
"I put her back in the box," said the child in reply to his
question. "She was awful pretty, but I think I'm goin' to love
this one best."
The remark seems a foolish thing to give comfort to a grown man,
but Captain Cy found comfort in it, and comfort was what he needed.
He needed it more as time went on. In January the court gave its
decision. The captain's appointment as guardian was revoked. With
the father alive, and professedly anxious to provide for the
child's support, nothing else was to be expected, so Mr. Peabody
said. The latter entered an appeal which would delay matters for a
time, two or three months perhaps; meanwhile Captain Cy was to
retain custody of Bos'n.
But the court's action, expected though it was, made the captain
very blue and downcast. He could see no hope. He felt certain
that he should lose the little girl in the end, in spite of the
long succession of appeals which his lawyer contemplated. And what
would become of her then? What sort of training would she be
likely to have? Who would her associates be, under the authority
of a father such as hers? And what would he do, alone in the old
house, when she had gone for good? He could not bear to think of
it, and yet he thought of little else.
The evenings, after Bos'n had gone to bed, were the worst. During
the day he tried his best to be busy at something or other. The
doll house was finished, and he had begun to fashion a full-rigged
ship in miniature. In reality Emily, being a normal little girl,
was not greatly interested in ships, but, because Uncle Cy was
making it, she pretended to be vastly concerned about this one. On
Saturdays and after school hours she sat on a box in the wood shed,
where the captain had put up a small stove, and watched him work.
The taboo which so many of our righteous and Atkins-worshiping
townspeople had put upon the Whittaker place and its occupants
included her, and a number of children had been forbidden to play
with her. This, however, did not prevent their tormenting her
about her father and her disreputable guardian.
But the captain's evenings were miserable. He no longer went to
Simmons's. He didn't care for the crowd there, and knew they were
all "down" on him. Josiah Dimick called occasionally, and the
Board of Strategy often, but their conversation was rather
tiresome. There were times when Captain Cy hated Bayport, the
house he had "fixed up" with such interest and pride, and the old
sitting room in particular. The mental picture of comfort and
contentment which had been his dream through so many years of
struggle and wandering, looked farther off than ever. Sometimes he
was tempted to run away, taking Bos'n with him. But the captain
had never run away from a fight yet; he had never abandoned a ship
while there was a chance of keeping her afloat. And, besides,
there was another reason.
Phoebe Dawes had come to be his chief reliance. He saw a great
deal of her. Often when she walked home from school, she found him
hanging over the front gate, and they talked of various things--of
Bos'n's progress with her studies, of the school work, and similar
topics. He called her by her first name now, although in this
there was nothing unusual--after a few weeks' acquaintance we
Bayporters almost invariably address people by their "front" names.
Sometimes she came to the house with Emily. Then the three sat by
the stove in the sitting room, and the apartment became really
cheerful, in the captain's eyes.
Phoebe was in good spirits. She was as hopeful as Captain Cy was
despondent. She seemed to have little fear of the outcome of the
legal proceedings, the appeals and the rest. In fact, she now
appeared desirous of evading the subject, and there was about her
an air of suppressed excitement. Her optimism was the best sort of
bracer for the captain's failing courage. Her advice was always
good, and a talk with her left him with shoulders squared,
mentally, and almost happy.
One cold, rainy afternoon, early in February, she came in with
Bos'n, who had availed herself of the shelter of the teacher's
umbrella. Georgianna was in the kitchen baking, and Emily had been
promised a "saucer pie"--so the child went out to superintend the
construction of that treat.
"Set down, teacher," said Captain Cy, pushing forward a rocker.
"My! but I'm glad to see you. 'Twas bluer'n a whetstone 'round
here to-day. What's the news--anything?"
"Why, no," replied Phoebe, accepting the rocker and throwing open
her wet jacket; "there's no news in particular. But I wanted to
ask if you had seen the Breeze?"
"Um--hum," was the listless answer. "I presume likely you mean the
news about the appropriation, and the editorial dig at yours truly?
Yes, I've seen it. They don't bother me much. I've got more
important things on my mind just now."
Congressman Atkins's pledge in his farewell speech, concerning the
mighty effort he was to make toward securing the appropriation for
Bayport harbor, was in process of fulfillment--so he had written to
the local paper. But, alas! the mighty effort was likely to prove
unavailing. In spite of the Honorable Heman's battle for his
constituents' rights it seemed certain that the bill would not
provide the thirty thousand dollars for Bayport; at least, not this
year's bill. Other and more powerful interests would win out and,
instead, another section of the coast be improved at the public
expense. The congressman was deeply sorry, almost broken-hearted.
he had battled hard for his beloved town, he had worked night and
day. But, to be perfectly frank, there was little or no hope.
Few of us blamed Heman Atkins. The majority considered his letter
"noble" and "so feeling." But some one must be blamed for a
community disappointment like this, and the scapegoat was on the
premises. How about that "committee of one" self-appointed at town
meeting? How about the blatant person who had declared HE could
have gotten the appropriation? What had the "committee" done?
Nothing! nothing at all! He had not even written to the Capital--
so far as anyone could find out--much less gone there.
So, at Simmons's and the sewing circle, and after meeting on
Sunday, Cy Whittaker was again discussed and derided. And this
week's Breeze, out that morning, contained a sarcastic editorial
which mentioned no names, but hinted at "a certain now notorious
person" who had boasted loudly, but who had again "been weighed in
the balance of public opinion and found wanting."
Miss Dawes did not seem pleased with the captain's nonchalant
attitude toward the Breeze and its editorial. She tapped the
braided mat with her foot.
"Captain Cyrus," she said, "if you intended doing nothing toward
securing that appropriation why did you accept the responsibility
for it at the meeting?"
Captain Cy looked up. Her tone reminded him of their first
meeting, when she had reproved him for going to sleep and leaving
Bos'n to the mercy of the Cahoon cow.
"Well," he said, "afore this Thomas business happened, to knock all
my plans on their beam ends, I'd done consider'ble thinkin' about
that appropriation. It seemed to me that there must be some reason
for Heman's comin' about so sudden. He was sartin sure of the
thirty thousand for a spell; then, all to once, he begun to take in
sail and go on t'other tack. I don't know much about politics, but
I know HE knows all the politics there is. And it seemed to me
that if a live man, one with eyes in his head, went to Washington
and looked around he might find the reason. And, if he did find
it, maybe Heman could be coaxed into changin' his mind again.
Anyhow, I was willin' to take the risk of tryin'; and, besides, Tad
and Abe Leonard had me on the griddle at that meetin', and I spoke
up sharp--too sharp, maybe."
"But you still believe that you MIGHT help if you went to
Washington?"
"Yes. I guess I do. Anyhow, I'd ask some pretty p'inted questions.
You see, I ain't lived here in Bayport all my life, and I don't
swaller ALL the bait Heman heaves overboard."
"Then why don't you go?"
"Hey? Why don't I go? And leave Bos'n and--"
"Emily would be all right and perfectly safe. Georgianna thinks
the world of her. And, Captain Whittaker, I don't like to hear
these people talk of you as they do. I don't like to read such
things in the paper, that you were only bragging in order to be
popular, and meant to shirk when the time came for action. I know
they're not true. I KNOW it!"
Captain Cy was gratified, and his gratification showed in his
voice.
"Thank you, Phoebe," he said. "I am much obliged to you. But, you
see, I don't take any interest in such things any more. When I
realize that pretty soon I've got to give up that little girl for
good I can't bear to be away from her a minute hardly. I don't
like to leave her here alone with Georgianna and--"
"I will keep an eye on her. You trust me, don't you?"
"Trust YOU? By the big dipper, you're about the only one I CAN
trust these days. I don't know how I'd have pulled through this if
you hadn't helped. You're diff'rent from Ase and Bailey and their
kind--not meanin' anything against them, either. But you're broad-
minded and cool-headed and--and-- Do you know, if I'd had a woman
like you to advise me all these years and keep me from goin' off
the course, I might have been somebody by now."
"I think you're somebody as it is."
"Don't talk that way. I own up I like to hear you, but I'm 'fraid
it ain't true. You say I amount to somethin'. Well, what? I come
back home here, with some money in my pocket, thinkin' that was
about all was necessary to make me a good deal of a feller. The
old Cy Whittaker place, I said to myself, was goin' to be a real Cy
Whittaker place again. And I'd be a real Whittaker, a man who
should stand for somethin', as my dad and granddad did afore me.
The town should respect me, and I'd do things to help it along.
And what's it all come to? Why, every young one on the street is
told to be good for fear he'll grow up like me. Ain't that so?
Course it's so! I'm--"
"You SHALL not speak so! Do you imagine that you're not respected
by everyone whose respect counts for anything? Yes, and by others,
too. Don't you suppose Mr. Atkins respects you, down in his heart--
if he has one? Doesn't your housekeeper, who sees you every day,
respect and like you? And little Emily--doesn't she love you more
than she does all the rest of us together?"
"Well, I guess Bos'n does care for the old man some, that's a fact.
She says she likes you next best, though. Did you know that?"
But Miss Dawes was indignant.
"Captain Whittaker," she declared, "one would think you were a
hundred years old to hear you. You are always calling yourself an
old man. Does Mr. Atkins call himself old? And he is older than
you."
"Well, I'm over fifty, Phoebe." In spite of the habit for which he
had just been reproached, the captain found this a difficult
statement to make.
"I know. But you're younger than most of us at thirty-five. You
see, I'm confessing, too," she added with a laugh and a little
blush.
Captain Cy made a mental calculation.
"Twenty years," he said musingly. "Twenty years is a long time.
No, I'm old. And worse than that, I'm an old fool, I guess. If I
hadn't been I'd have stayed in South America instead of comin' here
to be hooted out of the town I was born in."
The teacher stamped her foot.
"Oh, what SHALL I do with you!" she exclaimed. "It is wicked for
you to say such things. Do you suppose that Mr. Atkins would find
it necessary to work as he is doing to beat a fool? And, besides,
you're not complimentary to me. Should I, do you think, take such
an interest in one who was an imbecile?"
"Well, 'tis mighty good of you. Your comin' here so to help Bos'n's
fight along is--"
"How do you know it is Bos'n altogether? I--" She stopped
suddenly, and the color rushed to her face. She rose from the
rocker. "I--really, I don't see how we came to be discussing such
nonsense," she said. "Our ages and that sort of thing! Captain
Cyrus, I wish you would go to Washington. I think you ought to
go."
But the captain's thoughts were far from Washington at that moment.
His own face was alight, and his eyes shone.
"Phoebe," he faltered unbelievingly, "what was you goin' to say?
Do you mean that--that--"
The side door of the house opened. The next instant Mr. Tidditt, a
dripping umbrella in his hand, entered the sitting room.
"Hello, Whit!" he hailed. "Just run in for a minute to say howdy."
Then he noticed the schoolmistress, and his expression changed.
"Oh! how be you, Miss Dawes?" he said. "I didn't see you fust off.
Don't run away on my account."
"I was just going," said Phoebe, buttoning her jacket. Captain Cy
accompanied her to the door.
"Good-by," she said. "There was something else I meant to say, but
I think it is best to wait. I hope to have some good news for you
soon. Something that will send you to Washington with a light
heart. Perhaps I shall hear to-morrow. If so, I will call after
school and tell you."
"Yes, do," urged the captain eagerly. "You'll find me here
waitin'. Good news or not, do come. I--I ain't said all I wanted
to, myself."
He returned to the sitting room. The town clerk was standing by
the stove. He looked troubled.
"What's the row, Ase?" asked Cy cheerily. He was overflowing with
good nature.
"Oh, nothin' special," replied Mr. Tidditt. "You look joyful
enough for two of us. Had good company, ain't you?"
"Why, yes; 'bout as good as there is. What makes you look so
glum?"
Asaph hesitated.
"Phoebe was here yesterday, too, wan't she?" he asked.
"Yup. What of it?"
"And the day afore that?"
"No, not for three days afore that. But what OF it, I ask you?"
"Well, now, Cy, you mustn't get mad. I'm a friend of yours, and
friends ought to be able to say 'most anything to each other. If--
if I was you, I wouldn't let Phoebe come so often--not here, you
know, at your house. Course, I know she comes with Bos'n and all,
but--"
"Out with it!" The captain's tone was ominous. "What are you
drivin' at?"
The caller fidgeted.
"Well, Whit," he stammered, "there's consider'ble talkin' goin' on,
that's all."
"Talkin'? What kind of talkin'?"
"Well, you know the kind. This town does a good deal of it,
'specially after church and prayer meetin'. Seem's if they thought
'twas a sort of proper place. _I_ don't myself; I kind of like to
keep my charity and brotherly love spread out through the week,
but--"
"Ase, are the folks in this town sayin' a word against Phoebe Dawes
because she comes here to see--Bos'n?"
"Don't--don't get mad, Whit. Don't look at me like that. _I_
ain't said nothin'. Why, a spell ago, at the boardin' house, I--"
He told of the meal at the perfect boarding house where Miss Dawes
championed his friend's cause. Also of the conversation which
followed, and his own part in it. Captain Cy paced the floor.
"I wouldn't have her come so often, Cy," pleaded Asaph. "Honest, I
wouldn't. Course, you and me know they're mean, miser'ble liars,
but it's her I'm thinkin' of. She's a young woman and single. And
you're a good many years older'n she is. And so, of course, you
and she ain't ever goin' to get married. And have you thought what
effect it might have on her keepin' her teacher's place? The
committee's a majority against her as 'tis. And--you know _I_
don't think so, but a good many folks do--you ain't got the best
name just now. Darn it all! I ain't puttin' this the way I'd
ought to, but YOU know what I mean, don't you, Cy?"
Captain Cy was leaning against the window frame, his head upon his
arm. He was not looking out, because the shade was drawn. Tidditt
waited anxiously for him to answer. At last he turned.
"Ase," he said, "I'm much obliged to you. You've pounded it in
pretty hard, but I cal'late I'd ought to have had it done to me.
I'm a fool--an OLD fool, just as I said a while back--and nothin'
nor NOBODY ought to have made me forget it. For a minute or so I--
but there! don't you fret. That young woman shan't risk her job
nor her reputation on account of me--nor of Bos'n, either. I'll
see to that. And see here," he added fiercely, "I can't stop
women's tongues, even when they're as bad as some of the tongues in
this town, BUT if you hear a MAN say one word against Phoebe Dawes,
only one word, you tell me his name. You hear, Ase? You tell me
his name. Now run along, will you? I ain't safe company just
now."
Asaph, frightened at the effect of his words, hurriedly departed.
Captain Cy paced the room for the next fifteen minutes. Then he
opened the kitchen door.
"Bos'n," he called, "come in and set in my lap a while; don't you
want to? I'm--I'm sort of lonesome, little girl."
The next afternoon, when the schoolmistress, who had been delayed
by the inevitable examination papers, stopped at the Cy Whittaker
place, she was met by Georgianna; Emily, who stood behind the
housekeeper in the doorway, was crying.
"Cap'n Cy has gone away--to Washin'ton," declared Georgianna.
"Though what he's gone there for's more'n I know. He said he'd
send his hotel address soon's he got there. He went on the three
o'clock train."
Phoebe was astonished.
"Gone?" she repeated. "So soon! Why, he told me he should
certainly be here to hear some news I expected to-day. Didn't he
leave any message for me?"
The housekeeper turned red.
"Miss Phoebe," she said, "he told me to tell you somethin', and
it's so dreadful I don't hardly dast to say it. I think his
troubles have driven him crazy. He said to tell you that you'd
better not come to this house any more."
CHAPTER XVIII
CONGRESSMAN EVERDEAN
In the old days, the great days of sailing ships and land merchant
fleets, Bayport was a community of travelers. Every ambitious man
went to sea, and eventually, if he lived, became a captain. Then
he took his wife, and in most cases his children, with him on long
voyages. To the stay-at-homes came letters with odd, foreign
stamps and postmarks. Our what-nots and parlor mantels were filled
with carved bits of ivory, gorgeous shells, alabaster candlesticks,
and plaster miniatures of the Leaning Tower at Pisa or the Coliseum
at Rome. We usually began a conversation with "When my husband and
I were at Hong Kong the last time--" or "I remember at Mauritius
they always--" New Orleans or 'Frisco were the nearest domestic
ports the mention of which was considered worth while.
But this is so no longer. A trip to Boston is, of course, no
novelty to the most of us; but when we visit New York we take care
to advertise it beforehand. And the few who avail themselves of
the spring "cut rates" and go on excursions to Washington, plan
definite programmes for each day at the Capital, and discuss them
with envious friends for weeks in advance. And if the prearranged
programme is not scrupulously carried out, we feel that we have
been defrauded. It was the regret of Aunt Sophronia Hallett's life
that, on her Washington excursion, she had not seen the "Diplomatic
Corpse." She saw the President and the Monument and Congress and
"the relics in the Smithsonian Institute," but the "Corpse" was not
on view; Aunt Sophronia never quite got over the disappointment.
Probably no other Bayporter, in recent years, has started for
Washington on such short notice or with so ill-defined a programme
as Captain Cy. He went because he felt that he must go somewhere.
After the conversation with Asaph, he simply could not remain at
home. If Phoebe Dawes called, he knew that he must see her, and if
he saw her, what should he say to her? He could not tell her that
she must not visit the Cy Whittaker place again. If he did, she
would insist upon the reason. If he told her of the "town talk,"
he felt sure, knowing her, that she would indignantly refuse to
heed the malicious gossip. And he was firmly resolved not to
permit her to compromise her life and her future by friendship with
a social outcast like himself. As for anything deeper and more
sacred than friendship, that was ridiculous. If, for a moment, a
remark of hers had led him to dream of such a thing, it was because
he was, as he had so often declared, an "old fool."
So Captain Cy had resolved upon flight, and he fled to Washington
because the business of the "committee of one" offered a legitimate
excuse for going there. The blunt message he had intrusted to
Georgianna would, he believed, arouse Phoebe's indignation. She
would not call again. And when he returned to Bos'n, it would be
to take up the child's fight alone. If he lost that fight, or WHEN
he lost it, he would close the Cy Whittaker place, and leave
Bayport for good.
He had been in Washington once before, years ago, when he was first
mate of a ship and had a few weeks' shore leave. Then he went
there on a pleasure trip with some seagoing friends, and had a
jolly time. But there was precious little jollity in the present
visit. He had never felt so thoroughly miserable. In order to
forget, he made up his mind to work his hardest to discover why the
harbor appropriation was not to be given to Bayport.
The city had changed greatly. He would scarcely have known it.
He went to the hotel where he had stayed before, and found a big,
modern building in its place. The clerk was inclined to be rather
curt and perfunctory at first, but when he learned that the captain
was not anxious concerning the price of accommodations, but merely
wanted a "comf'table berth somewheres on the saloon deck," and
appeared to have plenty of money, he grew polite. Captain Cy was
shown to his room, where he left his valise. Then he went down to
dinner.
After the meal was over, he seated himself in one of the big
leather chairs in the hotel lobby, smoked and thought. In the
summer, before Bos'n came, and before her father had arisen to
upset every calculation and wreck all his plans, the captain had
given serious thought to what he should do if Congressman Atkins
failed, as even then he seemed likely to do, in securing that
appropriation. The obvious thing, of course, would have been to
hunt up Mr. Atkins and question him. But this was altogether too
obvious. In the first place, the strained relations between them
would make the interview uncomfortable; and, in the second, if
there was anything underhand in Heman's backsliding on the
appropriation, Atkins was too wary a bird to be snared with
questions.
But Captain Cy had another acquaintance in the city, the son of a
still older acquaintance, who had been a wealthy shipping merchant
and mine owner in California. The son was also a congressman, from
a coast State, and the captain had read of him in the papers. A
sketch of his life had been printed, and this made his identity
absolutely certain. Captain Cy's original idea had been to write
to this congressman. Now he determined to find and interview him.
He inquired concerning him of the hotel clerk, who, like all
Washington clerks, was a walking edition of "Who's Who at the
Capital."
"Congressman Everdean?" repeated the all-knowing young gentleman.
"Yes. He's in town. Has rooms at the Gloria; second hotel on the
right as you go up the avenue. Only a short walk. What can I do
for you, sir?"
The Gloria was an even bigger hotel than the one where the captain
had his "berth." An inquiry at the desk, of another important
clerk, was answered with a brisk:
"Mr. Everdean? Yes, he rooms here. Don't know whether he's in or
not. Evening, judge. Nice Winter weather we're having."
The judge, who was a ponderous person vaguely suggesting the great
Heman, admitted that the weather was fine, patronizing it as he did
so. The clerk continued the conversation. Captain Cy waited. At
length he spoke.
"Excuse me, commodore," he said; "I don't like to break in until
you've settled whether you have it snow or not, but I'm here to see
Congressman Everdean. Hadn't you better order one of your fo'mast
hands to hunt him up?"
The judge condescended to smile, as did several other men who stood
near. The clerk reddened.
"Do you want to see Mr. Everdean?" he snapped.
"Why, yes, I did. But I can't see him from here without strainin'
my eyesight."
The clerk sharply demanded one of the captain's visiting cards. He
didn't get one, for the very good reason that there was none in
existence.
"Tell him an old friend of his dad's is here on the main deck
waitin' for him," said Captain Cy. "That'll do first rate. Thank
you, admiral."
Word came that the congressman would be down in a few moments. The
captain beguiled the interval by leaning on the rail and regarding
the clerk with an awed curiosity that annoyed its object exceedingly.
The inspection was still on when a tall man, of an age somewhere
in the early thirties, walked briskly up to the desk.
"Who is it that wants to see me?" he asked.
The clerk waved a deprecatory hand in Captain Cy's direction. The
newcomer turned.
"My name is Everdean," he said. "Are you--hey?--Great Scott! Is
it possible this is Captain Whittaker?"
The captain was immensely pleased.
"Well, I declare, Ed!" he exclaimed. "I didn't believe you'd
remember me after all these years. You was nothin' but a boy when
I saw you out in 'Frisco. Well! well! No wonder you're in
Congress. A man that can remember faces like that ought to be
President."
Everdean laughed as they shook hands.
"Don't suppose I'd forget the chap who used to dine with us and
tell me those sea stories, do you?" he said. "I'm mighty glad to
see you. What are you doing here? The last father and I heard of
you, you were in South America. Given up the sea, they said, and
getting rich fast."
Captain Cy chuckled.
"It's a good thing I learned long ago not to believe all I hear,"
he answered, "else I'd have been so sure I was rich that I'd have
spent all I had, and been permanent boarder at the poorhouse by
now. No, thanks; I've had dinner. Why, yes, I'll smoke, if you'll
help along. How's your father? Smart, is he?"
The congressman insisted that they should adjourn to his rooms. An
unmarried man, he kept bachelor's hall at the hotel during his stay
in Washington. There, in comfortable chairs, they spoke of old
times, when the captain was seafaring and the Everdean home had
been his while his ship was in port at 'Frisco. He told of his
return to Bayport, and the renovation of the old house. Of Bos'n
he said nothing. At last Everdean asked what had brought him to
Washington.
"Well," said Captain Cy, "I'll tell you. I'm like the feller in
court without a lawyer; he said he couldn't tell whether he was
guilty or not 'count of havin' no professional advice. That's what
I've come to you for, Ed--professional advice."
He told the harbor appropriation story. At the incident of the
"committee of one" his friend laughed heartily.
"Rather put your foot in it that time, Captain, didn't you?" he
said.
"Yup. Then I got t'other one stuck tryin' to get the first clear.
How's it look to you? All straight, do you think? or is there a
nigger in the wood pile?"
Mr. Everdean seemed to reflect.
"Well, Captain," he said, "I can't tell. You're asking delicate
questions. Politicians are like doctors, they usually back up each
other's opinions. Still, you're at least as good a friend of mine
as Atkins is. Queer HE should bob up in this matter! Why, he--but
never mind that now. I tell you, Captain Whittaker, you come
around and have dinner with me to-morrow night. In the meantime
I'll see the chairman of the committee on that bill--one of the so-
called 'pork' bills it is. Possibly from him and some other
acquaintances of mine I may learn something. At any rate, you come
to dinner."
So the invitation was accepted, and Captain Cy went back to his own
hotel and his room. He slept but little, although it was not worry
over the appropriation question which kept him awake. Next morning
he wrote a note to Georgianna, giving his Washington address. With
it he enclosed a long letter to Bos'n, telling her he should be
home pretty soon, and that she must be a good girl and "boss the
ship" during his absence. He sent his regards to Asaph and Bailey,
but Phoebe's name he did not mention. Then he put in a miserable
day wandering about the city. At eight that evening he and his
Western friend sat down at a corner table in the big dining room of
the Gloria.
The captain began to ask questions as soon as the soup was served,
but Everdean refused to answer.
"No, no," he said, "pleasure first and business afterwards; that's
a congressional motto. I can't talk Atkins with my dinner and
enjoy it."
"Can't, hey? You wouldn't be popular at our perfect boarding house
back home. There they serve Heman hot for breakfast and dinner,
and warm him over for supper. All right, I can wait."
The conversation wandered from Buenos Ayres to 'Frisco and back
again until the cigars and coffee were reached. Then the
congressman blew a fragrant ring into the air and, from behind it,
looked quizzically at his companion.
"Well," he observed, "so far as that appropriation of yours is
concerned--"
He paused and blew a second ring. Captain Cy stroked his beard.
"Um--yes," he drawled, "now that you mention it, seems to me there
was some talk of an appropriation."
Mr. Everdean laughed.
"I've been making inquiries," he said. "I saw the chairman of the
committee on the pork bill. I know him well. He's a good fellow,
but--"
"Yes, I know. I've seen lots of politicians like that; they're all
good fellers, but-- If I was in politics I'd make a law to cut
'But' out of the dictionary."
"Well, this chap really is a good fellow. I asked about the thirty
thousand dollars for your town. He asked me why I didn't go to the
congressman from that district, and not bother him about it. I
said perhaps I would go to the congressman later, but I came to him
first."
"Sartin. Same as the feller with a sick mother-in-law stopped in
at the undertaker's on his way to call the doctor. All right;
heave ahead."
"Well, we had a rather long conversation. I discovered that the
Bayport item was originally included in the bill, but recently had
been stricken out."
"Yes, I see. Uncle Sam had to economize, hey? Save somethin' for
a rainy day."
"Well, possibly. Still the bill is just as heavy. Now, Captain
Whittaker, I don't KNOW anything about this affair, and it's not my
business. But I've been about to-day, and I asked questions, and--
I'm going to tell you a fairy tale. It isn't as interesting as
your sea yarns, but-- Do you like fairy stories?"
"Land, yes! Tell a few myself when it's necessary. Sometimes I
almost believe 'em. Well?"
"Of course, you must remember this IS a fairy story. Let's suppose
that once on a time--that's the way they always begin--once on a
time there was a great man, great in his own country, who was sent
abroad by his people to represent them among the rulers of the
land. So, in order to typically represent them, he dressed in glad
and expensive raiment, went about in dignity, and--"
"And whiskers. Don't leave out the whiskers!"
"All right--and whiskers. And it came to pass that the people whom
he represented wished to--to--er--bring about a certain needed
improvement in their--their beautiful and enterprising community."
"Sho! sho! how natural that sounds! You must be a mind reader."
"No. But I have to make speeches in my own community occasionally.
Well, the people asked their great man to get the money needed for
this improvement from the rulers of the land aforementioned. And
he was at first all enthusiasm and upon the--the parchment scroll
where such matters are inscribed was written the name of the
beautiful and enterprising community, and the sum of money it asked
for. And the deal was as good as made. Excuse the modern
phraseology; my fairy lingo got mixed there."
"Never mind. I can get the drift just as well--maybe better."
"And the deal was as good as made. But before the vote was taken
another chap came to the great man and said: 'Look here! I want
to get an appropriation of, say, fifty thousand dollars, to deepen
and improve a river down in my State'--a Southern State we'll say.
'I've been to the chairman of the pork bill committee, and he says
it's impossible. The bill simply can't be loaded any further. But
I find that you have an item in there for deepening and improving a
harbor back in your own district. Why don't you cut that item out--
shove it over until next year? You can easily find a satisfactory
explanation for your constituents. AND you want to remember this:
the improvement of this river means that the--the--well, a certain
sugar-growing company--can get their stuff to market at a figure
which will send its stock up and up. And you are said to own a
considerable amount of that stock. So why not drop the harbor item
and substitute my river slice? Then--' Well, I guess that's the
end of the tale."
He paused and relit his cigar. Captain Cy thoughtfully marked with
his fork on the tablecloth.
"Hum!" he grunted. "That's a very interestin' yarn. Yes, yes!
don't know's I ever heard a more interestin' one. I presume likely
there ain't a mite of proof that it's true?"
"Not an atom. I told you it was a fairy tale. And I mustn't be
quoted in the matter. Honestly, the most of it is guess work, at
that. But perhaps a 'committee of one,' dropping a hint at home,
might at least arouse some uncomfortable questioning of a certain
great man. That's about all, though. Proof is quite another
thing."
The captain pondered. He was fully aware that the unpopularity of
the "committee" would nullify whatever good its hinting might do.
"Humph!" he grunted again. "It's one thing to smell a rat and
another to nail its tail to the floor. But I'm mighty obliged to
you, all the same. And I'll think it over hard. Say! I can see
one thing--you don't take a very big shine to Heman yourself."
"Not too big--no. Do you?"
"Well, I don't wake up nights and cry for him."
Everdean laughed.
"That's characteristic," he said. "You have your own way of
putting things, Captain, and it's hard to be improved on. Atkins
has never done anything to me. I just--I just don't like him,
that's all. Father never liked him, either, in the old days; and
yet--and it's odd, too--he was the means of the old gentleman's
making the most of his money."
"He? Who? Not Heman?"
"Yes, Heman Atkins. But, so far as that goes, father started him
toward wealth, I suppose. At least, he was poor enough before the
mine was sold."
"What are you talkin' about? Heman got his start tradin' over in
the South Seas. Sellin' the Kanakas glass beads and calico for
pearls and copra--two cupfuls of pearls for every bead. Anyhow,
that's the way the yarn goes."
"I can't help that. He was just a common sailor who had run away
from his ship and was gold mining in California. And when he and
his partner struck it rich father borrowed money, headed a company,
and bought them out. That mine was the Excelsior, and it's just as
productive to-day as it ever was. I rather think Atkins must be
very sorry he sold. I suppose, by right, I should be very grateful
to your distinguished representative."
"Well, I do declare! Sho, sho! Ain't that funny now? He's never
said a word about it at home. I don't believe there's a soul in
Bayport knows that. We all thought 'twas South Sea tradin' that
boosted Heman. And your own dad! I declare, this is a small
world!"
"It's odd father never told you about it. It's one of the old
gentleman's pet stories. He came West in 1850, and was running a
little shipping store in 'Frisco. He met Atkins and the other
young sailor, his partner, before they left their ship. They were
in the store, buying various things, and father got to know them
pretty well. Then they ran away to the diggings--you simply
couldn't keep a crew in those times--and he didn't see them again
for a good while. Then they came in one day and showed him
specimens from a claim they had back in the mountains. They were
mighty good specimens, and what they said about the claim convinced
father that they had a valuable property. So he went to see a few
well-to-do friends of his, and the outcome was that a party was
made up to go and inspect. The young fellows were willing to sell
out, for it was a quartz working and they hadn't the money to carry
it on.
"The inspection showed that the claim was likely to be even better
than they thought, so, after some bargaining, the deal was
completed. They sold out for seventy-five thousand dollars, and it
was the best trade father ever made. He's so proud of his judgment
and foresight in making it that I wonder he never told you the
story."
"He never did. When was this?"
"In '54. What?"
"I didn't speak. The date seemed kind of familiar to me, that's
all. Seem's as if I heard it recent, but I can't remember when.
Seventy-five thousand, hey? Well, that wan't so bad, was it? With
that for a nest egg, no wonder Heman's managed to hatch a pretty
respectable brood of dollars."
"Oh, the whole seventy-five wasn't his, of course. Half belonged
to his partner. But the poor devil didn't live to enjoy it. After
the articles were signed and before the money was paid over, he was
taken sick with a fever and died."
"Hey? He died? With a FEVER?"
"Yes. But he left a pretty good legacy to his heirs, didn't he.
For a common sailor--or second mate; I believe that's what he was--
thirty-seven thousand five hundred is doing well. It must have
come as a big surprise to them. The whole sum was paid to Atkins,
who-- What's the matter with you?"
Captain Cy was leaning back in his chair. He was as white as the
tablecloth.
"Are you ill?" asked the congressman anxiously. "Take some water.
Shall I call--"
The captain waved his hand.
"No, no!" he stammered. "No! I'm all right. Do you--for the
Lord's sake tell me this! What was the name of this partner that
died?"
Mr. Everdean looked curiously at his friend before he answered.
"Sure you're not sick?" he asked. "Well, all right. The partner's
name? Why, I've heard it often enough. It's on the deed of sale
that father has framed in his room at home. The old gentleman is
as proud of that as anything in the house. The name was--was--"
"For God sakes," cried Captain Cy, "don't say 'twas John Thayer!
'Cause if you do I shan't believe it."
"That's what it was--John Thayer. How did you guess? Did you know
him? I remember now that he was another Down Easter, like Atkins."
The captain did not answer. He clasped his forehead with both
hands and leaned his elbows on the table. Everdean was plainly
alarmed.
"I'm going to call a doctor," he began, rising. But Captain Cy
waved him back again.
"Set still!" he ordered. "Set still, I tell you! You say the
whole seventy-five thousand was paid to Heman, but that John Thayer
signed the bill of sale afore he died, as half partner? And your
dad's got the original deed and--and--he remembers the whole
business?"
"Yes, he's got the deed--framed. It's on record, too, of course.
Remembers? I should say he did! He'll talk for a week on that
subject, if you give him a chance."
The captain sprang to his feet. His chair tipped backward and fell
to the floor. An obsequious waiter ran to right it, but Captain Cy
paid no attention to him.
"Where's my coat?" he demanded. "Where's my coat and hat?"
"What ails you?" asked Everdean. "Are you going crazy?"
"Goin' CRAZY? No, no! I'm goin' to California. When's the next
train?"
CHAPTER XIX
THE TOPPLING OF A MONUMENT
The Honorable Heman Atkins sat in the library of his Washington
home, before a snapping log fire, reading a letter. Mr. Atkins
had, as he would have expressed it, "served his people" in Congress
for so many years that he had long since passed the hotel stage of
living at the Capital. He rented a furnished house on an eminently
respectable street, and the polished doorplate bore his name in
uncompromising characters.
The library furniture was solid and dignified. Its businesslike
appearance impressed the stray excursionist from the Atkins district,
when he or she visited the great man in whose affairs we felt such a
personal interest. Particularly impressive and significant was a
map of the district hanging over the congressman's desk, and an oil
painting of the Atkins mansion at Bayport, which, with the iron dogs
and urns conspicuous in its foreground, occupied the middle of the
largest wall space.
The cheery fire was very comforting on a night like this, for the
sleet was driving against the windowpanes, the sidewalks were ankle
deep in slush, and the wet, cold wind from the Potomac was whistling
down the street. Somewhere about the house an unfastened shutter
slammed in the gusts. Mr. Atkins should have been extremely
comfortable as he sat there by the fire. He had spent many
comfortable winters in that room. But now there was a frown on his
face as he read the letter in his hand. It was from Simpson, and
stated, among other things, that Cyrus Whittaker had been absent
from Bayport for over two weeks, and that no one seemed to know
where he had gone. "The idea seems to be that he started for
Washington," wrote Tad; "but if that is so, it is queer you haven't
seen him. I am suspicious that he is up to something about that
harbor business. I should keep my eye peeled if I was you."
Alicia, the Atkins hopeful, rustled into the room.
"Papa," she said, "I've come to kiss you good night."
Her father performed the ceremony in a perfunctory way.
"All right, all right," he said. "Now run along to bed and don't
bother me, there's a good girl. I wish," he added testily to the
housekeeper who had followed Alicia into the room, "I wish you'd
see to that loose blind. It makes me nervous. Such things as that
should be attended to without specific orders from me."
The housekeeper promised to attend to the blind. She and the girl
left the library. Heman reread the Simpson letter. Then he
dropped it in his lap and sat thinking and twirling his eyeglasses
at the end of their black cord. His thoughts seemed to be not of
the pleasantest. The lines about his mouth had deepened during the
last few months. He looked older.
The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Atkins came out of his
reverie with a start, arose and walked across the room to the wall
where the instrument hung. It was before the days of the
convenient desk 'phone. He took the receiver from its hook and
spoke into the transmitter.
"Hello!" he said. "Hello! Yes, yes! stop ringing. What is it?"
The wire buzzed and purred in the storm. "Hello!" said a voice.
"Hello, there! Is this Mr. Atkins's house?"
"Yes; it is. What do you want?"
"Hey? Is this where the Honorable Heman Atkins lives?"
"Yes, yes, I tell you! This is Mr. Atkins speaking. What do you
want?"
"Oh! is that you, Heman? This is Whittaker--Cy Whittaker.
Understand?"
Mr. Atkins understood. Yet for an instant he did not reply. He
had been thinking, as he sat by the fire, of certain persons and
certain ugly, though remote, possibilities. Now, from a mysterious
somewhere, one of those persons was speaking to him. The hand
holding the receiver shook momentarily.
"Hello! I say, Heman, do you understand? This is Whittaker
talkin'."
"I--er--understand," said the congressman, slowly. "Well, sir?"
"I'm here in Washin'ton."
"I have been informed that you were in the city. Well, sir?"
"Oh! knew I was here, did you? Is that so? Who told you? Tad
wrote, I suppose, hey?"
The congressman did not reply immediately. This man, whom he
disliked more than anyone else in the world, had an irritating
faculty of putting his finger on the truth. And the flippancy in
the tone was maddening. Mr. Atkins was not used to flippancy.
"I believe I am not called upon to disclose my source of
information," he said with chilling dignity. "It appears to have
been trustworthy. I presume you have 'phoned me concerning the
appropriation matter. I do not recognize your right to intrude in
that affair, and I shall decline to discuss it. Yes, sir. To my
people, to those who have a right to question, I am and shall
always be willing to explain my position. Good night."
"Wait! Hello! Hold on a minute. Don't get mad, Heman. I only
wanted to say just a word. You'll let me say a word, won't you?"
This was more like it. This was more nearly the tone in which Mr.
Atkins was wont to be addressed. It was possible that the man,
recognizing the uselessness of further opposition, desired to
surrender.
"I cannot," declared the Honorable, "understand why you should wish
to speak with me. We have very little in common, very little, I'm
thankful to say. However, I will hear you briefly. Go on."
"Much obliged. Well, Heman, I only wanted to say that I thought
maybe you'd better have a little talk with me. I'm here at the
hotel, the Regent. You know where 'tis, I presume likely. I guess
you'd better come right down and see me."
Heman gasped, actually gasped, with astonishment.
"_I_ had better come and see YOU? I--! Well, sir! WELL! I am not
accustomed--"
"I know, but I think you'd better. It's dirty weather, and I've
got cold somehow or other. I ain't feelin' quite up to the mark,
so I cal'late I'll stay in port much as I can. You come right
down. I'll be in my room, and the hotel folks 'll tell you where
'tis. I'll be waitin' for you."
Mr. Atkins breathed hard. In his present frame of mind he would
have liked to deliver a blast into that transmitter which would
cause the person at the other end of the line to shrivel under its
heat. But he was a politician of long training, and he knew that
such blasts were sometimes expensive treats. It might be well to
hear what his enemy had to say. But as to going to see him--that
was out of the question.
"I do not," he thundered, "I do not care to continue this
conversation. If--if you wish to see me, after what has taken
place between us, I am willing, in spite of personal repugnance, to
grant you a brief interview. My servants will admit you here at
nine o'clock to-morrow morning. But I tell you now, that your
interference with this appropriation matter is as useless as it is
ridiculous and impudent. It is of a piece with the rest of your
conduct."
"All right, Heman, all right," was the calm answer. "I don't say
you've got to come. I only say I guess you'd better. I'm goin'
back to Bayport tomorrer, early. And if I was you I'd come and see
me to-night."
"I have no wish to see you. Nor do I care to talk with you further.
That appropriation--"
"Maybe it ain't all appropriation."
"Then I cannot understand--"
"I know, but _I_ understand. I've come to understand consider'ble
many things in the last fortni't. There! I can't holler into this
machine any longer. I've been clear out to 'Frisco and back in
eleven days, and I got cold in those blessed sleepin' cars. I--"
The receiver fell from the congressman's hand. It was a difficult
object to pick up again. Heman groped for it in a blind, strangely
inadequate way. Yet he wished to recover it very much.
"Wait! wait!" he shouted anxiously. "I--I--I dropped the-- Are
you there, Whittaker? Are you-- Oh! yes! I didn't-- Did you say--
er--'Frisco?"
"Yes, San Francisco, California. I've been West on a little
cruise. Had an interestin' time. It's an interestin' place; don't
you think so? Well, I'm sorry you can't come. Good night."
"Wait!" faltered the great man. "I--I--let me think, Cyrus. I do
not wish to seem--er--arrogant in this matter. It is not usual for
me to visit my constituents, but--but--I have no engagement this
evening, and you are not well, and-- Hello! are you there? Hello!
Why, under the circumstances, I think-- Yes, I will come. I'll
come--er--at once."
The telephone enables one to procure a cab in a short time. Yet,
to Heman Atkins, that cab was years in coming. He paced the
library floor, his hand to his forehead and his brain whirling. It
couldn't be! It must be a coincidence! He had been an idiot to
display his agitation and surrender so weakly. And yet--and yet--
The ride through the storm to the Regent Hotel gave him opportunity
for more thought. But he gained little comfort from thinking. If
it was a coincidence, well and good. If not--
A bell boy conducted him to the Whittaker room "on the saloon
deck." It was a small room, very different from the Atkins
library, and Captain Cy, in a cane-seated chair, was huddled close
to the steam radiator. He looked far from well.
"Evenin', Heman," he said as the congressman entered. "Pretty
dirty night, ain't it? What we'd call a gray no'theaster back
home. Sit down. Don't mind my not gettin' up. This heatin'
arrangement feels mighty comf'table just now. If I get too far
away from it I shiver my deck planks loose. Take off your things."
Mr. Atkins did not remove his overcoat. His hat he tossed on the
bed. He glanced fearfully at his companion. The latter's greeting
had been so casual and everyday that he took courage. And the
captain looked anything but formidable as he hugged the radiator.
Perhaps things were not so bad as he had feared. He resolved not
to seem alarmed, at all events.
"Have a cigar, Heman?" said Captain Cy. "No? Well, all right; I
will, if you don't mind."
He lit the cigar. The congressman cleared his throat.
"Cyrus," he said, "I am not accustomed to run at the beck and call
of my--er--acquaintances, but, even though we have disagreed of
late, even though to me your conduct seems quite unjustifiable,
still, for the sake of our boyhood friendship, and, because you are
not well, I--er--came."
Captain Cy coughed spasmodically, a cough that seemed to be tearing
him to pieces. He looked at his cigar regretfully, and laid it on
the top of the radiator.
"Too bad," he observed. "Tobacco gen'rally iles up my talkin'
machinery, but just now it seems to make me bark like a ship's dog
shut up in the hold. Why, yes, Heman, I see you've come. Much
obliged to you."
This politeness was still more encouraging. Atkins leaned back in
his chair and crossed his legs.
"I presume," he said, "that you wish to ask concerning the
appropriation. I regret--"
"You needn't. I guess we'll get the appropriation."
Heman's condescension vanished. He leaned forward and uncrossed
his legs.
"Indeed?" he said slowly, his eyes fixed on the captain's placid
face.
"Yes--indeed."
"Whittaker, what are you talking about? Do you suppose that I have
been the representative of my people in Congress all these years
without knowing whereof I speak? They left the matter in my hands,
and your interference--"
"I ain't goin' to interfere. I'M goin' to leave it in your hands,
too. And I cal'late you'll be able to find a way to get it.
Um--hum, I guess likely you will."
The visitor rose to his feet. The time had come for another blast
from Olympus. He raised the mighty right arm. But Captain Cy
spoke first.
"Sit down, Heman," said the captain quietly. "Sit down. This
ain't town meetin'. Never mind the appropriation now. There's
other matters to be talked about first. Sit down, I tell you."
Mr. Atkins was purple in the face, but he sat down. The captain
coughed again.
"Heman," he began when the spasm was over, "I asked you to come
here to-night for--well, blessed if I know exactly. It didn't make
much difference to me whether you came or not."
"Then, sir, I must say that, of all the impudent--"
"S-s-h-h! for the land sakes! Speechmakin' must be as bad as the
rum habit, when a feller's got it chronic as you have. No, it
didn't make much difference to me whether you came or not. But,
honest, you've got to be a kind of Bunker Hill monument to the
folks back home. They kneel down at your foundations and look up
at you, and tell each other how many foot high you are, and what it
cost to build you, and how you stand for patriotism and purity,
till--well, _I_ couldn't see you tumble down without givin' you a
chance. I couldn't; 'twould be like blowin' up a church."
The purple had left the Atkins face, but the speechmaking habit is
not likely to be broken.
"Cyrus Whittaker," he stammered, "have you been drinking? Your
language to me is abominable. Why I permit myself to remain here
and listen to such--"
"If you'll keep still I'll tell you why. And, if I was you, I
wouldn't be too anxious to find out. This everlastin' cold don't
make me over 'n' above good-tempered, and when I think of what
you've done to that little girl, or what you tried to do, I have to
hold myself down tight, TIGHT, and don't you forget it! Now, you
keep quiet and listen. It'll be best for you, Heman. Your cards
ain't under the table any longer. I've seen your hand, and I know
why you've been playin' it. I know the whole game. I've been
West, and Everdean and I have had a talk."
Mr. Atkins had again risen from the chair. Now he fell heavily
back into it. His lips moved as if he meant to speak, but he did
not. At the mention of the Everdean name he made a queer, choking
sound in his throat.
"I know the whole business, Heman," went on the captain. "I know
why you was so knocked over when you learned who Bos'n was, the
night of the party. I know why you took up with that blackguard,
Thomas, and why you've spent your good money hirin' lawyers for
him. I know about the mine. I know the whole thing from first to
last. Shall I tell you? Do you want to hear it?"
The great man did not answer. A drop of perspiration shone on his
high forehead, and the veins of his big, white hands stood out as
he clutched the arms of his chair. The monument was tottering on
its base.
"It's a dirty mess, the whole of it," continued Captain Cy. "And
yet, I can see--I suppose I can see some excuse for you at the
beginnin'. When old man Everdean and his crowd bought you and John
Thayer out, 'way back there in '54, after John died, and all the
money was put into your hands, I cal'late you was honest then. I
wouldn't wonder if you MEANT to hand over the thirty-seven thousand
five hundred dollars to your partner's widow. But 'twas harder and
more risky to send money East in them days than 'tis now, and so
you waited, thinkin' maybe that you'd fetch it to Emily when you
come yourself. But you didn't come home for some years; you went
tradin' down along the Feejees and around that way. That's how I
reasoned it out these last few days on the train. I give you
credit for bein' honest first along.
"But never mind whether you was or not, you haven't been since.
You never paid over a cent of that poor feller's money--honest
money, that belonged to his heirs, and belongs to 'em now. You've
hung onto it, stole it, used it for yours. And Emily worked and
scratched for a livin' and died poor. And Mary, she died, after
bein' abused and deserted by that cussed husband of hers. And you
thought you was safe, I cal'late. And then Bos'n turns up right in
your own town, right acrost the road from you! By the big dipper!
it's enough to make a feller believe that the Almighty does take a
hand in straightenin' out such things, when us humans bungle 'em--
it is so!
"Course I ain't sure, Heman, what you meant to do when you found
that the child you'd stole that money from was goin' to be under
your face and eyes till you or she died. I cal'late you was afraid
I'd find somethin' out, wan't you? I presume likely you thought
that I, not havin' quite the reverence for you that the rest of the
Bayporters have, might be sharp enough or lucky enough to smell a
rat. Perhaps you suspicioned that I knew the Everdeans. Anyhow,
you wanted to get the child as fur out of your sight and out of my
hands as you could--ain't that so? And when her dad turned up, you
thought you saw your chance. Heman, you answer me this: Ain't it
part of your bargain with Thomas that when he gets his little girl,
he shall take her and clear out, away off somewheres, for good?
Ain't it, now--what?"
The monument was swaying, was swinging from side to side, but it
did not quite fall--not then. The congressman's cheeks hung
flabby, his forehead was wet, and he shook from head to foot; but
he clenched his jaws and made one last attempt at defiance.
"I--I don't know what you mean," he declared. "You--you seem
to be accusing me of something. Of stealing, I believe. Do you
understand who I am? I have some influence and reputation, and it
is dangerous to--to try to frighten me. Proofs are required in
law, and--"
"S-s-h-h! You know I've got the proofs. They were easy enough to
get, once I happened on the track of 'em. Lord sakes, Heman, I
ain't a fool! What's the use of your pretendin' to be one?
There's the deed out in 'Frisco, with yours and John's name on it.
There's the records to prove the sale. There's the receipt for the
seventy-five thousand signed by you, on behalf of yourself and your
partner's widow. There's old man Everdean alive and competent to
testify. There's John Thayer's will on file over to Orham.
Proofs! Why, you THIEF! if it's proofs you want, I've got enough
to send you to state's prison for the rest of your life. Don't you
dare say 'proofs' to me again! Heman Atkins, you owe me, as
Bos'n's guardian, thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars, with
interest since 1854. What you goin' to do about it?"
Here was one ray, a feeble ray, of light.
"You're not her guardian," cried Atkins. "The courts have thrown
you out. And your appeal won't stand, either. If any money is
due, it belongs to her father. She isn't of age! No, sir! her
father--"
Captain Cy's patience had been giving way. Now he lost it
altogether. He strode across the room and shook his forefinger
in his victim's face.
"So!" he cried. "That's your tack, is it? By the big dipper! You
GO to her father--just you go to him and tell him! Just hint to
him that you owe his daughter thirty-odd thousand dollars, and see
what he'll do. Good heavens above! he was ready to sell her out to
me for fifty dollars' wuth of sand bank in Orham. Almost ready, he
was, till you offered a higher price to him to fight. Why, he'll
have your hide nailed up on the barn door! If you don't pay him
every red copper, down on the nail, he'll wring you dry. And then
he'll blackmail you forever and ever, amen! Unless, of course, _I_
go home and stop the blackmail by printing my story in the Breeze.
I've a precious good mind to do it. By the Almighty, I WILL do it!
unless you come off that high horse of yours and talk like a man."
And then the monument fell, fell prostrate, with a sickly, pitiful
crash. If we of Bayport could have seen our congressman then! The
great man, great no longer, broke down completely. He cried like a
baby. It was all true--all true. He had not meant to steal, at
first. He had been led into using the money in his business. Then
he had meant to send it to the heirs, but he didn't know their
whereabouts. Captain Cy smiled at this excuse. And now he
couldn't pay--he COULDN'T. He had hardly that sum in the world.
He had lost money in stocks, his property in the South had gone to
the bad! He would be ruined. He would have to go to prison. He
was getting to be an old man. And there was Alicia, his daughter!
Think of her! Think of the disgrace! And so on, over and over,
with the one recurring burden--what was the captain going to do?
what was he going to do? It was a miserable, dreadful exhibition,
and Captain Cy could feel no pride in his triumph.
"There! there!" he said at last. "Stop it, man; stop it, for
goodness sakes! Pull yourself together. I guess we can fix it up
somehow. I ain't goin' to be too hard on you. If it wan't for
your meanness in bein' willin' to let Bos'n suffer her life long
with that drunken beast of a dad of hers, I'd feel almost like
tellin' you to get up and forget it. But THAT'S got to be stopped.
Now, you listen to me."
Heman listened. He was on his knees beside the bed, his face
buried in his arms, and his gray hair, the leonine Atkins hair,
which he was wont to toss backward in the heated periods of his
eloquence, tumbled and draggled. Captain Cy looked down at him.
"This whole business about Bos'n must be stopped," he said, "and
stopped right off. You tell your lawyers to drop the case. Her
dad is only hangin' around because you pay him to. He don't want
her; he don't care what becomes of her. If you pay him enough,
he'll go, won't he? and not come back?"
The congressman raised his head.
"Why, yes," he faltered; "I think he will. Yes, I think I could
arrange that. But, Cyrus--"
The captain held up his hand.
"I intend to look out for Bos'n," he said. "She cares for me
more'n anyone else in the world. She's as much to me as my own
child ever could be, and I'll see that she is happy and provided
for. I'm religious enough to believe she was sent to me, and I
intend to stick to my trust. As for the money--"
"Yes, yes! The money?"
"Well, I won't be too hard on you that way, either. We'll talk
that over later on. Maybe we can arrange for you to pay it a
little at a time. You can sign a paper showin' that you owe it,
and we'll fix the payin' to suit all hands. 'Tain't as if the
child was in want. I've got some money of my own, and what's
mine's hers. I think we needn't worry about the money part."
"God bless you, Cyrus! I--"
"Yes, all right. I'm sure your askin' for the blessin' 'll be a
great help. Now, you do your part, and I'll do mine. No one knows
of this business but me. I didn't tell Everdean a word. He don't
know why I hustled out there and back, nor why I asked so many
questions. And he ain't the kind to pry into what don't concern
him. So you're pretty safe, I cal'late. Now, if you don't mind, I
wish you'd run along home. I'm--I'm used up, sort of."
Mr. Atkins arose from his knees. Even then, broken as he was--he
looked ten years older than when he entered the room--he could
hardly believe what he had just heard.
"You mean," he faltered, "Cyrus, do you mean that--that you're not
going to reveal this--this--"
"That I'm not goin' to tell on you? Yup; that's what I mean. You
get rid of Thomas and squelch that law case, and I'll keep mum.
You can trust me for that."
"But--but, Cyrus, the people at home? Your story in the Breeze?
You're not--"
"No, they needn't know, either. It'll be between you and me."
"God bless you! I'll never forget--"
"That's right. You mustn't. Forgettin' is the one thing you
mustn't do. And, see here, you're boss of the political fleet in
Bayport; you steer the school committee now. Phoebe Dawes ain't
too popular with that committee; I'd see that she was popularized."
"Yes, yes; she shall be. She shall not be disturbed. Is there
anything else I can do?"
"Why, yes, I guess there is. Speakin' of popularity made me think
of it. That harbor appropriation had better go through."
A very faint tinge of color came into the congressman's chalky
face. He hesitated in his reply.
"I--I don't know about that, Cyrus," he said. "The bill will
probably be voted on in a few days. It is made up and--"
"Then I'd strain a p'int and make it over. I'd work real hard on
it. I'm sorry about that sugar river, but I cal'late Bayport 'll
have to come first. Yes, it'll have to, Heman; it sartin will."
The reference to the "sugar river" was the final straw. Evidently
this man knew everything.
"I--I'll try my best," affirmed Heman. "Thank you, Cyrus. You
have been more merciful than I had a right to expect."
"Yes, I guess I have. Why do I do it?" He smiled and shook his
head. "Well, I don't know. For two reasons, maybe. First, I'd
hate to be responsible for tippin' over such a sky-towerin' idol as
you've been to make ruins for Angie Phinney and the other blackbirds
to peck at and caw over. And second--well, it does sound presumin',
don't it, but I kind of pity you. Say, Heman," he added with a
chuckle, "that's a kind of distinction, in a way, ain't it? A good
many folks have hurrahed over you and worshipped you--some of 'em, I
guess likely, have envied you; but, by the big dipper! I do believe
I'm the only one in this round world that ever PITIED you. Good-by.
The elevator's right down the hall."
It required some resolution for the Honorable Atkins to walk down
that corridor and press the elevator button. But he did it,
somehow. A guest came out of one of the rooms and approached him
as he stood there. It was a man he knew. Heman squared his
shoulders and set every nerve and muscle.
"Good evening, Mr. Atkins," said the man. "A miserable night,
isn't it?"
"Miserable, indeed," replied the congressman. The strength in his
voice surprised him. The man passed on. Heman descended in the
elevator, walked steadily through the crowded lobby and out to the
curb where his cab was waiting. The driver noticed nothing strange
in his fare's appearance. He noticed nothing strange when the
Atkins residence was reached and its tenant mounted the stone steps
and opened the door with his latchkey. But, if he had seen the
dignified form collapse in a library chair and moan and rock back
and forth until the morning hours, he would have wondered very much
indeed.
Meanwhile Captain Cy, coughing and shivering by the radiator, had
been summoned from that warm haven by a knock at his door. A bell
boy stood at the threshold, holding a brown envelope in his hand.
"The clerk sent this up to you, sir," he said. "It came a week
ago. When you went away, you didn't leave any address, and
whatever letters came for you were sent back to Bayport,
Massachusetts. The clerk says you registered from there, sir.
But he kept this telegram. It was in your box, and the day clerk
forgot to give it to you this afternoon."
The captain tore open the envelope. The telegram was from his
lawyer, Mr. Peabody. It was dated a week before, and read as
follows:
"Come home at once. Important."
CHAPTER XX
DIVIDED HONORS
The blizzard began that night. Bayport has a generous allowance of
storms and gales during a winter, although, as a usual thing, there
is more rain than snow and more wind than either. But we can count
with certainty on at least one blizzard between November and April,
and about the time when Captain Cy, feverish and ill, the delayed
telegram in his pocket and a great fear in his heart, boarded the
sleeper of the East-bound train at Washington, snow was beginning
to fall in our village.
Next morning, when Georgianna came downstairs to prepare Bos'n's
breakfast--the housekeeper had ceased to "go home nights" since the
captain's absence--the world outside was a tumbled, driving whirl
of white. The woodshed and barn, dimly seen through the smother,
were but gray shapes, emerging now and then only to be wiped from
the vision as by a great flapping cloth wielded by the mighty hand
of the wind. The old house shook in the blasts, the windowpanes
rattled as if handfuls of small shot were being thrown against
them, and the carpet on the floor of the dining room puffed up in
miniature billows.
School was out of the question, and Bos'n, her breakfast eaten,
prepared to put in a cozy day with her dolls and Christmas
playthings.
"When DO you s'pose Uncle Cyrus will get home?" she asked of the
housekeeper. She had asked the same thing at least three times a
day during the fortnight, and Georgianna's answer was always just
as unsatisfactory:
"I don't know, dearie, I'm sure. He'll be here pretty soon,
though, don't you fret."
"Oh, I ain't going to fret. I know he'll come. He said he would,
and Uncle Cy always does what he says he will."
About twelve Asaph made his appearance, a white statue.
"Godfrey scissors!" he panted, shaking his snow-plastered cap over
the coal hod. "Say, this is one of 'em, ain't it? Don't know's I
ever see more of a one. Drift out by the front fence pretty nigh
up to my waist. This 'll be a nasty night along the Orham beach.
The lifesavers 'll have their hands full. Whew! I'm about
tuckered out."
"Been to the post office?" asked Georgianna in a low tone.
"Yup. I been there. Mornin' mail just this minute sorted.
Train's two hours late. Gabe says more'n likely the evenin' train
won't be able to get through at all, if this keeps up."
"Was there anything from--"
Mr. Tidditt glanced at Bos'n and shook his head.
"Not a word," he said. "Funny, ain't it? It don't seem a bit like
him. And he can't be to Washin'ton, because all them letters came
back. I--I swan to man, I'm beginnin' to get worried."
"Worried? I'm pretty nigh crazy! What does Phoebe Dawes say?"
"She don't say much. It's pretty tough, when everything else is
workin' out so fine, thanks to her, to have this happen. No, she
don't say much, but she acts pretty solemn."
"Say, Mr. Tidditt?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"You don't s'pose anything that happened betwixt her and Cap'n
Whittaker that afternoon is responsible for--for his stayin' away
so, do you? You know what he told me to tell her--about her not
comin' here?"
Asaph fidgeted with the wet cap.
"Aw, that ain't nothin'," he stammered. "That is, I hope it ain't.
I did say somethin' to him that--but Phoebe understands. She's a
smart woman."
"You haven't told them boardin' house tattletales about the--Emmie,
you go fetch me a card of matches from the kitchen, won't you--of
what's been found out about that Thomas thing?"
"Course I ain't. Didn't Peabody say not to tell a soul till we was
sure? S'pose I'd tell Keturah and Angie? Might's well paint it on
a sign and be done with it. No, no! I've kept mum and you do the
same. Well, I must be goin'. Hope to goodness we hear some good
news from Whit by to-morrer."
But when to-morrow came news of any kind was unobtainable. No
trains could get through, and the telephone and telegraph wires
were out of commission, owing to the great storm. Bayport was
buried under a white coverlet, three feet thick on a level, which
shone in the winter sun as if powdered with diamond dust. The
street-shoveling brigade, meaning most of the active male citizens,
was busy with plows and shovels. Simmons's was deserted in the
evenings, for most of the regular habitues went to bed after
supper, tired out.
Two days of this. Then Gabe Lumley, his depot wagon replaced by a
sleigh, drove the panting Daniel into the yard of the Cy Whittaker
place. Gabe was much excited. He had news of importance to
communicate and was puffed up in consequence.
"The wire's all right again, Georgianna," he said to the housekeeper,
who had hurried to the door to meet him. "Fust message just come
through. Guess who it's for?"
"Stop your foolishness, Gabe Lumley!" ordered Miss Taylor. "Hand
over that telegram this minute. Don't you stop to talk! Hand it
over!"
Gabe didn't intend to be "corked" thus peremptorily.
"It's pretty important news, Georgianna," he declared. "Kind of
bad news, too. I think I'd ought to prepare you for it, sort of.
When Cap'n Obed Pepper died, I--"
"DIED! For the land sakes! WHAT are you sayin'? Give me that,
you foolhead! Give it to me!"
She snatched the telegram from him and tore it open. It was not as
bad as might have been, but it was bad enough. Lawyer Peabody
wired that Captain Cyrus Whittaker was at his home in Ostable, sick
in bed, and threatened with pneumonia.
Captain Cy, hurrying homeward in response to the attorney's former
telegram, had reached Boston the day of the blizzard. He had taken
the train for Bayport that afternoon. The train had reached
Ostable after nine o'clock that night, but could get no farther.
The captain, burning with fever and torn by chills, had wallowed
through the drifts to his lawyer's home and collapsed on his
doorstep. Now he was very ill and, at times, delirious.
For two weeks he lay, fighting off the threatened attack of
pneumonia. But he won the fight, and, at last, word came to the
anxious ones at Bayport that he was past the danger point and would
pull through. There was rejoicing at the Cy Whittaker place. The
Board of Strategy came and performed an impromptu war dance around
the dining-room table.
"Whe-e-e!" shouted Bailey Bangs, tossing Bos'n above his head.
"Your Uncle Cy's weathered the Horn and is bound for clear water
now. Three cheers for our side! Won't we give him a reception
when we get him back here!"
"Won't we?" crowed Asaph. "Well, I just guess we will! You ought
to hear Angie and the rest of 'em chant hymns of glory about him.
A body'd think they always knew he was the salt of the earth.
Maybe I don't rub it in a little, hey? Oh, no, maybe not!"
"And Heman!" chimed in Mr. Bangs. "And Heman! Would you ever
believe HE'D change so all of a sudden? Bully old Whit! I can
mention his name now without Ketury's landin' onto me like a
snowslide. Whee! I say, wh-e-e-e!"
He continued to say it; and Georgianna and Asaph said what amounted
to the same thing. A change had come over our Bayport social
atmosphere, a marvelous change. And at Simmons's and--more
wonderful still--at Tad Simpson's barber' shop, plans were being
made and perfected for proceedings in which Cyrus Whittaker was to
play the most prominent part.
Meanwhile the convalescence went on at a rapid rate. As soon as he
was permitted to talk, Captain Cy began to question his lawyer.
How about the appeal? Had Atkins done anything further? The
answers were satisfactory. The case had been dropped: the
Honorable Heman had announced its withdrawal. He had said that he
had changed his mind and should not continue to espouse the Thomas
cause. In fact, he seemed to have whirled completely about on his
pedestal and, like a compass, now pointed only in one direction--
toward his "boyhood friend" and present neighbor, Cyrus Whittaker.
"It's perfectly astounding," commented Peabody. "What in the
world, captain, did you do to him while you were in Washington?"
"Oh! nothin' much," was the rather disinterested answer. "Him and
me had a talk, and he saw the error of his ways, I cal'late. How's
Bos'n to-day? Did you give her my love when you 'phoned?"
"So far as the case is concerned," went on the lawyer, "I think we
should have won that, anyway. It's a curious thing. Thomas has
disappeared. How he got word, or who he got it from, _I_ don't
know; but he must have, and he's gone somewhere, no one knows
where. And yet I'm not certain that we were on the right trail.
It seemed certain a week ago, but now--"
The captain had not been listening. He was thinking. Thomas had
gone, had he! Good! Heman was living up to his promises. And
Bos'n, God bless her, was free from that danger.
"Have you heard from Emmie, I asked you?" he repeated.
He would not listen to anything further concerning Thomas, either
then or later. He was sick of the whole business, he declared, and
now that everything was all right, didn't wish to talk about it
again. He asked nothing about the appropriation, and the lawyer,
acting under strict orders, did not mention it.
Only once did Captain Cy inquire concerning a person in his home
town who was not a member of his household.
"How is--er--how's the teacher?" he inquired one morning.
"How's who?"
"Why--Phoebe Dawes, the school-teacher. Smart, is she?"
"Yes, indeed! Why, she has been the most--"
The doctor came in just then and the interview terminated. It was
not resumed, because that afternoon Mr. Peabody started for Boston
on a business trip, to be gone some time.
And at last came the great day, the day when Captain Cy was to be
taken home. He was up and about, had been out for several short
walks, and was very nearly his own self again. He was in good
spirits, too, at times, but had fits of seeming depression which,
under the circumstances, were unexplainable. The doctor thought
they were due to his recent illness and forbade questioning.
The original plan had been for the captain to go to Bayport in the
train, but the morning set for his departure was such a beautiful
one that Mr. Peabody, who had the day before returned from the
city, suggested driving over. So the open carriage, drawn by the
Peabody "span," was brought around to the front steps, and the
captain, bundled up until, as he said, he felt like a wharf rat
inside a cotton bale, emerged from the house which had sheltered
him for a weary month and climbed to the back seat. The attorney
got in beside him.
"All ashore that's goin' ashore," observed Captain Cy. Then to the
driver, who stood by the horses' heads, he added: "Stand by to get
ship under way, commodore. I'm homeward bound, and there's a
little messmate of mine waitin' on the dock already, I wouldn't
wonder. So don't hang around these waters no longer'n you can
help."
But Mr. Peabody smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Just a minute, captain," he said. "We've got another passenger.
She came to the house last evening, but Dr. Cole thought this would
be an exciting day for you, and you must sleep in preparation for
it. So we kept her in the background. It was something of a job
but-- Hurrah! here she is!"
Mrs. Peabody, the lawyer's wife, opened the front door. She was
laughing. The next moment a small figure shot past her, down the
steps, and into the carriage like a red-hooded bombshell.
"Uncle Cyrus!" she screamed joyously. "Uncle Cyrus, it's me! Here
I am!"
And Captain Cy, springing up and shedding wraps and robes, received
the bombshell with open arms and hugged it tight.
"Bos'n!" he shouted. "By the big dipper! BOS'N! Why, you little--
you--you--"
That was a wonderful ride. Emily sat in the captain's lap--he
positively refused to let her sit beside him on the seat, although
Peabody urged it, fearing the child might tire him--and her tongue
rattled like a sewing machine. She had a thousand things to tell,
about her school, about Georgianna, about her dolls, about
Lonesome, the cat, and how many mice he had caught, about the big
snowstorm.
"Georgianna wanted me to stay at home and wait for you, Uncle Cy,"
she said, "but I teased and teased and finally they said I could
come over. I came yesterday on the train. Mr. Tidditt went with
me to the depot. Mrs. Peabody let me peek into your room last
night and I saw you eating supper. You didn't know I was there,
did you?"
"You bet I didn't! There'd have been a mutiny right then if I'd
caught sight of you. You little sculpin! Playin' it on your Uncle
Cy, was you? I didn't know you could keep a secret so well."
"Oh, yes I can! Why, I know an ever so much bigger secret, too.
It is-- Why! I 'most forgot. You just wait."
The captain laughingly begged her to divulge the big secret, but
she shook her small head and refused. The horses trotted on at a
lively pace, and the miles separating Ostable and Bayport were
subtracted one by one. It was magnificent winter weather. The
snow had disappeared from the road, except in widely separated
spots, but the big drifts still heaped the fields and shone and
sparkled in the sunshine. Against their whiteness the pitch pines
and cedars stood darkly green and the skeleton scrub oaks and
bushes cast delicate blue-penciled shadows. The bay, seen over the
flooded, frozen salt meadows and distant dunes, was in its winter
dress of the deepest sapphire, trimmed with whitecaps and fringed
with stranded ice cakes. There was a snap and tang in the breeze
which braced one like a tonic. The party in the carriage was a gay
one.
"Getting tired, captain?" asked Peabody.
"Who? Me? Well, I guess not. 'Most home, Bos'n. There's the
salt works ahead there."
They passed the abandoned salt works, the crumbling ruins of a dead
industry, and the boundary stone, now half hidden in a drift,
marking the beginning of Bayport township. Then, from the pine
grove at the curve farther on, appeared two capped and coated
figures, performing a crazy fandango.
"Who's them two lunatics," inquired Captain Cy, "whoopin' and
carryin' on in the middle of the road? Has anybody up this way had
a jug come by express or-- Hey! WHAT? Why, you old idiots you!
COME here and let me get a hold of you!"
The Board of Strategy swooped down upon the carriage like Trumet
mosquitoes on a summer boarder. They swarmed into the vehicle,
Bailey on the front seat and Asaph in the rear, where, somehow or
other, they made room for him. There were handshakings and thumps
on the back.
"What you doin' 'way up here in the west end of nowhere?" demanded
Captain Cy. "By the big dipper, I'm glad to see you! How'd you
get here?"
"Walked," cackled Bailey. "Frogged it all the way. Soon's Mrs.
Peabody wired you was goin' to ride, me and Ase started to meet
you. Wan't you surprised?"
"We wanted to be the fust to say howdy, old man," explained Asaph.
"Wanted to welcome you back, you know."
The captain was immensely pleased.
"Well, I'm glad I've got so much popularity, anyhow," he said.
"Guess 'twill be different when I get down street, hey? Don't
cal'late Tad and Angie 'll shed the joyous tear over me. Never
mind; long's my friends are glad I don't care about the rest."
The Board looked at each other.
"Tad?" repeated Bailey. "And Angie? What you talkin' about? Why,
they-- Ugh!"
The last exclamation was the result of a tremendous dig in the ribs
from the Tidditt fist. Asaph, who had leaned forward to administer
it, was frowning and shaking his head. Mr. Bangs relapsed into a
grinning silence.
West Bayport seemed to be deserted. At one or two houses, however,
feminine heads appeared at the windows. One old lady shook a
calico apron at the carriage. A child beside her cried: "Hurrah!"
"Aunt Hepsy h'istin' colors by mistake," laughed the captain. "She
ain't got her specs, I guess, and thinks I'm Heman. That comes of
ridin' astern of a span, Peabody."
But as they drew near the Center flags were flying from front-yard
poles. Some of the houses were decorated.
"What in the world--" began Captain Cy. "Land sakes! look at the
schoolhouse. And Simmons's! And--and Simpson's!"
The schoolhouse flag was flapping in the wind. The scarred wooden
pillars of its portico were hidden with bunting. Simmons's front
displayed a row of little banners, each bearing a letter--the
letters spelled "Welcome Home." Tad's barber shop was more or less
artistically wreathed in colored tissue paper. There, too, a flag
was draped over the front door. Yet not a single person was in
sight.
"For goodness' sake!" cried the bewildered captain. "What's all
this mean? And where is everybody. Have all hands--"
He stopped in the middle of the sentence. They were at the foot of
Whittaker's Hill. Its top, between the Atkins's gate and the
Whittaker fence, was black with people. Children pranced about the
outskirts of the crowd. A shout came down the wind. The horses,
not in the least fatigued by their long canter, trotted up the
slope. The shouting grew louder. A wave of youngsters came racing
to meet the equipage.
"What--what in time?" gasped Captain Cy. "What's up? I--"
And then the town clerk seized him by the arm. Peabody shook his
other hand. Bos'n threw her arms about his neck. Bailey stood up
and waved his hat.
"It's you, you old critter!" whooped Asaph. "It's YOU, d'you
understand?"
"The appropriation has gone through," explained the lawyer, "and
this is the celebration in consequence. And you are the star
attraction because, you see, everyone knows you are responsible for
it."
"That's what!" howled the excited Bangs. "And we're goin' to show
you what we think of you for doin' it. We've been plannin' this
for over a fortni't."
"And I knew it all the time," squealed Bos'n, "and I didn't tell a
word, did I?"
"Three cheers for Captain Whittaker!" bellowed a person in the
crowd. This person--wonder of wonders!--was Tad Simpson.
The cheering was, considering the size of the crowd, tremendous.
Bewildered and amazed, Captain Cy was assisted from the carriage
and escorted to his front door. Amidst the handkerchief-waving,
applauding people he saw Keturah Bangs and Alpheus Smalley and
Angeline Phinney and Captain Salters--even Alonzo Snow, his recent
opponent in town meeting. Josiah Dimick was there, too, apparently
having a fit.
On the doorstep stood Georgianna and--and--yes, it was true--beside
her, grandly extending a welcoming hand, the majestic form of the
Honorable Heman Atkins. Some one else was there also, some one who
hurriedly slipped back into the crowd as the owner of the Cy
Whittaker place came up the path between the hedges.
Mr. Atkins shook the captain's hand and then, turning toward the
people, held up his own for silence. To all outward appearance, he
was still the great Heman, our district idol, philanthropist, and
leader. His silk hat glistened as of old, his chest swelled in the
old manner, his whiskers were just as dignified and awe-inspiring.
For an instant, as he met the captain's eye, his own faltered and
fell, and there was a pleading expression in his face, the lines of
which had deepened just a little. But only for an instant; then he
began to speak.
"Cyrus," he said, "it is my pleasant duty, on behalf of your
neighbors and friends here assembled, to welcome you to your--
er--ancestral home after your trying illness. I do it heartily,
sincerely, gladly. And it is the more pleasing to me to perform
this duty, because, as I have explained publicly to my fellow-
townspeople, all disagreement between us is ended. I was wrong--
again I publicly admit it. A scheming blackleg, posing in the
guise of a loving father, imposed upon me. I am sorry for the
trouble I have caused you. Of you and of the little girl with you
I ask pardon--I entreat forgiveness."
He paused. Captain Cy, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his
mouth, nodded, and said briefly:
"All right, Heman. I forgive you." Few heard him: the majority
were applauding the congressman. Sylvanus Cahoon, whispering in
the ear of "Uncle Bedny," expressed as his opinion that "that was
about as magnaminious a thing as ever I heard said. Yes, sir!
mag-na-min-ious--that's what _I_ call it."
"But," continued the great Atkins, "I have said all this to you
before. What I have to say now--what I left my duties in
Washington expressly to come here and say--is that Bayport thanks
you, _I_ thank you, for your tremendous assistance in obtaining the
appropriation which is to make our harbor a busy port where our
gallant fishing fleet may ride at anchor and unload its catch,
instead of transferring it in dories as heretofore. Friends, I
have already told you how this man"--laying a hand on the captain's
shoulder--"came to the Capital and used his influence among his
acquaintances in high places, with the result that the thirty
thousand dollars, which I had despaired of getting, was added to
the bill. I had the pleasure of voting for that bill. It passed.
I am proud of that vote."
Tremendous applause. Then some one called for three cheers for Mr.
Atkins. They were given. But the recipient merely bowed.
"No, no," he said deprecatingly. "No, no! not for me, my friends,
much as I appreciate your gratitude. My days of public service are
nearly at an end. As I have intimated to some of you already, I am
seriously considering retiring from political life in the near
future. But that is irrelevant; it is not material at present.
To-day we meet, not to say farewell to the setting, but to greet
the rising sun. _I_ call for three cheers for our committee of
one--Captain Cyrus Whittaker."
When the uproar had at last subsided, there were demands for a
speech from Captain Cy. But the captain, facing them, his arms
about the delighted Bos'n, positively declined to orate.
"I--I'm ever so much obliged to you, folks," he stammered. "I am
so. But you'll have to excuse me from speechmaking. They--they
didn't teach it afore the mast, where I went to college. Thank
you, just the same. And do come and see me, everybody. Me and
this little girl," drawing Emily nearer to him, "will be real glad
to have you."
After the handshaking and congratulating were over, the crowd
dispersed. It was a great occasion; all agreed to that, but the
majority considered it a divided triumph. The captain had done a
lot for the town, of course, but the Honorable Atkins had made
another splendid impression by his address of welcome. Most people
thought it as fine as his memorable effort at town meeting. Unlike
that one, however, in this instance it is safe to say that none,
not even the adoring and praise-chanting Miss Phinney, derived
quite the enjoyment from the congressman's speech that Captain Cy
did. It tickled his sense of humor.
"Ase," he observed irrelevantly when the five--Tidditt, Georgianna,
Bailey, Bos'n, and himself were at last alone again in the sitting
room, "it DON'T pay to tip over a monument, does it--not out in
public, I mean. You wouldn't want to see me blow up Bunker Hill,
would you?"
"Blow up Bunker Hill!" repeated Asaph in alarmed amazement.
"Godfrey scissors! I believe you're goin' loony. This day's been
too much for you. What are you talkin' about?"
"Oh, nothin'," with a quiet chuckle. "I was thinkin' out loud,
that's all. Did you ever notice them imitation stone pillars on
Heman's house? They're holler inside, but you'd never guess it.
And, long as you do know they're holler, you can keep a watch on
'em. And there's one thing sure," he added, "they ARE ornamental."
CHAPTER XXI
CAPTAIN CY'S "PICTURE"
"Wonder where Phoebe went to," remarked Mr. Tidditt, a little
later. "I thought I saw her with Heman and Georgianna on the front
steps when we drove up."
"She was there," affirmed the housekeeper. "She'd been helpin' me
trim up the rooms here. What do you think of 'em, Cap'n Cyrus?
Ain't they pretty?"
The sitting room and dining room were gay with evergreens and old-
fashioned flowers. Our living room windows in the winter time are
usually filled with carefully tended potted plants, and the
neighbors had loaned their geraniums and fuchsias and heliotrope
and begonias to brighten the Whittaker house for its owner's
return. Captain Cy, who was sitting in the rocker, with Bos'n on
his knee, looked about him. Now that the first burst of excitement
was over, he seemed grave and preoccupied.
"They look mighty pretty, Georgianna," he said. "Fine enough. But
what was that you just said? Did--"
"Yup," interrupted Miss Taylor, who had scarcely ceased talking
since breakfast that morning. "Yes, 'twas teacher that helped fix
'em. Not that I wouldn't have got along without her, but I had
more to do than a little, cleanin' and scrubbin' up. So Phoebe she
come in, and-- Oh! yes, as I was sayin', she was out front with
me, but the minute your carriage drove up with that lovely span--
AIN'T that a fine span! I cal'late they're--"
"What become of teacher?" broke in Bailey.
"Why, she run off somewheres. I didn't see where she went to; I
was too busy hollerin' at Cap'n Whittaker and noticin' that span.
I bet you they made Angie Phinney's eyes stick out. I guess she
realizes that we in this house are some punkins now. If I don't
lord it over her when I run acrost her these days, then I miss my
guess. I--"
"Belay!" ordered Captain Cy, his gravity more pronounced than ever.
"How does it happen that you-- See here, Georgianna, did you tell
Ph--er--Miss Dawes what I told you to tell her when I went away?"
"Why, yes, I told her. I hated to, dreadful, but I done it. She
was awful set back at fust, but I guess she asked Mr. Tidditt--
Where you goin', Mr. Tidditt?"
The town clerk, his face red, was on his way to the door.
"Asked Ase?" repeated the captain. "Ase, come here! Did you tell
her anything?"
Asaph was very much embarrassed.
"Well," he stammered, "I didn't mean to, Cy, but she got to askin'
me questions, and somehow or nother I did tell her about our
confab, yours and mine. I told her that I knew folks was talkin',
and I felt 'twas my duty to tell you so. That's why I done it, and
I told her you said--well, you know what you said yourself, Cy."
Captain Cy was evidently much disturbed. He put Bos'n down, and
rose to his feet.
"Well," he asked sharply, "what did she say?"
"Oh! she was white and still for a minute or two. Then she kind of
stamped her foot and went off and left me. But next time she met
me she was nice as pie. She's been pretty frosty to Angie and the
rest of 'em, but she's been always nice to Bailey and me. Why,
when I asked her pardon, she said not at all, she was very glad to
know the truth; it helped her to understand things. And you could
see she meant it, too. She--"
"So she has been comin' here ever since. And the gossip has been
goin' on, I s'pose. Well, by the big dipper, it'll stop now! I'll
see to that."
The Board of Strategy and the housekeeper were amazed.
"Gossip!" repeated Bailey. "Well, I guess there ain't nothin' said
against her now--not in THIS town, there ain't! Why, all hands
can't praise her enough for her smartness in findin' out about that
Thomas. If it wan't for her, he'd be botherin' you yet, Cy. You
know it. What are you talkin' about?"
Captain Cy passed his hand over his forehead.
"Bos'n," he said slowly, "you run and help Georgianna in the
kitchen a spell. She's got her dinner to look out for, I guess
likely. Georgianna," to the housekeeper, who looked anything but
eager, "you better see to your dinner right off, and take Emmie
with you."
Miss Taylor reluctantly departed, leading Bos'n by the hand. The
child was loath to leave her uncle, but he told her he wouldn't
give a cent for his first dinner at home if she didn't help in
preparing it. So she went out happy.
"Now, then," demanded the captain, "what's this about Phoebe and
Thomas? I want to know. Stop! Don't ask another question.
Answer me first."
So the Board of Strategy, by turns and in concert, told of the
drive to Trumet and the call on Debby Beasley. Asaph would have
narrated the story of the upset sulky, but Bailey shut him up in
short order.
"Never mind that foolishness," he snapped. "You see, Cy, Debby had
just been out to Arizona visitin' old Beasley's niece. And she'd
fell in with a woman out there whose husband had run off and left
her. And Debby, she read the advertisement about him in the
Arizona paper, and it said he had the spring halt in his off hind
leg, or somethin' similar. Now, Thomas, he had that, too, and
there was other things that reminded Phoebe of him. So she don't
say nothin' to nobody, but she writes to this woman askin' for more
partic'lars and a photograph of the missin' one. The partic'lars
come, but the photograph didn't; the wife didn't have none, I
b'lieve. But there was enough to send Phoebe hotfoot to Mr.
Peabody. And Peabody he writes to his lawyer friend in Butte,
Montana. And the Butte man he--"
"Well, the long and short of it is," cut in Tidditt, "that it
looked safe and sartin that Thomas HAD married the Arizona woman
while his real wife, Bos'n's ma, was livin', and had run off and
left her same as he did Mary. And the funny part of it is--"
"The funny part of it is," declared Bangs, drowning his friend's
voice by raising his own, "that somebody out there, some scalawag
friend of this Thomas, must have got wind of what was up, and sent
word to him. 'Cause, when they went to hunt for him in Boston,
he'd gone, skipped, cut stick. And they ain't seen him since. He
was afraid of bein' took up for bigamist, you see--for bein' a
bigamy, I mean. Well, you know what I'm tryin' to say. Anyhow, if
it hadn't been for me and Phoebe--"
"YOU and Phoebe!" snorted Asaph. "You had a whole lot to do with
it, didn't you? You and Aunt Debby 'll do to go together. I
understand she's cruisin' round makin' proclamations that SHE was
responsible for the whole thing. No, sir-ree! it's Phoebe Dawes
that the credit belongs to, and this town ain't done nothin' but
praise her since it come out. You never see such a quick come-
about in your life--unless 'twas Heman's. But you knew all this
afore, Whit. Peabody must have told you."
Captain Cy had listened to his friends' story with a face
expressive of the most blank astonishment. As he learned of the
trip to Trumet and its results, his eyes and mouth opened, and he
repeatedly rubbed his forehead and muttered exclamations. Now, at
the mention of his lawyer's name, he seemed to awaken.
"Hold on!" he interrupted, waving his hand. "Hold on! By the big
dipper! this is--is-- Where IS Peabody? I want to see him."
"Here I am, captain," said the attorney. He had been out to the
barn to superintend the stabling of the span, but for the past
five minutes had been standing, unnoticed by his client, on the
threshold of the dining room.
"See here," demanded Captain Cy, "see here, Peabody; is this yarn
true? IS it, now? this about--about Phoebe and all?"
"Certainly it's true. I supposed you knew it. You didn't seem
surprised when I told you the case was settled."
"Surprised? Why, no! I thought Heman had-- Never mind that.
Land of love! SHE did it. She!"
He sat weakly down. The lawyer looked anxious.
"Mr. Tidditt," he whispered, "I think perhaps he had better be left
alone for the present. He's just up from a sick bed, and this has
been a trying forenoon. Come in again this afternoon. I shall try
to persuade him to take a nap."
The Board of Strategy, its curiosity unsatisfied, departed
reluctantly. When Mr. Peabody returned to the sitting room he found
that naps were far, indeed, from the captain's thoughts. The latter
was pacing the sitting-room floor.
"Where is she?" he demanded. "She was standin' on the steps with
Heman. Have you seen her since?"
His friend was troubled.
"Why, yes, I've seen her," he said. "I have been talking with her.
She has gone away."
"Gone AWAY! Where? What do you mean? She ain't--ain't left
Bayport?"
"No, no. What in the world should she leave Bayport for? She has
gone to her boarding house, I guess; at all events, she was headed
in that direction."
"Why didn't she shake hands with me? What made her go off and not
say a word? Oh, well, I guess likely I know the why!" He sighed
despondently. "I told her never to come here again."
"You did? What in the world--"
"Well, for what I thought was good reasons; all on her account they
was. And yet she did come back, and kept comin', even after Ase
blabbed the whole thing. However, I s'pose that was just to help
Georgianna. Oh, hum! I AM an old fool."
The lawyer inspected him seriously.
"Well, captain," he said slowly, "if it is any comfort for you to
know that your reason isn't the correct one for Miss Dawes's going
away, I can assure you on that point. I think she went because she
was greatly disappointed, and didn't wish to see you just now."
"Disappointed? What do you mean?"
"Humph! I didn't mean to tell you yet, but I judge that I'd
better. No one knows it here but Miss Dawes and I, and probably no
one but us three need ever know it. You see, the fact is that the
Arizona woman, Desire Higgins, isn't Mrs. Thomas at all. He isn't
her missing husband."
"What?"
"Yes, it's so. Really, it was too much of a coincidence to be
possible, and yet it certainly did seem that it would prove true.
This Higgins woman was, apparently, so anxious to find her missing
man that she was ready to recognize almost any description; and the
slight lameness and the fact of his having been in Montana helped
along. If we could have gotten a photograph sooner, the question
would have been settled. Only last week, while I was in Boston, I
got word from the detective agency that a photo had been received.
I went to see it immediately. There was some resemblance, but not
enough. Henry Thomas was never Mr. Higgins."
"But--but--they say Thomas has skipped out."
"Yes, he has. That's the queer part of it. At the place where he
boarded we learned that he got a letter from Arizona--trust the
average landlady to look at postmarks--that he seemed greatly
agitated all that day, and left that night. No one has seen him
since. Why he went is a puzzle. Where, we don't care. So long as
he keeps out of our way, that's enough."
Captain Cy did not care, either. He surmised that Mr. Atkins might
probably explain the disappearance. And yet, oddly enough, this
explanation was not the true one. The Honorable Heman solemnly
assured the captain that he had not communicated with Emily's
father. He intended to do so, as a part of the compact agreed upon
at the hotel, but the man had fled. And the mystery is still
unsolved. The supposition is that there really was a wife somewhere
in the West. Who or where she was no Bayporter knows. Henry Thomas
has never come back to explain.
"I told Miss Dawes of the photograph and what it proved," went on
Peabody. "She was dreadfully disappointed. She could hardly speak
when she left me. I urged her to come in and see you, but she
wouldn't. Evidently she had set her heart on helping you and the
child. It is too bad, because, practically speaking, we owe
everything to her. There is little doubt that the inquiry set on
foot by her scared the Thomas fellow into flight. And she has
worked night and day to aid us. She is a very clever woman,
Captain Whittaker, and a good one. You can't thank her enough.
Here! what are you about?"
Captain Cy strode past him into the dining room. The hat rack hung
on the wall by the side door. He snatched his cap from the peg,
and was struggling into his overcoat.
"Where are you going?" demanded the lawyer. "You mustn't attempt to
walk now. You need rest."
"Rest! I'll rest by and by. Just now I've got business to attend
to. Let go of that pea-jacket."
"But--"
"No buts about it. I'll see you later. So long."
He threw open the door and hurried down the walk. The lawyer
watched him in amazement. Then a slow smile overspread his face.
"Captain," he called. "Captain Whittaker."
Captain Cy looked back over his shoulder. "What do you want?" he
asked.
Mr. Peabody's face was now intensely solemn, but there was a
twinkle in his eye.
"I think she's at the boarding house," he said demurely. "I'm
pretty certain you'll find her there."
All the regulars at the perfect boarding house had, of course,
attended the reception at the Cy Whittaker place. None of them,
with the exception of the schoolmistress, had as yet returned.
Dinner had been forgotten in the excitement of the great day, and
Keturah and Angeline and Mrs. Tripp had stopped in at various
dwellings along the main road, to compare notes on the captain's
appearance and the Atkins address. Asaph and Bailey and Alpheus
Smalley were at Simmons's.
Captain Cy knew better than to attempt his hurried trip by way of
the road. He had no desire to be held up and congratulated. He
went across lots, in the rear of barns and orchards, wading through
drifts and climbing fences as no sane convalescent should. But the
captain at that moment was suffering from the form of insanity
known as the fixed idea. She had done all this for him--for HIM.
And his last message to her had been an insult.
He approached the Bangs property by the stable lane. No one locks
doors in our village, and those of the perfect boarding house were
unfastened. He entered by way of the side porch, just as he had
done when Gabe Lumley's depot wagon first deposited him in that
yard. But now he entered on tiptoe. The dining room was empty.
He peeped into the sitting room. There, by the center table, sat
Phoebe Dawes, her elbow on the arm of her chair, and her head
resting on her hand.
"Ahem! Phoebe!" said Captain Cy.
She started, turned, and saw him standing there. Her eyes were
wet, and there was a handkerchief in her lap.
"Phoebe," said the captain anxiously, "have you been cryin'?"
She rose on the instant. A great wave of red swept over her face.
The handkerchief fell to the floor, and she stooped and picked it
up.
"Crying?" she repeated confusedly. "Why, no, of course--of course
not! I-- How do you do, Captain Whittaker? I'm--we're all very
glad to see you home again--and well."
She extended her hand. Captain Cy reached forward to take it; then
he hesitated.
"I don't think I'd ought to let you shake hands with me, Phoebe,"
he said. "Not until I beg your pardon."
"Beg my pardon? Why?"
He absently took the hand and held it.
"For the word I sent to you when I went away. 'Twas an awful thing
to say, but I meant it for your sake, you know. Honest, I did."
She laughed nervously.
"Oh! that," she said. "Well, I did think you were rather particular
as to your visitors. But Mr. Tidditt explained, and then-- You
needn't beg my pardon. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I knew
you meant to be kind to me."
"That's what I did. But you didn't obey orders. You kept comin'.
Now, why--"
"Why? Did you suppose that _I_ cared for the malicious gossip of--
such people? I came because you were in trouble, and I hoped to
help you. And--and I thought I had helped, until a few minutes
ago."
Her lip quivered. That quiver went to the captain's heart.
"Helped?" he faltered. "Helped? Why, you've done so much that I
can't ever thank you. You've been the only real helper I've had in
all this miserable business. You've stood by me all through."
"But it was all wrong. He isn't the man at all. Didn't Mr.
Peabody tell you?"
"Yes, yes, he told me. What difference does that make? Peabody be
hanged! He ain't in this. It's you and me--don't you see? What
made you do all this for me?"
She looked at the floor and not at him as she answered.
"Why, because I wanted to help you," she said. "I've been alone in
the world ever since mother died, years ago. I've had few real
friends. Your friendship had come to mean a great deal to me. The
splendid fight you were making for that little girl proved what a
man you were. And you fought so bravely when almost everyone was
against you, I couldn't help wanting to do something for you. How
could I? And now it has come to nothing--my part of it. I'm so
sorry."
"It ain't, neither. It's come to everything. Phoebe, I didn't
mean to say very much more than to beg your pardon when I headed
for here. But I've got to--I've simply got to. This can't go on.
I can't have you keep comin' to see me--and Bos'n. I can't keep
meetin' you every day. I CAN'T."
She looked up, as if to speak, but something, possibly the
expression in his face, caused her to look quickly down again.
She did not answer.
"I can't do it," continued the captain desperately. "'Tain't for
what folks might say. They wouldn't say much when I was around, I
tell you. It ain't that. It's because I can't bear to have you
just a friend. Either you must be more'n that, or--or I'll have to
go somewheres else. I realized that when I was in Washin'ton and
cruisin' to California and back. I've either got to take Bos'n and
go away for good, or--or--"
She would not help him. She would not speak.
"You see?" he groaned. "You see, Phoebe, what an old fool I am.
I can't ask you to marry me, me fifty-five, and rough from knockin'
round the world, and you, young and educated, and a lady. I ain't
fool enough to ask such a thing as that. And yet, I couldn't stay
here and meet you every day, and by and by see you marry somebody
else. By the big dipper, I couldn't do it! So that's why I can't
shake hands with you to-day--nor any more, except when I say good-
by for keeps."
Then she looked up. The color was still bright in her face, and
her eyes were moist, but she was smiling.
"Can't shake hands with me?" she said. "Please, what have you been
doing for the last five minutes?"
Captain Cy dropped her hand as if his own had been struck with
paralysis.
"Good land!" he stammered. "I didn't know I did it; honest truth,
I didn't."
Phoebe's smile was still there, faint, but very sweet.
"Why did you stop?" she queried. "I didn't ask you to."
"Why did I stop? Why, because I--I--I declare I'm ashamed--"
She took his hand and clasped it with both her own.
"I'm not," she said bravely, her eyes brightening as the wonder and
incredulous joy grew in his. "I'm very proud. And very, very
happy."
There was to be a big supper at the Cy Whittaker place that night.
It was an impromptu affair, arranged on the spur of the moment by
Captain Cy, who, in spite of the lawyer's protests and anxiety
concerning his health, went serenely up and down the main road,
inviting everybody he met or could think of. The captain's face
was as radiant as a spring sunrise. His smile, as Asaph said,
"pretty nigh cut the upper half of his head off." People who had
other engagements, and would, under ordinary circumstances, have
refused the invitation, couldn't say no to his hearty, "Can't come?
Course you'll come! Man alive! I WANT you."
"Invalid, is he?" observed Josiah Dimick, after receiving and
accepting his own invitation. "Well, I wish to thunder I could be
took down with the same kind of disease. I'd be willin' to linger
along with it quite a spell if it pumped me as full of joy as Whit
seems to be. Don't give laughin' gas to keep off pneumonia, do
they? No? Well, I'd like to know the name of his medicine, that's
all."
Supper was to be ready at six. Georgianna, assisted by Keturah
Bangs, Mrs. Sylvanus Cahoon, and other volunteers, was gloriously
busy in the kitchen. The table in the dining room reached from one
end of the big apartment to the other. Guests would begin to
arrive shortly. Wily Mr. Peabody, guessing that Captain Cy might
prefer to be alone, had taken the Board of Strategy out riding
behind the span.
In the sitting room, around the baseburner stove, were three
persons--Captain Cy, Bos'n, and Phoebe. Miss Dawes had "come
early," at the captain's urgent appeal. Now she was sitting in the
rocker, at one side of the stove, gazing dreamily at the ruddy
light behind the isinglass panes. She looked quietly, blissfully
contented and happy. At her feet, on the braided mat, sat Bos'n,
playing with Lonesome, who purred lazily. The little girl was
happy, too, for was not her beloved Uncle Cyrus at home again, with
all danger of their separation ended forevermore?
As for Captain Cy himself, the radiant expression was still on his
face, brighter than ever. He looked across at Phoebe, who smiled
back at him. Then he glanced down at Bos'n. And all at once he
realized that this was the fulfillment of his dream. Here was his
"picture"; the sitting room was now as he had always loved to think
of it--as it used to be. He was in his father's chair, Phoebe in
the one his mother used to occupy, and between them--just where he
had sat so often when a boy--the child. The Cy Whittaker place had
again, and at last, come into its own.
He drew a long breath, and looked about the room; at the stove, the
lamp, the old, familiar furniture, at his grandfather's portrait
over the mantel. Then, in a flash of memory, his father's words
came back to him, and he said, laughing aloud from pure happiness:
"Bos'n, run down cellar and get me a pitcher of cider, won't you?--
there's a good feller."
End of Project Gutenberg Etext Cy Whittaker's Place, by J. C. Lincoln
