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Thankful's Inheritance

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln · English · Gutenberg #2552 · 615,381 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Thankful's Inheritance

Author: Joseph Crosby Lincoln


        
Release date: May 18, 2006 [eBook #2552]
                Most recently updated: March 5, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2552

Credits: Produced by Donald Lainson; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THANKFUL'S INHERITANCE ***




Produced by Donald Lainson





THANKFUL'S INHERITANCE

By Joseph C. Lincoln




CHAPTER I


The road from Wellmouth Centre to East Wellmouth is not a good one; even
in dry weather and daylight it is not that. For the first two miles it
winds and twists its sandy way over bare hills, with cranberry
swamps and marshy ponds in the hollows between. Then it enters upon a
three-mile stretch bordered with scrubby pines and bayberry thickets,
climbing at last a final hill to emerge upon the bluff with the ocean
at its foot. And, fringing that bluff and clustering thickest in the
lowlands just beyond, is the village of East Wellmouth, which must on
no account be confused with South Wellmouth, or North Wellmouth, or West
Wellmouth, or even Wellmouth Port.

On a bright sunny summer day the East Wellmouth road is a hard one to
travel. At nine o'clock of an evening in March, with a howling gale
blowing and rain pouring in torrents, traveling it is an experience.
Winnie S., who drives the East Wellmouth depot-wagon, had undergone the
experience several times in the course of his professional career, but
each time he vowed vehemently that he would not repeat it; he would
“heave up” his job first.

He was vowing it now. Perched on the edge of the depot wagon's front
seat, the reins leading from his clenched fists through the slit in the
“boot” to the rings on the collar of General Jackson, the aged horse, he
expressed his opinion of the road, the night, and the job.

“By Judas priest!” declared Winnie S.--his name was Winfield Scott
Hancock Holt, but no resident of East Wellmouth called him anything but
Winnie S.--“by Judas priest! If this ain't enough to make a feller give
up tryin' to earn a livin', then I don't know! Tell him he can't ship
aboard a schooner 'cause goin' to sea's a dog's life, and then put him
on a job like this! Dog's life! Judas priest! What kind of a life's
THIS, I want to know?”

From the curtain depths of the depot-wagon behind him a voice answered,
a woman's voice:

“Judgin' by the amount of dampness in it I should think you might call
it a duck's life,” it suggested.

Winnie S. accepted this pleasantry with a grunt. “I 'most wish I was
a duck,” he declared, savagely. “Then I could set in three inches of
ice-water and like it, maybe. Now what's the matter with you?” This last
a roar to the horse, whose splashy progress along the gullied road had
suddenly ceased. “What's the matter with you now?” repeated Winnie.
“What have you done; come to anchor? Git dap!”

But General Jackson refused to “git dap.” Jerks at the reins only caused
him to stamp and evince an inclination to turn around. Go ahead he would
not.

“Judas priest!” exclaimed the driver. “I do believe the critter's
drowndin'! Somethin's wrong. I've got to get out and see, I s'pose. Set
right where you be, ladies. I'll be back in a minute,” adding, as he
took a lighted lantern from beneath the seat and pulled aside the heavy
boot preparatory to alighting, “unless I get in over my head, which
ain't so dummed unlikely as it sounds.”

Lantern in hand he clambered clumsily from beneath the boot and
disappeared. Inside the vehicle was blackness, dense, damp and profound.

“Auntie,” said a second feminine voice, “Auntie, what DO you suppose has
happened?”

“I don't know, Emily. I'm prepared for 'most anything by this time.
Maybe we've landed on Mount Ararat. I feel as if I'd been afloat for
forty days and nights. Land sakes alive!” as another gust shot and beat
its accompanying cloudburst through and between the carriage curtains;
“right in my face and eyes! I don't wonder that boy wished he was a
duck. I'd like to be a fish--or a mermaid. I couldn't be much wetter if
I was either one, and I'd have gills so I could breathe under water. I
SUPPOSE mermaids have gills, I don't know.”

Emily laughed. “Aunt Thankful,” she declared, “I believe you would find
something funny in a case of smallpox.”

“Maybe I should; I never tried. 'Twouldn't be much harder than to be
funny with--with rain-water on the brain. I'm so disgusted with myself
I don't know what to do. The idea of me, daughter and granddaughter of
seafarin' folks that studied the weather all their lives, not knowin'
enough to stay to home when it looked as much like a storm as it did
this mornin'. And draggin' you into it, too. We could have come tomorrow
or next day just as well, but no, nothin' to do but I must start today
'cause I'd planned to. This comes of figgerin' to profit by what folks
leave to you in wills. Talk about dead men's shoes! Live men's rubber
boots would be worth more to you and me this minute. SUCH a cruise as
this has been!”

It had been a hard trip, certainly, and the amount of water through
which they had traveled the latter part of it almost justified its being
called a “cruise.” Old Captain Abner Barnes, skipper, for the twenty
years before his death, of the coasting schooner T. I. Smalley, had,
during his life-long seafaring, never made a much rougher voyage, all
things considered, than that upon which his last will and testament had
sent his niece and her young companion.

Captain Abner, a widower, had, when he died, left his house and land at
East Wellmouth to his niece by marriage, Mrs. Thankful Barnes. Thankful,
whose husband, Eben Barnes, was lost at sea the year after their
marriage, had been living with and acting as housekeeper for an elderly
woman named Pearson at South Middleboro. She, Thankful, had never
visited her East Wellmouth inheritance. For four years after she
inherited it she received the small rent paid her by the tenant, one
Laban Eldredge. His name was all she knew concerning him. Then he died
and for the next eight months the house stood empty. And then came one
more death, that of old Mrs. Pearson, the lady for whom Thankful had
“kept house.”

Left alone and without present employment, the Widow Barnes considered
what she should do next. And, thus considering, the desire to visit and
inspect her East Wellmouth property grew and strengthened. She thought
more and more concerning it. It was hers, she could do what she pleased
with it, and she began to formulate vague ideas as to what she might
like to do. She kept these ideas to herself, but she spoke to Emily
Howes concerning the possibilities of a journey to East Wellmouth.

Emily was Mrs. Barnes' favorite cousin, although only a second cousin.
Her mother, Sarah Cahoon, Thankful's own cousin, had married a man named
Howes. Emily was the only child by this marriage. But later there was
another marriage, this time to a person named Hobbs, and there were five
little Hobbses. Papa Hobbs worked occasionally, but not often. His wife
and Emily worked all the time. The latter had been teaching school
in Middleboro, but now it was spring vacation. So when Aunt Thankful
suggested the Cape Cod tour of inspection Emily gladly agreed to go.
The Hobbs house was not a haven of joy, especially to Mr. Hobbs'
stepdaughter, and almost any change was likely to be an agreeable one.

They had left South Middleboro that afternoon. The rain began when
the train reached West Ostable. At Bayport it had become a storm. At
Wellmouth Centre it was a gale and a miniature flood. And now, shut
up in the back part of the depot-wagon, with the roaring wind and
splashing, beating rain outside, Thankful's references to fish and ducks
and mermaids, even to Mount Ararat, seemed to Emily quite appropriate.
They had planned to spend the night at the East Wellmouth hotel and
visit the Barnes' property in the morning. But it was five long miles to
that hotel from the Wellmouth Centre station. Their progress so far had
been slow enough. Now they had stopped altogether.

A flash of light showed above the top of the carriage boot.

“Mercy on us!” cried Aunt Thankful. “Is that lightnin'? All we need to
make this complete is to be struck by lightnin'. No, 'tain't lightnin',
it's just the lantern. Our pilot's comin' back, I guess likely. Well, he
ain't been washed away, that's one comfort.”

Winnie S., holding the lantern in his hand, reappeared beneath the boot.
Raindrops sparkled on his eyebrows, his nose and the point of his chin.

“Judas priest!” he gasped. “If this ain't--”

“You needn't say it. We'll agree with you,” interrupted Mrs. Barnes,
hastily. “Is anything the matter?”

The driver's reply was in the form of elaborate sarcasm.

“Oh, no!” he drawled, “there wasn't nothin' the matter. Just a few
million pines blowed across the road and the breechin' busted and the
for'ard wheel about ready to come off, that's all. Maybe there's a few
other things I didn't notice, but that's all I see.”

“Humph! Well, they'll do for a spell. How's the weather, any worse?”

“Worse? No! they ain't no worse made. Looks as if 'twas breakin' a
little over to west'ard, fur's that goes. But how in the nation we'll
ever fetch East Wellmouth, I don't know. Git dap! GIT DAP! Have you
growed fast?”

General Jackson pulled one foot after the other from the mud and the
wagon rocked and floundered as its pilot steered it past the fallen
trees. For the next twenty minutes no one spoke. Then Winnie S. breathed
a sigh of thankfulness.

“Well, we're out of that stretch of woods, anyhow,” he declared. “And it
'tain't rainin' so hard, nuther. Cal'late we can get to civilization if
that breechin' holds and the pesky wheel don't come off. How are you, in
aft there; tolerable snug?”

Emily said nothing. Aunt Thankful chuckled at the word.

“Snug!” she repeated. “My, yes! If this water was salt we'd be as snug
as a couple of pickled mackerel. How far off is this civilization you're
talkin' about?”

“Well, our hotel where you're bound is a good two mile, but
there's--Judas priest! there goes that breechin' again!”

There was another halt while the breeching underwent temporary repairs.
The wind blew as hard as ever, but the rain had almost stopped. A few
minutes later it stopped altogether.

“There!” declared Winnie S. “The fust mile's gone. I don't know's I
hadn't ought to stop--”

Aunt Thankful interrupted. “Stop!” she cried. “For mercy sakes, don't
stop anywheres unless you have to. We've done nothin' but stop ever
since we started. Go on as far as you can while this--this machine of
yours is wound up.”

But that was not destined to be far. From beneath the forward end of
the depot-wagon sounded a most alarming creak, a long-drawn, threatening
groan. Winnie S. uttered his favorite exclamation.

“Judas priest!” he shouted. “There goes that wheel! I've, been expectin'
it.”

He tugged at the right hand rein. General Jackson, who, having been
brought up in a seafaring community, had learned to answer his helm,
swerved sharply from the road. Emily screamed faintly.

“Where are you goin'?” demanded Mrs. Barnes.

The driver did not answer. The groan from beneath the carriage was more
ominously threatening than ever. And suddenly the threat was fulfilled.
The depot-wagon jerked on for a few feet and then, with a crack, settled
down to port in a most alarming fashion. Winnie S. settled down with it,
still holding tight to the reins and roaring commands to General Jackson
at the top of his lungs.

“Whoa!” he hollered. “Whoa! Stand still! Stand still where you be!
Whoa!”

General Jackson stood still. Generally speaking he needed but one hint
to do that. His commander climbed out, or fell out, from beneath the
boot. The ground upon which he fell was damp but firm.

“Whoa!” he roared again. Then scrambling to his feet he sprang toward
the wagon, which, the forward wheel detached and flat beneath it,
was resting on the remaining three in a fashion which promised total
capsizing at any moment.

“Be you hurt? Be you hurt?” demanded Winnie S.

From inside, the tightly drawn curtains there came a variety of sounds,
screams, exclamations, and grunts as of someone gasping for breath.

“Be you hurt?” yelled the frantic Mr. Holt.

It was the voice of the younger passenger which first made coherent
reply.

“No,” it panted. “No, I--I think I'm not hurt. But Aunt Thankful--Oh,
Auntie, are you--”

Aunt Thankful herself interrupted. Her voice was vigorous enough, but it
sounded as if smothered beneath a heavy weight.

“No, no,” she gasped. “I--I'm all right. I'm all right. Or I guess I
shall be when you get--off of me.”

“Judas priest!” cried Winnie S., and sprang to the scene. It was the
younger woman, Emily, whom he rescued first. She, being on the upper
side of the tilted wagon, had slid pell-mell along the seat down upon
the body of her companion. Mrs. Barnes was beneath and getting her out
was a harder task. However, it was accomplished at last.

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed the lady, as her companions assisted her to
rise. “Mercy on us! I feel like a pancake. I never knew you weighed so
much, Emily Howes. Well, that's all right and no bones broke. Where
are we now? Why--why, that's a house, I do believe! We're in somebody's
yard.”

They were, that was plain even on a night as dark as this. Behind them,
bordering the stretch of mud and puddles which they had just left, was
the silhouette of a dilapidated picket fence; and in front loomed the
shadowy shapes of buildings.

“We're in somebody's yard,” repeated Thankful. “And there's a house,
as sure as I live! Well, I never thought I'd be so grateful just at the
bare sight of one. I'd begun to think I never would see a house again.
If we'd run afoul of a ship I shouldn't have been so surprised. Come on,
Emily!”

She seized her companion by the hand and led the way toward the nearest
and largest building. Winnie S., having retrieved and relighted the
overturned lantern, was inspecting the wreck of the depot-wagon. It was
some minutes before he noticed that his passengers had disappeared. Then
he set up a shout.

“Hi! Where you be?” he shouted.

“Here,” was the answer. “Here, by the front door.”

“Hey? Oh, all right. Stay where you be. I'll be there pretty soon.”

The “pretty soon” was not very soon. Mrs. Barnes began to lose patience.

“I ain't goin' to roost on this step till mornin',” she declared. “I'm
goin' inside. Ain't that a bell handle on your side of the door, Emily?
Give it a pull, for mercy sakes!”

“But, Auntie--”

“Give it a pull, I tell you! I don't know who lives here and I don't
care. If 'twas the President of the United States he'd have to turn out
and let us in this night. Here, let me do it!”

She gave the glass knob a sharp jerk. From within sounded the jingle of
an old-fashioned spring bell.

“There!” she exclaimed, “I guess they'll hear that. Anyway, I'll give
'em one more for good measure.”

She jerked the bell again. The peal died away in a series of lessening
tinkles, but there was no other sound from within.

“They must be sound sleepers,” whispered Emily, after a moment.

“They must be dead,” declared Thankful. “There's been smashin' and
crackin' and hollerin' enough to wake up anybody that wa'n't buried. How
that wind does blow! I--Hello! here comes that man at last. About time,
I should say!”

Winnie S. appeared, bearing the lantern.

“What you doin'?” he asked. “There ain't no use ringin' that bell.
Nobody'll hear it.”

Thankful, who had just given the bell a third pull, took her hand from
the knob.

“Why not?” she demanded. “It makes noise enough. I should think a graven
image would hear it. What is this, a home for deaf people?”

Winnie S. grinned. “'Tain't nobody's home, not now,” he said. “This
house is empty. Ain't nobody lived in it for 'most a year.”

The two women looked at each other. Mrs. Barnes drew along breath.

“Well,” she observed, “if this ain't the last straw. Such a cruise as
we've had; and finally be shipwrecked right in front of a house and find
it's an empty one! Don't talk to ME! Well,” sharply, “what shall we do
next?”

The driver shook his head.

“Dummed if I know!” he answered. “The old wagon can't go another yard.
I--I cal'late you folks'll have to stay here for a spell.”

“Stay? Where'll we stay; out here in the middle of this howlin'
wilderness?”

“I guess so. Unless you want to walk the rest of the way, same's I'm
cal'latin' to. I'm goin' to unharness the horse and put him under the
shed here and then hoof it over to the village and get somebody to come
and help. You can come along if you want to, but it'll be a tougher
v'yage than the one we've come through.”

“How far off is this--this village of yours?”

“Oh, about a mile and a half!”

“A mile and a half! And it's beginnin' to rain again! Emily, I don't
know how you feel, but if the horse can wait under the shed until
somebody comes I guess we can. I say let's do it.”

Emily nodded. “Of course, Auntie,” she said, emphatically. “We couldn't
walk a mile and a half in a storm like this. Of course we must wait.
Where is the shed?”

Winnie S. led the way to the shed. It was a ramshackle affair, open
on one side. General Jackson, tethered to a rusty ring at the back,
whinnied a welcome.

The driver, holding the lantern aloft, looked about him. His two
passengers looked also.

“Well,” observed Thankful, “this may have been a shed once, but it's
more like a sieve now. There's more leaks to the roof than there is
boards, enough sight. However, any port in a storm, and we've got the
storm, sartin. All right, Mister What's-your-name, we'll wait.”

Winnie S. turned away. Then he turned back again.

“Maybe I'd better leave you the lantern,” he said, doubtfully. “I
guess likely I could get along without it and--and 'twould make it more
sociable for you.”

He put the lantern down on the earth floor beside them and strode off
into the dark. Mrs. Barnes called after him.

“Ain't there any way of gettin' into that house?” she asked. “It acts as
if 'twas goin' to storm hard as ever and this shed ain't the most--what
did you call it?--sociable place in creation, in spite of the lantern.
If we could only get inside that house--”

Winnie S. interrupted. They could not see him, but there was a queer
note in his voice.

“Get inside!” he repeated. “Get into THAT house this time of night!
Well--well, maybe you could, but I wouldn't do it, not for nothin'. You
better wait in the shed. I'll be back soon as ever I can.”

They heard him splashing along the road. Then a gust of wind and a
torrent of rain beating upon the leaky roof drowned all other sounds.
Emily turned to her companion.

“Auntie,” she said, “if you and I were superstitious we might think
all this, all that we've been through, was what people call a sign, a
warning. That is what ever so many South Middleboro people would say.”

“Humph! if I believed in signs I'd have noticed the weather signs afore
we started. Those are all the 'signs' I believe in and I ought to have
known better than to risk comin' when it looked so threatenin'. I can't
forgive myself for that. However, we did come, and here we are--wherever
'here' is. Now what in the world did that man mean by sayin' we better
not try to get into that house? I don't care what he meant. Give me that
lantern.”

“Auntie, where are you going?”

“I'm goin' to take an observation of those windows. Nine chances to one
they ain't all locked, and if there's one open you and I can crawl
into it. I wish we could boost the horse in, too, poor thing, but
self-preservation is the first law of nature and if he's liable to
perish it's no reason we should. I'm goin' to get into that house if
such a thing's possible.”

“But, Auntie--”

“Don't say another word. I'm responsible for your bein' here this night,
Emily Howes. You wouldn't have come if I hadn't coaxed you into it. And
you shan't die of pneumonia or--or drownin' if I can help it. I'm goin'
to have a look at those doors and windows. Don't be scared. I'll be
back in a jiffy. Goodness me, what a puddle! Well, if you hear me holler
you'll know I'm goin' under for the third time, so come quick. Here
goes!”

Lantern in hand, she splashed out into the wet, windy darkness.




CHAPTER II


Miss Howes, left to share with General Jackson the “sociability” of the
shed, watched that lantern with faint hope and strong anxiety. She
saw it bobbing like a gigantic firefly about the walls of the house,
stopping here and there and then hurrying on. Soon it passed around the
further corner and disappeared altogether. The wind howled, the rain
poured, General Jackson stamped and splashed, and Emily shivered.

At last, just as the watcher had begun to think some serious accident
had happened to her courageous relative and was considering starting on
a relief expedition, the lantern reappeared.

“Emily!” screamed Mrs. Barnes. “Emily! Come here!”

Emily came, fighting her way against the wind. She found her cousin
standing by the corner of the house.

“I've got it,” cried Aunt Thankful, panting but triumphant. “I've
got it. One of the windows on the other side is unfastened, just as I
suspicioned it might be. I think one of us can get in if t'other helps.”

She seized the arm of her fellow castaway and together they turned the
corner, struggled on for a short distance and then stopped.

“This is the window,” gasped the widow. “Here, right abreast of us.
See!”

She held up the lantern. The window was “abreast” of them, but also it
was a trifle high.

“It ain't fastened,” shouted Thankful; she was obliged to shout in order
to be heard. “I could push it open a little mite from the bottom, but
I couldn't reach to get it up all the way. You can if I steady you, I
guess. Here! Put your foot on that box. I lugged it around from the back
yard on purpose.”

Standing on an empty and shaky cranberry crate and held there by the
strong arm of Mrs. Barnes, Emily managed to push up the lower half
of the window. The moment she let go of it, however, it fell with a
tremendous bang.

“One of the old-fashioned kind, you might know,” declared Thankful. “No
weights nor nothin'. We'll have to prop it up with a stick. You wait
where you are and I'll go get one. There's what's left of a woodpile out
back here; that's where that crate came from.”

She hastened away and was back in a moment with a stout stick. Emily
raised the window once more and placed the stick beneath it.

“There!” panted her companion. “We've got a gangway anyhow. Next thing
is to get aboard. You come down and give me a boost.”

But Emily declined.

“Of course I shan't do any such thing,” she declared, indignantly. “I
can climb through that window a great deal easier than you can, Auntie.
I'm ever so much younger. Just give me a push, that's all.”

Her cousin demurred. “I hate to have you do it,” she said. “For anybody
that ain't any too strong or well you've been through enough tonight.
Well, if you're so set on it. I presume likely you could make a better
job of climbin' than I could. It ain't my age that bothers me though,
it's my weight. All ready? Up you go! Humph! It's a mercy there ain't
anybody lookin' on. . . . There! all right, are you?”

Emily's head appeared framed by the window sash. “Yes,” she panted.
“I--I think I'm all right. At least I'm through that window. Now what
shall I do?”

“Take this lantern and go to one of the doors and see if you can
unfasten it. Try the back door; that's the most liable to be only bolted
and hooked. The front one's probably locked with a key.”

The lantern and its bearer disappeared. Mrs. Barnes plodded around to
the back door. As she reached it it opened.

“It was only hooked,” said Emily. “Come in, Auntie. Come in quick!”

Thankful had not waited for the invitation; she was in already. She took
the lantern from her relative's hand. Then she shut the door behind her.

“Whew!” she exclaimed. “If it don't seem good to get under cover, real
cover! What sort of a place is this, anyhow, Emily?”

“I don't know. I--I've been too frightened to look. I--I feel like a--O,
Aunt Thankful, don't you feel like a burglar?”

“Me? A burglar? I feel like a wet dishcloth. I never was so soaked, with
my clothes on, in my life. Hello! I thought this was an empty house.
There's a stove and a chair, such as it is. Whoever lived here last
didn't take away all their furniture. Let's go into the front rooms.”

The first room they entered was evidently the dining-room. It was quite
bare of furniture. The next, however, that which Emily had entered
by the window, contained another stove, a ramshackle what-not, and a
broken-down, ragged sofa.

“Oh!” gasped Miss Howes, pointing to the sofa, “see! see! This ISN'T an
empty house. Suppose--Oh, SUPPOSE there were people living here! What
would they say to us?”

For a moment Thankful was staggered. Then her common-sense came to her
rescue.

“Nonsense!” she said, firmly. “A house with folks livin' in it has
somethin' in the dinin'-room besides dust. Anyhow, it's easy enough to
settle that question. Where's that door lead to?”

She marched across the floor and threw open the door to which she had
pointed.

“Humph!” she sniffed. “Best front parlor. The whole shebang smells shut
up and musty enough, but there's somethin' about a best parlor smell
that would give it away any time. Phew! I can almost smell wax wreaths
and hair-cloth, even though they have been took away. No, this is an
empty house all right, but I'll make good and sure for your sake, Emily.
Ain't there any stairs to this old rattle-trap? Oh, yes, here's the
front hall. Hello! Hello, up there! Hi-i!”

She was shouting up the old-fashioned staircase. Her voice echoed above
with the unmistakable echo of empty rooms. Only that echo and the howl
of the wind and roar of rain answered her.

She came back to the apartment where she had left her cousin.

“It's all right, Emily,” she said. “We're the only passengers aboard the
derelict. Now let's see if we can't be more comf'table. You set down on
that sofa and rest. I've got an idea in my head.”

The idea evidently involved an examination of the stove, for she opened
its rusty door and peered inside. Then, without waiting to answer her
companion's questions, she hurried out into the kitchen, returning with
an armful of shavings and a few sticks of split pine.

“I noticed that woodbox in the kitchen when I fust come in,” she said.
“And 'twa'n't quite empty neither, though that's more or less of a
miracle. Matches? Oh, yes, indeed! I never travel without 'em. I've been
so used to lookin' out for myself and other folks that I'm a reg'lar man
in some ways. There! now let's see if the draft is rusted up as much as
the stove.”

It was not, apparently, for, with the dampers wide open, the fire
crackled and snapped. Also it smoked a little.

“'Twill get over that pretty soon,” prophesied Mrs. Barnes. “I can stand
'most any amount of smoke so long's there's heat with it. Now, Emily,
we'll haul that sofa up alongside and you lay down on it and get rested
and warm. I'd say get dry, too, but 'twould take a reg'lar blast furnace
to dry a couple of water rats like you and me this night. Perhaps we
can dry the upper layer, though; that'll be some help. Now, mind me! Lay
right down on that sofa.”

Emily protested. She was no wetter and no more tired than her cousin,
she said. Why should she lie down while Aunt Thankful sat up?

“'Cause I tell you to, for one thing,” said the widow, with decision.
“And because I'm well and strong and you ain't. When I think of how I
got you, a half invalid, as you might say, to come on this crazy trip
I'm so provoked I feel like not speakin' to myself for a week. There!
now you LOOK more comf'table, anyhow. If I only had somethin' to put
over you, I'd feel better. I wonder if there's an old bed quilt or
anything upstairs. I've a good mind to go and see.”

Emily's protest was determined this time.

“Indeed you shan't!” she cried. “You shan't stir. I wouldn't have you go
prowling about this poky old place for anything. Do you suppose I could
stay down here alone knowing that you might be--might be meeting or--or
finding almost anything up there. Sit right down in that chair beside
me. Don't you think it is almost time for that driver to be back?”

“Land sakes--no! He's hardly started yet. It's goin' to take a good long
spell afore he can wade a mile and a half in such a storm as this and
get another horse and wagon and come back again. He'll come by and by.
All we've got to do is to stay by this fire and be thankful we've got
it.”

Emily shivered. “I suppose so,” she said. “And I know I am nervous and a
trial instead of a help. If you had only been alone--”

“Alone! Heavens to Betey! Do you think I'd like this--this camp-meetin'
any better if I was the only one to it. My! Just hear that wind! Hope
these old chimneys are solid.”

“Auntie, what do you suppose that man meant by saying he wouldn't enter
this house at night for anything?”

“Don't know. Perhaps he meant he'd be afraid of bein' arrested.”

“But you don't think we'll be arrested?”

“No, no, of course not. I'd be almost willin' to be arrested if they'd
do it quick. A nice, dry lock-up and somethin' to eat wouldn't be so
bad, would it? But no constable but a web-footed one would be out this
night. Now do as I say--you lay still and give your nerves a rest.”

For a few moments the order was obeyed. Then Miss Rowes said, with
another shiver: “I do believe this is the worst storm I have ever
experienced.”

“'Tis pretty bad, that's a fact. Do you know, Emily, if I was a believer
in signs such as mentioned a little while ago, I might almost be tempted
to believe this storm was one of 'em. About every big change in my life
has had a storm mixed up with it, comin' at the time it happened or
just afore or just after. I was born, so my mother used to tell me, on a
stormy night about like this one. And it poured great guns the day I was
married. And Eben, my husband, went down with his vessel in a hurricane
off Hatteras. And when poor Jedediah run off to go gold-diggin' there
was such a snowstorm the next day that I expected to see him plowin' his
way home again. Poor old Jed! I wonder where he is tonight? Let's see;
six years ago, that was. I wonder if he's been frozen to death or eat up
by polar bears, or what. One thing's sartin, he ain't made his fortune
or he'd have come home to tell me of it. Last words he said to me was,
'I'm a-goin', no matter what you say. And when I come back, loaded down
with money, you'll be glad to see me.'”

Jedediah Cahoon was Mrs. Barnes' only near relative, a brother. Always a
visionary, easy-going, impractical little man, he had never been willing
to stick at steady employment, but was always chasing rainbows and
depending upon his sister for a home and means of existence. When
the Klondike gold fever struck the country he was one of the first to
succumb to the disease. And, after an argument--violent on his part
and determined on Thankful's--he had left South Middleboro and
gone--somewhere. From that somewhere he had never returned.

“Yes,” mused Mrs. Barnes, “those were the last words he said to me.”

“What did you say to him?” asked Emily, drowsily. She had heard the
story often enough, but she asked the question as an aid to keeping
awake.

“Hey? What did I say? Oh, I said my part, I guess. 'When you come back,'
says I, 'it'll be when I send money to you to pay your fare home, and I
shan't do it. I've sewed and washed and cooked for you ever since Eben
died, to say nothin' of goin' out nursin' and housekeepin' to earn money
to buy somethin' TO cook. Now I'm through. This is my house--or, at
any rate, I pay the rent for it. If you leave it to go gold-diggin' you
needn't come back to it. If you do you won't be let in.' Of course I
never thought he'd go, but he did. Ah hum! I'm afraid I didn't do
right. I ought to have realized that he wa'n't really accountable, poor,
weak-headed critter!”

Emily's eyes were fast shutting, but she made one more remark.

“Your life has been a hard one, hasn't it, Auntie,” she said.

Thankful protested. “Oh, no, no!” she declared. “No harder'n anybody
else's, I guess likely. This world has more hards than softs for the
average mortal and I never flattered myself on bein' above the average.
But there! How in the nation did I get onto this subject? You and
me settin' here on other folks's furniture--or what was furniture
once--soppin' wet through and half froze, and me talkin' about troubles
that's all dead and done with! What DID get me started? Oh, yes, the
storm. I was just thinkin' how most of the important things in my life
had had bad weather mixed up with 'em. Come to think of it, it rained
the day Mrs. Pearson was buried. And her dyin' was what set me to
thinkin' of cruisin' down here to East Wellmouth and lookin' at the
property Uncle Abner left me. I've never laid eyes on that property and
I don't even know what the house looks like. I might have asked that
depot-wagon driver, but I thought 'twas no use tellin' him my private
affairs, so I said we was bound to the hotel, and let it go at that.
If I had asked he might at least have told me where. . . . Hey?
Why--why--my land! I never thought of it, but it might be! It might!
Emily!”

But Miss Howes' eyes were closed now. In spite of her wet garments and
her nervousness concerning their burglarious entry of the empty house
she had fallen asleep. Thankful did not attempt to wake her. Instead she
tiptoed to the kitchen and the woodbox, took from the latter the last
few slabs of pine wood and, returning, filled the stove to the top. Then
she sat down in the chair once more.

For some time she sat there, her hands folded in her lap. Occasionally
she glanced about the room and her lips moved as if she were talking to
herself. Then she rose and peered out of the window. Rain and blackness
and storm were without, but nothing else. She returned to the sofa and
stood looking down at the sleeper. Emily stirred a little and shivered.

That shiver helped to strengthen the fears in Mrs. Barnes' mind. The
girl was not strong. She had come home from her school duties almost
worn out. A trip such as this had been was enough to upset even the most
robust constitution. She was wet and cold. Sleeping in wet clothes was
almost sure to bring on the dreaded pneumonia. If only there might be
something in that house, something dry and warm with which to cover her.

“Emily,” said Thankful, in a low tone. “Emily.”

The sleeper did not stir. Mrs. Barnes took up the lantern. Its flame was
much less bright than it had been and the wick sputtered. She held the
lantern to her ear and shook it gently. The feeble “swash” that answered
the shake was not reassuring. The oil was almost gone.

Plainly if exploring of those upper rooms was to be done it must be done
at once. With one more glance at the occupant of the sofa Mrs. Barnes,
lantern in hand, tiptoed from the room, through the barren front hall
and up the stairs. The stairs creaked abominably. Each creak echoed like
the crack of doom.

At the top of the stairs was another hall, long and narrow, extending
apparently the whole length of the house. At intervals along this hall
were doors. One after the other Thankful opened them. The first gave
entrance to a closet, with a battered and ancient silk hat and a
pasteboard box on the shelf. The next opened into a large room,
evidently the spare bedroom. It was empty. So was the next and the next
and the next. No furniture of any kind. Thankful's hope of finding
a quilt or a wornout blanket, anything which would do to cover her
sleeping and shivering relative, grew fainter with the opening of each
door.

There were an astonishing number of rooms and closets. Evidently this
had been a big, commodious and comfortable house in its day. But that
day was long past its sunset. Now the bigness only emphasized the
dreariness and desolation. Dampness and spider webs everywhere, cracks
in the ceiling, paper peeling from the walls. And around the gables and
against the dormer-windows of these upper rooms the gale shrieked and
howled and wailed like a drove of banshees.

The room at the very end of the long hall was a large one. It was at
the back of the house and there were windows on two sides of it. It was
empty like the others, and Mrs. Barnes, reluctantly deciding that her
exploration in quest of coverings had been a failure, was about to turn
and retrace her steps to the stairs when she noticed another door.

It was in the corner of the room furthest from the windows and was shut
tight. A closet, probably, and all the closets she had inspected so
far had contained nothing but rubbish. However, Thankful was not in the
habit of doing things by halves, so, the feebly sputtering lantern held
in her left hand, she opened the door with the other and looked in. Then
she uttered an exclamation of joy.

It was not a closet behind that door, but another room. A small room
with but one little window, low down below the slope of the ceiling.
But this room was to some extent furnished. There was a bed in it, and a
rocking chair, and one or two pictures hanging crookedly upon the wall.
Also, and this was the really important thing, upon that bed was a
patchwork comforter.

Thankful made a dash for that comforter. She set the lantern down upon
the floor and snatched the gayly colored thing from the bed. And, as she
did so, she heard a groan.

There are always noises in an empty house, especially an old house.
Creaks and cracks and rustlings mysterious and unexplainable. When the
wind blows these noises are reenforced by a hundred others. In this
particular house on this particular night there were noises enough,
goodness knows. Howls and rattles and moans and shrieks. Every shutter
and every shingle seemed to be loose and complaining of the fact. As for
groans--old hinges groan when the wind blows and so do rickety gutters
and water pipes. But this groan, or so it seemed to Mrs. Barnes, had a
different and distinct quality of its own. It sounded--yes, it sounded
human.

Thankful dropped the patchwork comforter.

“Who's that?” she asked, sharply.

There was no answer. No sounds except those of the storm. Thankful
picked up the comforter.

“Humph!” she said aloud--talking to herself was a habit developed during
the years of housekeeping for deaf old Mrs. Pearson. “Humph! I must be
gettin' nerves, I guess.”

She began folding the old quilt in order to make it easier to carry
downstairs. And then she heard another groan, or sigh, or combination
of both. It sounded, not outside the window or outside the house, but in
that very room.

Again Mrs. Barnes dropped the comforter. Also she went out of the room.
But she did not go far. Halfway across the floor of the adjoining room
she stopped and put her foot down, physically and mentally.

“Fool!” she said, disgustedly. Then, turning on her heel, she marched
back to the little bedroom and picked up the lantern; its flame had
dwindled to the feeblest of feeble sparks.

“Now then,” said Thankful, with determination, “whoever--or--or whatever
thing you are that's makin' that noise you might just as well show
yourself. If you're hidin' you'd better come out, for I'll find you.”

But no one or no “thing” came out. Thankful waited a moment and then
proceeded to give that room a very thorough looking-over. It was such
a small apartment that the process took but little time. There was no
closet. Except for the one window and the door by which she had entered,
the four walls, covered with old-fashioned ugly paper, had no openings
of any kind. There could be no attic or empty space above the ceiling
because she could hear the rain upon the sloping roof. She looked under
the bed and found nothing but dust. She looked in the bed, even under
the rocking-chair.

“Well, there!” she muttered. “I said it and I was right. I AM gettin'
to be a nervous old fool. I'm glad Emily ain't here to see me. And yet I
did--I swear I did hear somethin'.”

The pictures on the wall by the window caught her eye. She walked over
and looked at them. The lantern gave so little light that she could
scarcely see anything, but she managed to make out that one was a dingy
chromo with a Scriptural subject. The other was a battered “crayon
enlargement,” a portrait of a man, a middle-aged man with a chin beard.
There was something familiar about the face in the portrait. Something--

Thankful gasped. “Uncle Abner!” she cried. “Why--why--”

Then the lantern flame gave a last feeble sputter and went out. She
heard the groan again. And in that room, the room she had examined so
carefully, so close as to seem almost at her very ear, a faint voice
wailed agonizingly, “Oh, Lord!”

Thankful went away. She left the comforter and the lantern upon the
floor and she did not stop to close the door of the little bedroom.
Through the black darkness of the long hall she rushed and down the
creaky stairs. Her entrance to the sitting-room was more noisy than her
exit had been and Miss Howes stirred upon the sofa and opened her eyes.

“Auntie!” she cried, sharply. “Aunt Thankful, where are you?”

“I'm--I'm here, Emily. That is, I guess--yes, I'm here.”

“But why is it so dark? Where is the lantern?”

“The lantern?” Mrs. Barnes was trying to speak calmly but, between
agitation and loss of breath, she found it hard work. “The lantern?
Why--it's--it's gone,” she said.

“Gone? What do you mean? Where has it gone?”

“It's gone--gone out. There wa'n't enough oil in it to last any longer,
I suppose.”

“Oh!” Emily sat up. “And you've been sitting here alone in the dark
while I have been asleep. How dreadful for you! Why didn't you speak to
me? Has anything happened? Hasn't that man come back yet?”

It was the last question which Thankful answered. “No. No, he ain't come
back yet,” she said. “But he will pretty soon, I'm sure. He--he will,
Emily, don't you fret.”

“Oh, I'm not worried, Auntie. I am too sleepy to worry, I guess.”

“Sleepy! You're not goin' to sleep AGAIN, are you?”

Mrs. Barnes didn't mean to ask this question; certainly she did not
mean to ask it with such evident anxiety. Emily noticed the tone and
wondered.

“Why, no,” she said. “I think not. Of course I'm not. But what made you
speak in that way? You're not frightened, are you?”

Thankful made a brave effort.

“Frightened!” she repeated, stoutly. “What on earth should I be
frightened of, I'd like to know?”

“Why, nothing, I hope.”

“I should say not. I--Good heavens above! What's that?”

She started and clutched her companion by the arm. They both listened.

“I don't hear anything but the storm,” said Emily. “Why, Auntie, you ARE
frightened; you're trembling. I do believe there is something.”

Thankful snatched her hand away.

“There isn't,” she declared. “Of course there isn't.”

“Then why are you so nervous?”

“Me? Nervous! Emily Howes, don't you ever say that to me again. I ain't
nervous and I ain't goin' to be nervous. There's no--no sane reason why
I should be and I shan't. I shan't!”

“But, Auntie, you are. Oh, what is it?”

“Nothin'. Nothin' at all, I tell you. The idea!” with an attempt at a
laugh. “The idea of you thinkin' I'm nervous. Young folks like you or
rich old women are the only ones who can afford nerves. I ain't either
young nor rich.”

Emily laughed, too. This speech was natural and characteristic.

“If you were a nervous wreck,” she said, “it would be no wonder, all
alone in the dark as you have been in a deserted house like this. I
can't forgive myself for falling asleep. Whose house do you suppose it
is?”

Aunt Thankful did not answer. Emily went on. Her short nap had revived
her courage and spirit.

“Perhaps it is a haunted house,” she said, jokingly. “Every village has
a haunted house, you know. Perhaps that's why the stage-driver warned us
not to go into it.”

To her surprise Mrs. Barnes seemed to take offense at this attempt at
humor.

“Don't talk silly,” she snapped. “If I've lived all these years and
been as down on spooks and long-haired mediums as I've been, and then
to--there--there! Don't let's be idiots altogether. Talk about somethin'
else. Talk about that depot-wagon driver and his pesky go-cart that got
us into this mess. There's plenty of things I'd like to say about THEM.”

They talked, in low tones. Conversation there in the dark and under such
circumstances, was rather difficult. Emily, although she was determined
not to admit it, was growing alarmed for the return of Winnie S. and
his promised rescue expedition. Aunt Thankful was thinking of the little
back bedroom upstairs. An utter lack of superstition was something upon
which she had prided herself. But now, as she thought of that room, of
the portrait on the wall, and what she had heard--

“Listen!” whispered Emily, suddenly. “Listen! I--I thought I heard
something.”

Mrs. Barnes leaned forward.

“What? Where? Upstairs?” she asked, breathlessly.

“No. Out--out there somewhere.” She pointed in the direction of the
front hall. “It sounded as if someone had tried the front door. Hark!
There it is again.”

Aunt Thankful rose to her feet. “I heard it, too,” she said. “It's
probably that driver man come back. I'll go and see.”

“No--no, Auntie, you mustn't. I--I shan't let you.”

“I shall! I shall, I tell you! If I've got any common-sense at all,
I ain't goin' to be scared of--Of course it's that driver man. He's
wonderin' where we are and he's lookin' for us. I'll go let him in.”

She broke away from Miss Howes' grasp and started for the front hall.
The action was a braver one than her cousin realized. If there was one
thing on earth that Thankful Barnes did not wish to do at that moment,
it was to go nearer the stairs landing to the rooms above.

But she went, and Emily went with her. Cautiously they peered through
the little windows at the sides of the front door. There was no one in
sight, and, listening, they heard nothing.

“I--I guess we was mistaken, Emily,” whispered Thankful. “Let's go back
to the fire.”

“But Auntie, I DID hear something. Didn't you?”

“Well, I thought I did, but I guess--Oh, DON'T stay here another minute!
I--I shall be hearin' 'most anything if we do.”

They returned to the room they had left. But they had scarcely entered
it when they stopped short and, clinging to each other, listened.

It was the latch of the kitchen door they heard click now. And the door
was opening. In the kitchen they heard the sounds of cautious footsteps,
footsteps which entered the dining-room, which came on toward the
sitting-room. And a voice, a man's voice, whispered:

“I told you so! I--I told you so! I said I see a light. And--and that
door was undone and--and--By time! Obed Bangs, you can go on if you want
to, but I tell you you're riskin' your life. I--I ain't goin' to stay
no longer. I'm goin' to fetch the constable--or--or the minister or
somebody. I--”

Another voice interrupted.

“Shut up! Belay!” it ordered. “If there's anybody or anything in this
house we'll have a look at it, that's all. You can go to the minister
afterwards, if you want to. Just now you'll come along with me if I have
to haul you by the neck. Let's see what's in here.”

There was a flash of light in the crack of the door leading from the
dining-room. That door was thrown open and the light became a blaze from
a big lantern held aloft.

“Hey! What!” exclaimed the second voice. “Who--women, by the
everlastin'!”

Mrs. Barnes and Emily clinging to each other, blinked in the lantern
light.

“Women! Two women!” said the voice again.

Thankful answered. The voice was real and it came from a human throat.
Anything human--and visible--she did not fear.

“Yes,” she said, crisply, “we're women. What of it? Who are you?”

The man with the lantern entered the room. He was big and
broad-shouldered and bearded. His companion was short and stout and
smooth-faced; also he appeared very much frightened. Both men wore
oilskin coats and sou'westers.

“Who are you?” repeated Aunt Thankful.

The big man answered. His sunburned, good-humored face was wrinkled and
puckered with amazement.

“Well,” he stammered, “I--we--Humph! well, we're neighbors
and--but--but, I don't know as I know you, ma'am, do I?”

“I don't know why you should. I don't know you, fur's that goes. What
are you doin' here? Did that depot-wagon man send you?”

“Depot-wagon man? No, ma'am; nobody sent us. Kenelm--er--Mr. Parker
here, saw a light a spell ago and, bein' as this house is supposed to be
empty, he--”

“Wait a minute!” Miss Howes interrupted. “Whose house is this?”

“Why--why, it ain't anybody's house, ma'am. That is, nobody lives here.”

“But somebody used to live here, it's likely. What was his name?”

“His name? Well, old Laban Eldredge used to live here. The house belongs
to Captain Abner Cahoon's heirs, I believe, and--”

Again Thankful interrupted.

“I knew it!” she cried, excitedly. “I wondered if it mightn't be so
and when I see that picture of Uncle Abner I was sure. All right,
Mr. Whoever-you-are, then I'm here because I own the house. My name's
Barnes, Thankful Barnes of South Middleboro, and I'm Abner Cahoon's
heir. Emily, this--this rattle-trap you and I broke into is the
'property' we've talked so much about.”




CHAPTER III


Emily said--well, the first thing she said was, “Oh, Aunt Thankful!”
 Then she added that she couldn't believe it.

“It's so,” declared Mrs. Barnes, “whether we believe it or not. When you
come to think it over there's nothin' so wonderful about it, after all.
I had a sneakin' suspicion when I was sittin' here by you, after you'd
gone to sleep. What I saw afterwards made me almost sure. I--Hum! I
guess likely that'll keep till we get to the hotel, if we ever do get
there. Perhaps Mr.--Mr.--”

“Bangs is my name, ma'am,” said the big man with the lantern. “Obed
Bangs.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bangs. Or it's 'Cap'n Bangs,' ain't it?”

“They generally call me Cap'n, ma'am, though I ain't been doin' any
active seafarin' for some time.”

“I thought as much. Down here on Cape Cod, and givin' orders the way I
heard you afore you come into this room, 'twas nine chances to one you
was a cap'n, or you had been one. Bangs--Bangs--Obed Bangs? Why, that
name sounds kind of familiar. Seems as if--Cap'n Bangs, you didn't use
to know Eben Barnes of Provincetown, did you?”

“Eben Barnes? Cap'n Eben of the White Foam, lost off Cape Hatteras in a
gale?”

“Yes, that's the one. I thought I heard him speak of you. He was my
husband.”

Captain Obed Bangs uttered an exclamation. Then he stepped forward and
seized Mrs. Barnes' hand. The lady's hand was not a very small one but
the Captain's was so large that, as Thankful remarked afterward, it
might have shaken hers twice at the same time.

“Eben Barnes' wife!” exclaimed Captain Obed. “Why, Eben and I was
messmates on I don't know how many v'yages! Well, well, well, ma'am, I'm
real glad to see you.”

“You ain't so glad as we are to see you--and your friend,” observed
Thankful, drily. “Is he a captain, too?”

He didn't look like one, certainly. He had removed his sou'wester,
uncovering a round head, with reddish-gray hair surrounding a bald spot
at the crown. He had a double chin and a smile which was apologetic but
ingratiating. He seemed less frightened than when he first entered the
room, but still glanced about him with evident apprehension.

“No--no, ma'am,” he stammered, in answer to the question. “No, ma'am,
I--I--my name's Parker. I--I ain't a cap'n; no, ma'am.”

“Kenelm ain't been promoted yet,” observed Captain Obed gravely. “He's
waitin' until he get's old enough to go to sea. Ain't that it, Kenelm?”

Kenelm smiled and shifted his sou'wester from his right hand to his
left.

“I--I cal'late so,” he answered.

“Well, it don't make any difference,” declared Thankful. “My cousin
and I are just as glad to see him as if he was an admiral. We've been
waitin' so long to see any human bein' that we'd begun to think they was
all drowned. But you haven't met my cousin yet. Her name's Howes.”

Emily, who had stood by, patient but chilly, during the introductions
and reminiscences, shook hands with Captain Bangs and Mr. Parker. Both
gentlemen said they were pleased to meet her; no, Captain Obed said
that--Kenelm said that he was “glad to be acquaintanced.”

“I don't know as we hadn't ought to beg your pardon for creepin' in on
you this way,” said the captain. “We thought the house was empty. We
didn't know you was visitin' your--your property.”

“Well, so far as that goes, neither did we. I don't wonder you expected
to find burglars or tramps or whatever you did expect. We've had an
awful time this night, ain't we, Emily?”

“We certainly have,” declared Miss Howes, with emphasis.

“Yes, you see--”

She gave a brief history of the cruise and wreck of the depot-wagon.
Also of their burglarious entry of the house.

“And now, Cap'n,” she said, in conclusion, “if you could think up any
way of our gettin' to that hotel, we'd be ever so much obliged. . . .
Hello! There's that driver, I do believe! And about time, I should say!”

From without came the sound of wheels and the voice of Winnie S.,
hailing his missing passengers.

“Hi! Hi-i! Where be ye?”

“He'll wear his lungs out, screamin' that way,” snapped Thankful. “Can't
he see the light, for goodness sakes?”

Captain Obed answered. “He couldn't see nothin' unless 'twas hung on the
end of his nose,” he said. “That boy's eyes and brains ain't connected.
Here, Kenelm,” turning to Mr. Parker, “you go out and tell Win to shut
down on his fog whistle; he's wastin' steam. Tell him the women-folks
are in here. Look alive, now!”

Kenelm looked alive, but not much more than that.

“All right, Cap'n,” he stammered. “A--a--all right. What--what--shall I
say--what shall I--had I better--”

“Thunderation! Do you need a chart and compass? Stay where you are. I'll
say it myself.”

He strode to the window, threw it open, and shouted in a voice which had
been trained to carry above worse gales than the present one:

“Ahoy! Ahoy! Win! Fetch her around aft here. Lay alongside the kitchen
door! D'you hear? Ahoy! Win! d'you hear?”

Silence. Then, after a moment, came the reply. “Yup, I hear ye. Be right
there.”

The captain turned from the window.

“Took some time for him to let us know he heard, didn't it,” he
observed. “Cal'late he had to say 'Judas priest' four or five times
afore he answered. If you cut all the 'Judas priests' out of that boy's
talk he'd be next door to tongue-tied.”

Thankful turned to her relative.

“There, Emily,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “I guess likely we'll
make the hotel this tack. I begun to think we never would.”

Captain Bangs shook his head.

“You won't go to no hotel this night,” he said, decidedly. “It's a long
ways off and pretty poor harbor after you make it. You'll come right
along with me and Kenelm to his sister's house. It's only a little
ways and Hannah's got a spare room and she'll be glad to have you. I'm
boardin' there myself just now. Yes, you will,” he added. “Of course you
will. Suppose I'm goin' to let relations of Eben Barnes put up at the
East Wellmouth tavern? By the everlastin', I guess not! I wouldn't send
a--a Democrat there. Come right along! Don't say another word.”

Both of the ladies said other words, a good many of them, but they might
as well have been orders to the wind to stop blowing. Captain Obed Bangs
was, evidently, a person accustomed to having his own way. Even as they
were still protesting their new acquaintance led them to the kitchen
door, where Winnie S. and a companion, a long-legged person who answered
to the name of “Jabez,” were waiting on the front seat of a vehicle
attached to a dripping and dejected horse. To the rear of this vehicle
“General Jackson” was tethered by a halter. Winnie S. was loaded to the
guards with exclamatory explanations.

“Judas priest!” he exclaimed, as the captain assisted Mrs. Barnes and
Emily into the carriage. “If I ain't glad to see you folks! When I got
back here and there wa'n't a sign of you nowheres, I was took some off
my pins, I tell ye. Didn't know what to do. I says to Jabez, I says--”

Captain Obed interrupted. “Never mind what you said to Jabez, Win,” he
said. “Why didn't you get back sooner? That's what we want to know.”

Winnie S. was righteously indignant. “Sooner!” he repeated. “Judas
priest! I tell ye right now I'm lucky to get back at all. Took me pretty
nigh an hour to get to the village. Such travelin' I never see. Tried to
save time by takin' the short cut acrost the meadow, and there ain't no
meadow no more. It's three foot under water. You never see such a tide.
So back I had to frog it and when I got far as Jabe's house all hands
had turned in. I had to pretty nigh bust the door down 'fore I could
wake anybody up. Then Jabe he had to get dressed and we had to harness
up and--hey? Did you say anything, ma'am?”

The question was addressed to Mrs. Barnes, who had been vainly trying to
ask one on her own account.

“I say have you got our valises?” asked Thankful. “Last I saw of them
they was in that other wagon, the one that broke down.”

The driver slapped his knee. “Judas priest!” he cried. “I forgot all
about them satchels. Here, Jabe,” handing the reins to his companion.
“You take the hellum while I run back and fetch 'em.”

He was back in a few moments with the missing satchels. Then Jabez,
who was evidently not given to wasting words, drawled: “Did you get the
mail? That's in there, too, ain't it?”

“Judas priest! So 'tis. Why didn't you remind me of it afore? Set there
like--like a wooden figurehead and let me run my legs off--”

His complaints died away in the distance. At last, with the mail bag
under the seat, the caravan moved on. It was still raining, but not
so hard, and the wind blew less fiercely. They jogged and rocked and
splashed onward. Suddenly Winnie S. uttered another shout.

“The lantern!” he cried. “Where's that lantern I lent ye?”

“It's there in the house,” said Thankful. “It burned itself out and I
forgot it. Mercy on us! You're not goin' back after that, I hope.”

“Well, I dunno. That lantern belongs to the old man--dad, I mean--and he
sets a lot of store by it. If I've lost that lantern on him, let alone
leavin' his depot-wagon all stove up, he'll give me--”

“Never mind what he'll give you,” broke in Captain Bangs. “You keep on
your course or I'LL give you somethin'. Don't you say another word till
we get abreast of Hannah Parker's.”

“Humph! We're there now. I thought these folks was goin' to our hotel.”

“Take my advice and don't think so much. You'll open a seam in your
head and founder, first thing you know. Here we are! And here's Hannah!
Hannah, Kenelm and I've brought you a couple of lodgers. Now, ma'am, if
you'll stand by. Kenelm, open that hatch.”

Mr. Parker opened the hatch--the door of the carriage--and the captain
assisted the passengers to alight. Emily caught a glimpse of the white
front of a little house and of a tall, angular woman standing in the
doorway holding a lamp. Then she and Mrs. Barnes were propelled by
the strong arms of their pilot through that doorway and into a little
sitting-room, bright and warm and cheery.

“There!” declared Captain Obed. “That cruise is over. Kenelm! Where is
Kenelm? Oh, there you are! You tell that Winnie S. to trot along. We'll
settle for passage tomorrow mornin'. Now, ma'am,” turning to Thankful,
“you and your relation want to make yourselves as comf'table as you can.
This is Miss Parker, Kenelm's sister. Hannah, this is Mrs. Barnes, Eben
Barnes' widow. You've heard me speak of him. And this is Miss Howes. I
cal'late they're hungry and I know they're wet. Seems's if dry clothes
and supper might be the next items on the manifest.”

Miss Parker rose to the occasion. She flew about preparing the “items.”
 Thankful and Emily were shown to the spare room, hot water and towels
were provided, the valise was brought in. When the ladies again made
their appearance in the sitting-room, they were arrayed in dry, warm
garments, partly their own and partly supplied from the wardrobe of
their hostess. As to the fit of these latter, Mrs. Barnes expressed her
opinion when she said:

“Don't look at me, Emily. I feel like a barrel squeezed into an umbrella
cover. This dress is long enough, land knows, but that's about all you
can say of it. However, I suppose we hadn't ought to--to look a gift
dress in the waistband.”

Supper was ready in the dining-room and thither they were piloted by
Kenelm, whose hair, what there was of it, was elaborately “slicked
down,” and whose celluloid collar had evidently received a scrubbing. In
the dining-room they found Captain Bangs awaiting them. Miss Parker made
her appearance bearing a steaming teapot. Hannah, now that they had an
opportunity to inspect her, was seen to be as tall and sharp-featured
as her brother was short and round. She was at least fifteen years older
than he, but she moved much more briskly. Also she treated Kenelm as
she might have treated a child, an only child who needed constant
suppression.

“Please to be seated, everybody,” she said. “Cap'n Obed, you take your
reg'lar place. Mrs. Barnes, if you'll be so kind as to set here, and
Miss Howes next to you. Kenelm, you set side of me. Set down, don't
stand there fidgetin'. WHAT did you put on that necktie for? I told you
to put on the red one.”

Kenelm fingered his tie. “I--I cal'late I must have forgot, Hannah,” he
stammered. “I never noticed. This one's all right, ain't it?”

“All right! It'll have to be. You can't change it now. But, for goodness
sakes, look out it stays on. The elastic's all worn loose and it's
li'ble to drop into your tea or anywheres else. Now,” with a sudden
change from a family to a “company” manner, “may I assist you to a piece
of the cold ham, Miss Howes? I trust you are feelin' quite restored to
yourself again?”

Emily's answer being in the affirmative, their hostess continued:

“I'm so sorry to be obliged to set nothin' but cold ham and toast and
tea before you,” she said. “If I had known you was comin' I should have
prepared somethin' more fittin'. After such an experience as you must
have been through this night to set down to ham and toast! I--I declare
I feel real debilitated and ashamed to offer 'em to you.”

Thankful answered.

“Don't say a word, Miss Parker,” she said, heartily. “We're the ones
that ought to be ashamed. Landin' on you this way in the middle of the
night. You're awfully good to take us in at all. My cousin and I were
on our way to the hotel, but Cap'n Bangs wouldn't hear of it. He's
responsible for our comin' here.”

Miss Parker nodded.

“Cap'n Obed is the most hospital soul livin',” she said, grandly. “He
done just right. If he'd done anything else Kenelm and I would have felt
hurt. I--Look out!” with a sudden snatch at her brother's shirt front.
“There goes that tie. Another second and 'twould have been right in your
plate.”

Kenelm snapped the loop of the “made” tie over his collar button. “Don't
grab at me that way, Hannah,” he protested mildly. “I'm kind of nervous
tonight, after what I've been through. 'Twouldn't have done no great
harm if I had dropped it. I could pick it up again, couldn't I?”

“You could, but I doubt if you would. You might have ate it, you're
so absent-minded. Nervous! YOU nervous! What do you think of me? Mrs.
Barnes,” turning to Thankful and once more resuming the “company”
 manner, “you'll excuse our bein' a little upset. You see, when my
brother came home and said he'd seen lights movin' around in the old
Barnes' house, he frightened us all pretty near to death. All Cap'n Obed
could think of was tramps, or thieves or somethin'. Nothin' would do but
he must drag Kenelm right back to see who or what was in there. And I
was left alone to imagine all sorts of dreadful things. Tramps I might
stand. They belong to this world, anyhow. But in THAT house, at eleven
o'clock at night, I--Mrs. Barnes, do you believe in aberrations?”

Thankful was nonplused. “In--in which?” she asked.

“In aberrations, spirits of dead folks comin' alive again?”

For just a moment Mrs. Barnes hesitated. Then she glanced at Emily,
who was trying hard not to smile, and answered, with decision: “No, I
don't.”

“Well, I don't either, so far as that goes. I never see one myself, and
I've never seen anybody that has. But when Kenelm came tearin' in to say
he'd seen a light in a house shut up as long as that one has been, and a
house that folks--”

Captain Bangs interrupted. He had been regarding Thankful closely and
now he changed the subject.

“How did it happen you saw that light, Kenelm?” he asked. “What was you
doin' over in that direction a night like this?”

Kenelm hesitated. He seemed to find it difficult to answer.

“Why--why--” he stammered, “I'd been up to the office after the mail.
And--and--it was so late comin' that I give it up. I says to Lemuel
Ryder, 'Lem,' I says--”

His sister broke in.

“Lem Ryder!” she repeated. “Was he at the post-office?”

“Well--well--” Kenelm's confusion was more marked than ever.
“Well--well--” he stammered, “I see him, and I says--”

“You see him! Where did you see him? Kenelm Parker, I don't believe you
was at the postoffice at all. You was at the clubroom, that's where you
was. At that clubroom, smokin' and playin' cards with that deprivated
crowd of loafers and gamblers. Tell me the truth, now, wasn't you?”

Mr. Parker's tie fell off then, but neither he nor his sister noticed
it.

“Gamblers!” he snorted. “There ain't no gamblers there. Playin' a hand
or two of Californy Jack just for fun ain't gamblin'. I wouldn't gamble,
not for a million dollars.”

Captain Obed laughed. “Neither would I,” he observed. “Nor for two
cents, with that clubroom gang; 'twould be too much nerve strain
collectin' my winnin's. I see now why you come by the Barnes' house,
Kenelm. It's the nighest way home from that clubhouse. Well, I'm glad
you did. Mrs. Barnes and Miss Howes would have had a long session in the
dark if you hadn't. Yes, and a night at Darius Holt's hotel, which would
have been a heap worse. So you've been livin' at South Middleboro, Mrs.
Barnes, have you? Does Miss Howes live there, too?”

Thankful, very grateful for the change of topic, told of her life since
her husband's death, of her long stay with Mrs. Pearson, of Emily's
teaching school, and their trip aboard the depot-wagon.

“Well,” exclaimed Miss Parker, when she had finished, “you have been
through enough, I should say! A reg'lar story-book adventure, ain't it?
Lost in a storm and shut up in an empty house, the one you come purpose
to see. It's a mercy you wa'n't either of you hurt, climbin' in that
window the way you did. You might have broke your arms or your necks
or somethin'. Mr. Alpheus Bassett, down to the Point--a great, strong,
fleshy man, weighs close to two hundred and fifty and never sick a
day in his life--he was up in the second story of his buildin' walkin'
around spry as anybody--all alone, which he shouldn't have been at his
age--and he stepped on a fish and away he went. And the next thing we
hear he's in bed with his collar-bone. Did you ever hear anything like
that in your life, Miss Howes?”

It was plain that Emily never had. “I--I'm afraid I don't understand,”
 she faltered. “You say he was in the second story of a building and he
stepped on--on a FISH?”

“Yes, just a mackerel 'twas, and not a very big one, they tell me. At
first they was afraid 'twas the spine he'd broke, but it turned out to
be only the collar-bone, though that's bad enough.”

Captain Obed burst into a laugh. “'Twa'n't the mackerel's collar-bone,
Miss Howes,” he explained, “though I presume likely that was broke, too,
if Alpheus stepped on it. He was up in the loft of his fish shanty icin'
and barrelin' fish to send to Boston, and he fell downstairs. Wonder it
didn't kill him.”

Miss Parker nodded. “That's what I say,” she declared. “And
Sarah--that's his wife--tells me the doctors are real worried because
the fraction ain't ignited yet.”

Thankful coughed and then observed that she should think they would be.

“If you don't mind,” she added, “I think it's high time all hands went
to bed. It must be way along into the small hours and if we set here any
longer it'll be time for breakfast. You folks must be tired, settin' up
this way and I'm sure Emily and I am. If we turn in now we may have a
chance to look over that precious property of mine afore we go back to
South Middleboro. I don't know, though, as we haven't seen enough of it
already. It don't look very promisin' to me.”

The captain rose from the table and, walking to the window, pushed aside
the shade.

“It'll look better tomorrow--today, I should say,” he observed. “The
storm's about over, and the wind's hauled to the west'ard. We'll have a
spell of fair weather now, I guess. That property of yours, Mrs. Barnes,
'll look a lot more promisin' in the sunshine. There's no better view
along shore than from the front windows of that house. 'Tain't half bad,
that old house ain't. All it needs is fixin' up.”

Good nights--good mornings, for it was after two o'clock--were said and
the guests withdrew to their bedroom. Once inside, with the door shut,
Thankful and Emily looked at each other and both burst out laughing.

“Oh, dear me!” gasped the former, wiping her eyes. “Maybe it's mean to
laugh at folks that's been as kind to us as these Parkers have been, but
I never had such a job keepin' a straight face in my life. When she said
she was 'debilitated' at havin' to give us ham and toast that was funny
enough, but what come afterwards was funnier. The 'fraction' ain't
'ignited' yet and the doctors are worried. I should think they'd be more
worried if it had.”

Emily shook her head. “I am glad I didn't have to answer that remark,
Auntie,” she said. “I never could have done it without disgracing
myself. She is a genuine Mrs. Malaprop, isn't she?”

This was a trifle too deep for Mrs. Barnes, who replied that she didn't
know, she having never met the Mrs. What's-her-name to whom her cousin
referred. “She's a genuine curiosity, this Parker woman, if that's what
you mean, Emily,” she said. “And so's her brother, though a different
kind of one. We must get Cap'n Bangs to tell us more about 'em in the
mornin'. He thinks that--that heirloom house of mine will look better
in the daylight. Well, I hope he's right; it looked hopeless enough
tonight, what I could see of it.”

“I like that Captain Bangs,” observed Emily.

“So do I. It seems as if we'd known him for ever so long. And how his
salt-water talk does take me back. Seems as if I was hearin' my father
and Uncle Abner--yes, and Eben, too--speakin'. And it is so sort of good
and natural to be callin' somebody 'Cap'n.' I was brought up amongst
cap'ns and I guess I've missed 'em more'n I realized. Now you must go
to sleep; you'll need all the sleep you can get, and that won't be much.
Good night.”

“Good night,” said Emily, sleepily. A few minutes later she said:
“Auntie, what did become of that lantern our driver was so anxious
about? The last I saw of it it was on the floor by the sofa where I was
lying. But I didn't seem to remember it after the captain and Mr. Parker
came.”

Mrs. Barnes' reply was, if not prompt, at least conclusive.

“It's over there somewhere,” she said. “The light went out, but it ain't
likely the lantern went with it. Now you go to sleep.”

Miss Howes obeyed. She was asleep very soon thereafter. But Thankful lay
awake, thinking and wondering--yes, and dreading. What sort of a place
was this she had inherited? She distinctly did not believe in
what Hannah Parker had called “aberrations,” but she had heard
something--something strange and inexplicable in that little back
bedroom. The groans might have been caused by the gale, but no gale
spoke English, or spoke at all, for that matter. Who, or what, was it
that had said “Oh Lord!” in the darkness and solitude of that bedroom?




CHAPTER IV


Thankful opened her eyes. The sunlight was streaming in at the window.
Beneath that window hens were clucking noisily. Also in the room
adjoining someone was talking, protesting.

“I don't know, Hannah,” said Mr. Parker's voice. “I tell you I don't
know where it is. If I knew I'd tell you, wouldn't I? I don't seem to
remember what I done with it.”

“Well, then, you've got to set down and not stir till you do remember,
that's all. When you went out of this house last evenin' to go to the
postoffice--Oh, yes! To the postoffice--that's where you said you
was goin'--you had the lantern and that umbrella. When you came back,
hollerin' about the light you see in the Cap'n Abner house, you had the
lantern. But the umbrella you didn't have. Now where is it?”

“I don't know, Hannah. I--I--do seem to remember havin' had it, but--”

“Well, I'm glad you remember that much. You lost one of your mittens,
too, but 'twas an old one, so I don't mind that so much. But that
umbrella was your Christmas present and 'twas good gloria silk with
a real gilt-plated handle. I paid two dollars and a quarter for that
umbrella, and I told you never to take it out in a storm because you
were likely to turn it inside out and spile it. If I'd seen you take it
last night I'd have stopped you, but you was gone afore I missed it.”

“But--but, consarn it all, Hannah--”

“Don't swear, Kenelm. Profanity won't help you none.”

“I wa'n't swearin'. All I say is what's the use of an umbrella if you
can't hist it in a storm? I wouldn't give a darn for a schooner load of
'em when 'twas fair weather. I--I cal'late I--I left it somewheres.”

“I cal'late you did. I'm goin' over to the village this mornin' and I'll
stop in at that clubhouse, myself.”

“I--I don't believe it's at the clubhouse, Hannah.”

“You don't? Why don't you?”

“I--I don't know. I just guess it ain't, that's all. Somethin' seems to
tell me 'tain't.”

“Oh, it does, hey? I want to know! Hum! Was you anywheres else last
night? Answer me the truth now, Kenelm Parker. Was you anywheres else
last night?”

“Anywheres else. What do you mean by that?”

“I mean what I say. You know what I mean well enough. Was you--well, was
you callin' on anybody?”

“Callin' on anybody? CALLIN' on 'em?”

“Yes, callin' on 'em. Oh, you needn't look so innocent and buttery!
You ain't above it. Ain't I had experience? Haven't I been through it?
Didn't you use to say that I, your sister that's been a mother to you,
was the only woman in this world for you, and then, the minute I was out
of sight and hardly out of hearin', you--”

“My soul! You've got Abbie Larkin in your head again, ain't you?
It--it--I swear it's a reg'lar disease with you, seems so. Ain't I told
you I ain't seen Abbie Larkin, nor her me, for the land knows how long?
And I don't want to see her. My time! Do you suppose I waded and paddled
a mile and a quarter down to call on Abbie Larkin a night like last
night? What do you think I am--a bull frog? I wouldn't do it to see
the--the Queen of Rooshy.”

This vehement outburst seemed to have some effect. Miss Parker's tone
was more conciliatory.

“Well, all right,” she said. “I s'pose likely you didn't call on her, if
you say so, Kenelm. I suppose I am a foolish, lone woman. But, O Kenelm,
I do think such a sight of you. And you know you've got money and that
Abbie Larkin is so worldly she'd marry you for it in a minute. I didn't
know but you might have met her.”

“Met her! Tut--tut--tut! If that ain't--and in a typhoon like last
night! Oh, sartin, I met her! I was up here on top of Meetin'-house
Hill, larnin' her to swim in the mud puddles. You do talk so silly
sometimes, Hannah.”

“Maybe I do,” with a sniff. “Maybe I do, Kenelm, but you mean so much to
me. I just can't let you go.”

“Go! I ain't goin' nowheres, am I? What kind of talk's that?”

“And to think you'd heave away that umbrella--the umbrella I gave you!
That's what makes me feel so bad. A nice, new, gilt-plated umbrella--”

“I never hove it away. I--I--well, I left it somewheres, I--I cal'late.
I'll go look for it after breakfast. Say, when are we goin' to have
breakfast, anyhow? It's almost eight o'clock now. Ain't them women-folks
EVER goin' to turn out?”

Thankful had heard enough. She was out of bed the next instant.

“Emily! Emily!” she cried. “It's late. We must get up now.”

The voices in the sitting-room died to whispers.

“I--I can't help it,” pleaded Kenelm. “I never meant nothin'. I thought
they was asleep. And 'TIS most eight. By time, Hannah, you do pick on
me--”

A vigorous “Sshh!” interrupted him. The door between the sitting-room
and dining-room closed with a slam. Mrs. Barnes and Emily dressed
hurriedly.

They gathered about the breakfast table, the Parkers, Captain Obed and
the guests. Miss Parker's “company manner” was again much in evidence
and she seemed to feel it her duty to lead the conversation. She
professed to have discovered a striking resemblance between Miss Howes
and a deceased relative of her own named Melinda Ellis.

“The more I see of you, Miss Howes,” she declared, “the more I can't
help thinkin' of poor Melindy. She was pretty and had dark eyes and hair
same's you've got, and that same sort of--of consumptic look to her. Not
that you've got consumption, I don't mean that. Only you look the way
she done, that's all. She did have consumption, poor thing. Everybody
thought she'd die of it, but she didn't. She got up in the night to take
some medicine and she took the wrong kind--toothache lotion it was and
awful powerful--and it ate right through to her diagram. She didn't live
long afterwards, poor soul.”

No one said anything for a moment after this tragic recital. Then
Captain Bangs observed cheerfully:

“Well, I guess Miss Howes ain't likely to drink any toothache lotion.”

Hannah nodded sedately. “I trust not,” she said. “But accidents do
happen. And Melindy and Miss Howes look awful like each other. You're
real well, I hope, Miss Howes. After bein' exposed the way you was last
night I HOPE you haven't caught cold. You never can tell what'll follow
a cold--with some people.”

Thankful was glad when the meal was over. She, too, was fearful that her
cousin might have taken cold during the wet chill of the previous night.
But Emily declared she was very well indeed; that the very sight of the
sunlit sea through the dining-room windows had acted like a tonic.

“Good enough!” exclaimed Captain Obed, heartily. “Then we ought to be
gettin' a bigger dose of that tonic. Mrs. Barnes, if you and Miss Howes
would like to walk over and have a look at that property of yours, now's
as good a time as any to be doin' it. I'll go along with you if I won't
be in the way.”

Thankful looked down rather doubtfully at the borrowed gown she was
wearing, but Miss Parker came to the rescue by announcing that her
guests' own garments must be dry by this time, they had been hanging by
the stove all night. So, after the change had been made, the two left
the Parker residence and took the foot-path at the top of the bluff.
Captain Obed seemed at first rather uneasy.

“Hope I ain't hurryin' you too much,” he said. “I thought maybe it would
be just as well to get out of sight of Hannah as quick as possible. She
might take a notion to come with us. I thought sure Kenelm would, but
he's gone on a cruise of his own somewheres. He hustled outdoor soon as
breakfast was over.”

Emily burst out laughing. “Excuse me, please,” she said, “but I've
been dying to do this for so long. That--that Miss Parker is the oddest
person!”

The captain grinned. “Thinkin' about that 'diagram' yarn?” he asked.
“'Tis funny when you hear it the first four or five times. Hannah Parker
can get more wrong words in the right places than anybody I ever run
across. She must have swallowed a dictionary some time or 'nother, but
it ain't digested well, I'm afraid.”

Thankful laughed, too. “You must find her pretty amusin', Cap'n Bangs,”
 she said.

The captain shook his head. “She's a reg'lar dime show,” he observed.
Then he added: “Only trouble with that kind of a show is it gets kind of
tiresome when you have to set through it all winter. There! now you can
see your property, Mrs. Barnes, and ten mile either side of it. Look's
some more lifelike and cheerful than it did last night, don't it?”

It most assuredly did. They had reached the summit of a little hill
and before and behind and beneath them was a view of shore and sea that
caused Emily to utter an exclamation of delight.

“Oh!” she cried. “WHAT a view! What a wonderful view!”

Behind them, beyond the knoll upon which stood the little Parker house
which they had just left, at the further side of the stretch of salt
meadow with the creek and bridge, was East Wellmouth village. Along the
white sand of the beach, now garlanded with lines of fresh seaweed
torn up and washed ashore by the gale, were scattered a half dozen
fishhouses, with dories and lobster pots before them, and at the rear
of these began the gray and white huddle of houses and stores, with two
white church spires and the belfry of the schoolhouse rising above their
roofs.

At their right, only a few yards from the foot-path where they stood,
the high sand bluff broke sharply down to the beach and the sea.
The great waves, tossing their white plumes on high, came marching
majestically in, to trip, topple and fall, one after the other, in
roaring, hissing Niagaras upon the shore. Over their raveled crests
the gulls dipped and soared. The air was clear, the breeze keen and
refreshing and the salty smell of the torn seaweed rose to the nostrils
of the watchers.

To the left were barren hills, dotted with scrub, and farther on the
pine groves, with the road from Wellmouth Centre winding out from their
midst.

All these things Thankful and Emily noticed, but it was on the prospect
directly ahead that their interest centered. For there, upon the slope
of the next knoll stood the “property” they had come to see and to which
they had been introduced in such an odd fashion.

Seen by daylight and in the glorious sunshine the old Barnes house
did look, as their guide said, more “lifelike and cheerful.” A big,
rambling, gray-gabled affair, of colonial pattern, a large yard before
it and a larger one behind, the tumble-down shed in which General
Jackson had been tethered, a large barn, also rather tumble-down,
with henhouses and corncribs beside it and attached to it in haphazard
fashion. In the front yard were overgrown clusters of lilac and rose
bushes and, behind the barn, was the stubble of a departed garden.
Thankful looked at all these.

“So that's it,” she said.

“That's it,” said Captain Obed. “What do you think of it?”

“Humph! Well, there's enough of it, anyhow, as the little boy said about
the spring medicine. What do you think, Emily?”

Emily's answer was prompt and emphatic.

“I like it,” she declared. “It looks so different this morning. Last
night it seemed lonesome and pokey and horrid, but now it is almost
inviting. Think what it must be in the spring and summer. Think of
opening those upper windows on a summer morning and looking out and away
for miles and miles. It would be splendid!”

“Um--yes. But spring and summer don't last all the time. There's
December and January and February to think of. Even March ain't all joy;
we've got last night to prove it by. However, it doesn't look quite so
desperate as I thought it might; I'll give in to that. Last night I
was about ready to sell it for the price of a return ticket to South
Middleboro. Now I guess likely I ought to get a few tradin' stamps along
with the ticket. Humph! This sartin isn't ALL Poverty Lane, is it? THAT
place wa'n't built with tradin' stamps. Who lives there?”

She was pointing to the estate adjoining the Barnes house and fronting
the sea further on. “Estate” is a much abused term and is sometimes
applied to rather insignificant holdings, but this one deserved the
name. Great stretches of lawns and shrubbery, ornamental windmill,
greenhouses, stables, drives and a towered and turreted mansion
dominating all.

“I seem to have aristocratic neighbors, anyhow,” observed Mrs. Barnes.
“Whose tintype belongs in THAT gilt frame?”

Captain Obed chuckled at the question.

“Why, nobody's just now,” he said. “There was one up to last fall,
though I shouldn't have called him a tintype. More of a panorama, if
you asked me--or him, either. That place belonged to our leadin' summer
resident, Mr. Hamilton Colfax, of New York. There's a good view from
there, too, but not as fine as this one of yours, Mrs. Barnes. When your
uncle, Cap'n Abner, bought this old house it used to set over on a part
of that land there. The cap'n didn't like the outlook so well as the one
from here, so he bought this strip and moved the house down. Quite a job
movin' a house as old as this one.

“Mr. Colfax died last October,” he added, “and the place is for sale.
Good deal of a shock, his death was, to East Wellmouth. Kind of like
takin' away the doughnut and leavin' nothin' but the hole. The Wellmouth
Weekly Advocate pretty nigh gave up the ghost when Mr. Colfax did. It
always cal'lated on fillin' at least three columns with the doin's of
the Colfaxes and their 'house parties' and such. All summer it told
what they did do and all winter it guessed what they was goin' to do. It
ain't been much more than a patent medicine advertisin' circular since
the blow struck. Well, have you looked enough? Shall we heave ahead and
go aboard your craft, Mrs. Barnes?”

They walked on, down the little hill and up the next, and entered the
front yard of the Barnes house. There were the marks in the mud and sand
where the depot-wagon had overturned, but the wagon itself was gone.
“Cal'late Winnie S. and his dad come around early and towed it home,”
 surmised Captain Obed. “Seemed to me I smelled sulphur when I opened my
bedroom window this mornin'. Guess 'twas a sort of floatin' memory of
old man Holt's remarks when he went by. That depot-wagon was an antique
and antiques are valuable these days. Want to go inside, do you?”

Thankful hesitated. “I haven't got the key,” she said. “I suppose it's
at that Badger man's in the village. You know who I mean, Cap'n Bangs.”

The captain nodded.

“Christopher S. H. Badger, tinware, groceries, real estate, boots and
shoes, and insurance,” he said. “Likewise justice of the peace and first
mate of all creation. Yes, I know Chris.”

“Well, he's been in charge of this property of mine. He collected the
rent from that Mr. Eldredge who used to live here. I had a good many
letters from him, mainly about paintin' and repairs.”

“Um--hum; I ain't surprised. Chris sells paint as well as tea and
tinware. He's got the key, has he?”

“I suppose he has. I ought to have gone up and got it from him.”

“Well, I wouldn't fret about it. Of course we can't go in the front
door like the minister and weddin' company, but the kitchen door was
unfastened last night and I presume likely it's that way now. You
haven't any objection to the kitchen door, have you? When old Laban
lived here it's a safe bet he never used any other. Cur'ous old critter,
he was.”

They entered by the kitchen door. The inside of the house, like the
outside, was transformed by day and sunshine. The rooms downstairs were
large and well lighted, and, in spite of their emptiness, they seemed
almost cheerful.

“Whose furniture is this?” asked Thankful, referring to the stove and
chair and sofa in the dining-room.

“Laban's; that is, it used to be. When he died he didn't have chick nor
child nor relation, so fur's anybody knew, and his stuff stayed right
here. There wa'n't very much of it. That is--” He hesitated.

“But, there must have been more than this,” said Thankful. “What, became
of it?”

Captain Obed shook his head. “You might ask Chris Badger,” he suggested.
“Chris sells antiques on the side--the high side.”

“Did old Mr. Eldredge live here ALL alone?” asked Emily.

“Yup. And died all alone, too. Course I don't mean he was alone all the
time he was sick. Most of that time he was out of his head and folks
could stay with him, but he came to himself occasional and when he did
he'd fire 'em out because feedin' 'em cost money. He wa'n't what you'd
call generous, Laban wa'n't.”

“Where did he die?” asked Thankful, who was looking out of the window.

“Upstairs in the little back bedroom. Smallest room in the house 'tis,
and folks used to say he slept there 'cause he could heat it by his
cussin' instead of a stove. 'Most always cussin', he was--cussin' and
groanin'.”

Thankful was silent. Emily said: “Groaning? You mean he groaned when he
was ill?”

“Yes, and when he was well, too. A habit of his, groanin' was. I don't
know why he done it--see himself in the lookin'-glass, maybe; that was
enough to make anybody groan. He'd groan in his sleep--or snore--or
both. He was the noisiest sleeper ever I set up with. Shall we go
upstairs?”

The narrow front stairs creaked as loudly in the daytime as they had
on the previous night, but the long hall on the upper floor was neither
dark nor terrifying. Nevertheless it was with just a suspicion of dread
that Mrs. Barnes approached the large room at the end of the hall and
the small one adjoining it. Her common-sense had returned and she
was naturally brave, but an experience such as hers had been is not
forgotten in a few hours. However, she was determined that no one should
know her feelings; therefore she was the first to enter the little room.

“Here's where Laban bunked,” said the captain. “You'd think with all
the big comf'table bedrooms to choose from he wouldn't pick out this
two-by-four, would you? But he did, probably because nobody else would.
He was a contrary old rooster, and odd as Dick's hat-band.”

Thankful was listening, although not to their guide's remarks. She was
listening for sounds such as she had heard--or thought she had heard--on
the occasion of her previous visit to that room. But there were no such
sounds. There was the bed, the patchwork comforter, the chair and the
pictures on the walls, but when she approached that bed there came
no disturbing groans. And, by day, the memory of her fright seemed
absolutely ridiculous. For at least the tenth time she solemnly resolved
that no one should ever know how foolish she had been.

Emily uttered an exclamation and pointed.

“Why, Auntie!” she cried. “Isn't that--where did that lantern come
from?”

Captain Obed looked where she was pointing. He stepped forward and
picked up the overturned lantern.

“That's Darius Holt's lantern, I do believe,” he declared. “The one
Winnie S. was makin' such a fuss about last night. How in the nation did
it get up here?”

Thankful laughed. “I brought it up,” she said. “I come on a little
explorin' cruise when Emily dropped asleep on that sittin'-room lounge,
but I hadn't much more'n got in here when the pesky thing went out. You
ought to have seen me hurryin' along that hall to get down before
you woke up, Emily. No, come to think of it, you couldn't have seen
me--'twas too dark to see anything. . . . Well,” she added, quickly,
in order to head off troublesome questioning, “we've looked around here
pretty well. What else is there to see?”

They visited the garret and the cellar; both were spacious and not too
clean.

“If I ever come here to live,” declared Thankful, with decision,
“there'll be some dustin' and sweepin' done, I know that.”

Emily looked at her in surprise.

“Come here to live!” she repeated. “Why, Auntie, are you thinking of
coming here to live?”

Her cousin's answer was not very satisfactory. “I've been thinkin' a
good many things lately,” she said. “Some of 'em was even more crazy
than that sounds.”

The inside of the house having been thus thoroughly inspected they
explored the yard and the outbuildings. The barn was a large one, with
stalls for two horses and a cow and a carriage-room with the remnants of
an old-fashioned carryall in it.

“This is about the way it used to be in Cap'n Abner's day,” said Captain
Obed. “That carryall belonged to your uncle, the cap'n, Mrs. Barnes.
The boys have had it out for two or three Fourth of July Antiques and
Horribles' parades; 'twon't last for many more by the looks of it.”

“And what,” asked Thankful, “is that? It looks like a pigsty.”

They were standing at the rear of the house, which was built upon a
slope. Under the washshed, which adjoined the kitchen, was a rickety
door. Beside that door was a boarded enclosure which extended both into
the yard and beneath the washshed.

Captain Bangs laughed. “You've guessed it, first crack,” he said. “It
is a pigpen. Some of Laban's doin's, that is. He used to keep a pig and
'twas too much trouble to travel way out back of the barn to feed it, so
Labe rigged up this contraption. That door leads into the potato cellar.
Labe fenced off half the cellar to make a stateroom for the pig. He
thought as much of that hog as if 'twas his own brother, and there WAS a
sort of family likeness.”

Thankful snorted. “A pigsty under the house!” she said. “Well, that's
all I want to know about THAT man!”

As they were returning along the foot-path by the bluff Captain Obed,
who had been looking over his shoulder, suddenly stopped.

“That's kind of funny,” he said.

“What?” asked Emily.

“Oh, nothin', I guess. I thought I caught a sight of somebody peekin'
around the back of that henhouse. If 'twas somebody he dodged back so
quick I couldn't be sure. Humph! I guess I was mistaken, or 'twas just
one of Solon Taylor's young ones. Solon's a sort of--sort of stevedore
at the Colfax place. Lives there and takes care of it while the owners
are away. No-o; no, I don't see nobody now.”

Thankful was silent during the homeward walk. When she and Miss Howes
were alone in their room, she said:

“Emily, are you real set on gettin' back to South Middleboro tonight?”

“No, Auntie. Why?”

“Well, if you ain't I think I'd like to stay over another day. I've got
an idea in my head and, such a thing bein' kind of unusual, I'd like
to keep company with it for a spell. I'll tell you about it by and by;
probably 'twon't come to anything, anyway.”

“But do you think we ought to stay here, as Miss Parker's guests?
Wouldn't it be--”

“Of course it would. We'll go over to that hotel, the one we started
for in the first place. Judgin' from what I hear of that tavern it'll be
wuth experiencin'; and--and somethin' may come of that, too.”

She would not explain further, and Emily, knowing her well, did not
press the point.

Hannah Parker protested volubly when her “company” declared its
intention of going to the East Wellmouth Hotel.

“Of course you shan't do no such thing,” she declared. “The idea! It's
no trouble at all to have you, and that hotel really ain't fit for such
folks as you to stay at. Mrs. Bacon, from Boston, stayed there one night
in November and she pretty nigh famished with the cold, to say nothin'
of havin' to eat huckleberry preserves for supper two nights runnin'.
Course they had plenty of other things in the closet, but they'd opened
a jar of huckleberries, so they had to be et up afore they spiled.
That's the way they run THAT hotel. And Mrs. Bacon is eastern
Massachusetts delegate from the State Grange. She's Grand Excited
Matron. Just think of treatin' her that way! Well, where've you been all
the forenoon?”

The question was addressed to her brother, who entered the house by the
side door at that moment. Kenelm seemed a trifle confused.

“I--I been lookin' for that umbrella, Hannah,” he explained. “I knew I
must have left it somewheres 'cause--'cause, you see I--I took it out
with me last night and--and--”

“And come home without it. It wouldn't take a King Solomon to know that.
Did you find it?”

Kenelm's embarrassment appeared to increase.

“Well,” he stammered, “I ain't exactly found it--but--”

“But what?”

“I--I'm cal'latin' to find it, Hannah.”

“Yes, I know. You're cal'latin' to get to Heaven some time or other,
I s'pose, but if the path is as narrow and crooked as they say 'tis I
should be scared if I was you. You'll find a way to lose it, if there is
one. Oh, dear me!” with a sudden change to a tone almost pleading. “Be
you goin' to smoke again?”

Kenelm's reply was strange for him. He scratched a match and lit his
pipe with calm deliberation.

“I'm cal'latin' to,” he said, cheerfully. And his sister, to the
surprise of Mrs. Barnes and Emily, did not utter another word of
protest.

Captain Obed volunteered to accompany them to the hotel and to the
store of Mr. Badger. On the way Thankful mentioned Mr. Parker's amazing
independence in the matter of the pipe.

The captain chuckled. “Yes,” he said, “Kenelm smokes when he wants to,
and sometimes when he don't, I guess, just to keep his self-respect.
Smokin' is one p'int where he beat out Hannah. It's quite a yarn, the
way he done it is. Some time I'll tell it to you, maybe.”

The hotel--it was kept by Darius Holt, father of Winnie S.--was no more
inviting than Miss Parker's and Captain Bangs' hints had led them to
expect. But Thankful insisted on engaging a room for the night and on
returning there for dinner, supper and breakfast the following day.

“After that, we'll see,” she said. “Now let's go and make a call on that
rent collector of mine.”

Mr. Badger was surprised to meet the owner of the Barnes house,
surprised and a bit taken aback, so it seemed to Mrs. Barnes and her
cousin. He was very polite, almost obsequiously so, and his explanations
concerning the repairs which he had found it necessary to make and the
painting which he had had done were lengthy if not convincing.

As they left him, smiling and bowing in the doorway of his store,
Thankful shook her head. When they were out of earshot she said:

“Hum! The paint he says he put on that precious property of mine don't
show as much as you'd expect, but he used enough butter and whitewash
this morning to make up. He's a slick party, that Mr. Badger is, or
I miss my guess. His business arithmetic don't go much further than
addition. Everything in creation added to one makes one and he's the
one. Mr. Chris Badger's got jobs enough, accordin' to his sign. He won't
starve if he don't collect rents for me any more.”

The hotel dinner was neither bountiful nor particularly well cooked.
The Holts joined them at table and Winnie S. talked a good deal. He
expressed much joy at the recovery of his lantern.

“But when I see you folks in that house last night,” he said, “I thought
to myself, 'Judas priest!' thinks I. 'Them women has got more spunk than
I've got.' Gettin' into a house like that all alone in the dark--Whew!
Judas priest! I wouldn't do it!”

“Why not?” asked Emily.

“Oh, just 'cause I wouldn't, I suppose. Now I don't believe in such
things, of course, but old Laban he did die there. I never heard
nothin', but they tell me--”

“Rubbish!” broke in Mr. Holt, Senior. “'Tain't nothin' but fool yarns,
the whole of it. Take an old house, a hundred year old same as that is,
and shut her up and 'tain't long afore folks do get to pretendin' they
hear things. I never heard nothin'. Have some more pie, Miss Howes? Huh!
There AIN'T no more, is there!”

After dinner Emily retired to her room for a nap. She did so under
protest, declaring that she was not tired, but Thankful insisted.

“If you ain't tired now you will be when the excitement's over,” she
said. “My conscience is plaguin' me enough about fetchin' you on this
cruise, as it is. Just take it as easy as you can, Emily. Lie down and
rest, and please me.”

So Emily obeyed orders and Mrs. Barnes, after drawing the curtains and
asking over and over again if her cousin was sure she was comfortable,
went out. It was late in the afternoon when she returned.

“I've been talkin' until my face aches,” she declared. “And my mind is
about made up to do--to do what may turn out to be the craziest thing
I ever DID do. I'll tell you the whole thing after supper, Emily. Let's
let my tongue have a vacation till then.”

And, after supper, which, by the way, was no better than the dinner, she
fulfilled her promise. They retired to the bedroom and Thankful, having
carefully closed the windows and door and hung a towel over the keyhole,
told of her half-formed plan.

“Emily,” she began, “I presume likely you'll feel that you'd ought to go
back home tomorrow? Yes, I knew you'd feel that way. Well, I ain't goin'
with you. I've made up my mind to stay here for a few days longer. Now
I'll tell you why.

“You see, Emily,” she went on, “my comin' down here to East Wellmouth
wa'n't altogether for the fun of lookin' at the heirloom Uncle Abner
left me. The first thing I wanted to do was see it, but when I had
seen it, and if it turned out to be what I hoped it might be, there was
somethin' else. Emily, Mrs. Pearson's dyin' leaves me without a job. Oh,
of course I know I could 'most likely get another chance at nursin' or
keepin' house for somebody, but, to tell you the truth, I'm gettin'
kind of tired of that sort of thing. Other folks' houses are like other
folks' ailments; they don't interest you as much as your own do. I'm
sick of askin' somebody else what they want for dinner; I'd like to get
my own dinner, or, at least, if somebody else is to eat with me, I want
to decide myself what they'll have to eat. I want to run my own house
once more afore I die. And it seems--yes, it seems to me as if here was
the chance; nothin' but a chance, and a risky one, but a chance just the
same. Emily, I'm thinkin' of fixin' up Uncle Abner's old rattletrap and
openin' a boardin'-house for summer folks in it.

“Yes, yes; I know,” she continued, noticing the expression on her
companion's face. “There's as much objection to the plan as there is
slack managin' in this hotel, and that's some consider'ble. Fust off,
it'll cost money. Well; I've saved a little money and those cranberry
bog shares Mrs. Pearson left me will sell for two thousand at least.
That would be enough, maybe, if I wanted to risk it all, but I don't.
I've got another scheme. This property of mine down here is free and
clear, but, on account of its location and the view, Cap'n Bangs tells
me it's worth consider'ble more than I thought it was. I believe--yes, I
do believe I could put a mortgage on it for enough to pay for the fixin'
over, maybe more.”

Emily interrupted.

“But, Auntie,” she said, “a mortgage is a debt, isn't it? A debt that
must be paid. And if you borrow from a stranger--”

“Just a minute, Emily. Course a mortgage is a debt, but it's a debt on
the house and land and, if worse comes to worst, the house and land can
go to pay for it. And I don't mean to borrow from a stranger, if I can
help it. I've got a relation down here on the Cape, although he's a
pretty fur-off, round-the-corner relation, third cousin, or somethin'
like that. His name's Solomon Cobb and he lives over to Trumet, about
nine mile from here, so Cap'n Bangs says. And he and Uncle Abner used
to sail together for years. He was mate aboard the schooner when
Uncle Abner died on a v'yage from Charleston home. This Cobb man is a
tight-fisted old bachelor, they say, but his milk of human kindness may
not be all skimmed. And, anyhow, he does take mortgages; that's the heft
of his business--I got that from the cap'n without tellin' him what I
wanted to know for.”

Miss Howes smiled.

“You and Captain Bangs have been putting your heads together, I see,”
 she said.

“Um--hm. And his head ain't all mush and seeds like a pumpkin, if I'm
any judge. The cap'n tells me that east Wellmouth needs a good summer
boardin'-house. This--this contraption we're in now is the nighest thing
there is to it, and that's as far off as dirt is from soap; you can see
that yourself. 'Cordin' to Cap'n Bangs, lots and lots of city people
would come here summers if there was a respectable, decent place to go
to. Now, Emily, why can't I give 'em such a place? Seems to me I can.
Anyhow, if I can mortgage the place to Cousin Sol Cobb I think--yes, I'm
pretty sure I shall try. Now what do you think? Is your Aunt Thankful
Barnes losin' her sense--always providin' she's ever had any to lose--or
is she gettin' to be a real business woman at last?”

Emily's reply was at first rather doubtful. She raised one objection
after the other, but Mrs. Barnes was always ready with an answer. It was
plain that she had looked at her plan from every angle. And, at last,
Miss Howes, too, became almost enthusiastic.

“I do believe,” she said, “it may turn out to be a splendid thing for
you, Auntie. At least, I'm sure you will succeed if anyone can. Oh
dear!” wistfully. “I only wish it were possible for me to stay here and
help with it all. But I can't--I can't. Mother and the children need the
money and I must go back to my school.”

Thankful nodded. “Yes,” she admitted, “I suppose likely you must, for
the present. But--but if it SHOULD be a go and I SHOULD see plainer
sailin' ahead, then I'd need somebody to help manage, somebody younger
and more up-to-date than I am. And I know mighty well who I shall send
for.”

They talked for a long time, but at last, after they were in bed and the
lamp was extinguished, Emily said:

“I hate to go back and leave you here, Auntie; indeed I do. I shall
be so interested and excited I shall scarcely be able to wait for your
letters. You will write just as soon as you have seen this Mr. Cobb,
won't you?”

“Yes, sartin sure I will. I know it's goin' to be hard for you to go and
leave me, Emily, but I shan't be havin' a Sunday-school picnic, exactly,
myself. From what I used to hear about Cousin Solomon, unless he's
changed a whole lot since, gettin' a dollar from him won't be as easy
as pullin' a spoon out of a kittle of soft-soap. I'll have to do some
persuadin', I guess. Wish my tongue was as soothin'-syrupy as that Mr.
Badger's is. But I'm goin' to do my best. And if talkin' won't do it
I'll--I swear I don't know as I shan't give him ether. Maybe he'd take
THAT if he could get it for nothin'. Good night.”




CHAPTER V


“Well,” said Thankful, with a sigh, “she's gone, anyhow. I feel almost
as if I'd cut my anchor rope and was driftin' out of sight of land. It's
queer, ain't it, how you can make up your mind to do a thing, and
then, when you've really started to do it, almost wish you hadn't. Last
night--yes, and this mornin'--I was as set on carryin' through this plan
of mine as a body could be, but just now, when I saw Emily get aboard
those cars, it was all I could do to keep from goin' along with her.”

Captain Obed nodded. “Sartin,” he agreed. “That's natural enough. When I
was a youngster I was forever teasin' to go to sea. I thought my dad was
meaner than a spiled herrin' to keep on sayin' no when I said yes. But
when he did say yes and I climbed aboard the stagecoach to start for
Boston, where my ship was, I never was more homesick in my life. I was
later on, though--homesick and other kinds.”

They were standing on the station platform at Wellmouth Centre, and
the train which was taking Emily back to South Middleboro was a rapidly
moving, smoking blur in the distance. The captain, who seemed to
have taken a decided fancy to his prospective neighbor and her young
relative, had come with them to the station. Thankful had hired a horse
and “open wagon” at the livery stable in East Wellmouth and had intended
engaging a driver as well, but Captain Bangs had volunteered to act in
that capacity.

“I haven't got much to do this mornin',” he said. “Fact is, I generally
do have more time on my hands than anything else this season of the
year. Later on, when I put out my fish weirs, I'm pretty busy, but now
I'm a sort of 'longshore loafer. You're figurin' to go to Trumet after
you've seen Miss Emily leave the dock, you said, didn't you? Well, I've
got an errand of my own in Trumet that might as well be done now as any
time. I'll drive you over and back if you're willin' to trust the vessel
in my hands. I don't set up to be head of the Pilots' Association
when it comes to steerin' a horse, but I cal'late I can handle any
four-legged craft you're liable to charter in East Wellmouth.”

His offer was accepted and so far he had proved a competent and able
helmsman. Now, Miss Howes having been started on her homeward way, the
next port of call was to be the office of Mr. Solomon Cobb at Trumet.

During the first part of the drive Thankful was silent and answered
only when spoken to. The parting with Emily and the sense of heavy
responsibility entailed by the project she had in mind made her rather
solemn and downcast. Captain Obed, noticing this, and suspecting the
cause, chatted and laughed, and after a time his passenger seemed to
forget her troubles and to enjoy the trip.

They jogged up the main street of Trumet until they reached the little
three-cornered “square” which is the business center of the village.
Next beyond the barbershop, which is two doors beyond the general store
and postoffice, was a little one-story building, weather-beaten and
badly in need of paint. The captain steered his “craft” up to the
sidewalk before this building and pulled up.

“Whoa!” he ordered, addressing the horse. Then, turning to Thankful, he
said:

“Here you are, ma'am. This is Sol Cobb's place.”

Mrs. Barnes looked at the little building. Its exterior certainly was
not inviting. The windows looked as if they had not been washed for
weeks, the window shades were yellow and crooked, and one of the panes
of glass in the front door was cracked across. Thankful had not seen her
“Cousin Solomon” for years, not since she was a young woman, but she had
heard stories of his numerous investments and business prosperity, and
she could scarcely believe this dingy establishment was his.

“Are you sure, Cap'n Bangs?” she faltered. “This can't be the Solomon
Cobb I mean. He's well off and it don't seem as if he would be in an
office like this--if 'tis an office,” she added. “It looks more like a
henhouse to me. And there's no signs anywhere.”

The captain laughed. “Signs cost money,” he said. “It takes paint to
make a sign, same as it does to keep a henhouse lookin' respectable.
This is the only Sol Cobb in Trumet, fur's I ever heard, and he's well
off, sartin. He ought to be; I never heard of him lettin' go of anything
he got hold of. Maybe you think I'm talkin' pretty free about your
relation, Mrs. Barnes,” he added, apologetically. “I hadn't ought to, I
suppose, but I've had one or two little dealin's with Sol, one time or
'nother, and I--well, maybe I'm prejudiced. Excuse me, won't you? He may
be altogether different with his own folks.”

Thankful was still staring at the dubious and forbidding front door.

“It doesn't seem as if it could be,” she said. “But if you say so of
course 'tis.”

“Yes, ma'am, I guess 'tis. That's Sol Cobb's henhouse and the old
rooster is in, judgin' by the signs. Those are his rubbers on the step.
Wearin' rubbers winter or summer is a habit of his. Humph! I'm talkin'
too much again. You're goin' in, I suppose, ma'am?”

Thankful threw aside the carriage robe and prepared to clamber from the
wagon.

“I surely am,” she declared. “That's what I came way over here for.”

The captain sprang to the ground and helped her to alight.

“I'll be right across the road at the store there,” he said. “I'll be on
the watch when you came out. I--I--”

He hesitated. Evidently there was something else he wished to say, but
he found the saying difficult. Thankful noticed the hesitation.

“Yes, what was it, Cap'n Bangs?” she asked.

Captain Obed fidgeted with the reins.

“Why, nothin', I guess,” he faltered. “Only--only--well, I tell you,
Mrs. Barnes, if--if you was figgerin' on doin' any business with Mr.
Cobb, any money business, I mean, and--and you'd rather go anywheres
else I--I--well, I'm pretty well acquainted round here on the Cape
amongst the bank folks and such and I'd be real glad to--”

Thankful interrupted. She had, after much misgiving and reluctance,
made up her mind to approach her distant relative with the mortgage
proposition, but to discuss that proposition with strangers was, to her
mind, very different. She had mentioned the proposed mortgage to Emily,
but she had told no one else, not even the captain himself. And she did
not mean to tell. The boarding house plan must stand or fall according
to Mr. Cobb's reception of it.

“No, no,” she said, hastily. “It ain't anything important--that is, very
important.”

“Well, all right. You see--I only meant--excuse me, Mrs. Barnes. I hope
you don't think I meant to be nosey or interferin' in your affairs.”

“Of course I don't. You've gone to a lot of trouble on my account as
'tis, and you've been real kind.”

The captain hurriedly muttered that he hadn't been kind at all and
watched her as she walked up the short path to Mr. Cobb's front door.
Then, with a solemn shake of the head, he clinched again at the wagon
seat and drove across the road to the hitching-posts before the store.
Thankful opened the door of the “henhouse” and entered.

The interior of the little building was no mare inviting than its
outside. One room, dark, with a bare floor, and with cracked plastered
walls upon which a few calendars and an ancient map were hanging. There
was a worn wooden settee and two wooden armchairs at the front, near the
stove, and at the rear an old-fashioned walnut desk.

At this desk in a shabby, leather-cushioned armchair, sat a little old
man with scant gray hair and a fringe of gray throat whiskers. He wore
steel-rimmed spectacles and over these he peered at his visitor.

“Good mornin',” said Thankful. It seemed to her high time that someone
said something, and the little man had not opened his lips. He did not
open them even now.

“Um,” he grunted, and that was all.

“Are you Mr. Solomon Cobb?” she asked. She knew now that he was; he had
changed a great deal since she had last seen him, but his eyes had not
changed, and he still had the habit she remembered, that of pulling at
his whiskers in little, short tugs as if trying to pull them out. “Like
a man hauling wild carrots out of a turnip patch,” she wrote Emily when
describing the interview.

He did not answer the question. Instead, after another long look, he
said:

“If you're sellin' books, I don't want none. Don't use 'em.”

This was so entirely unexpected that Mrs. Barnes was, for the moment,
confused and taken aback.

“Books!” she repeated, wonderingly. “I didn't say anything about books.
I asked you if you was Mr. Cobb.”

Another look. “If you're sellin' or peddlin' or agentin' or anything I
don't want none,” said the little man. “I'm tellin' you now so's you can
save your breath and mine. I've got all I want.”

Thankful looked at him and his surroundings. This ungracious and
unlooked for reception began to have its effect upon her temper; as she
wrote Emily in the letter, her “back fin began to rise.” It was on the
tip of her tongue to say that, judging by appearances, he should want a
good many things, politeness among others. But she did not say it.

“I ain't a peddler or a book agent,” she declared, crisply. “When I
ask you to buy, seems to me 'twould be time enough to say no. If you're
Solomon Cobb, and I know you are, I've come to see you on business.”

The word “business” had an effect. Mr. Cobb swung about in his chair and
regarded her fixedly. There was a slight change in his tone.

“Business, hey?” he repeated. “Well, I'm a business man, ma'am. What
sort of business is it you've got?”

Thankful did not answer the question immediately. Instead she walked
nearer to the desk.

“Yes,” she said, slowly, “you're Solomon Cobb. I should know you
anywhere now. And I ain't seen you for twenty year. I presume likely you
don't know me.”

The man of business stared harder than ever. He took off his spectacles,
rubbed them with his handkerchief, put them on and stared again.

“No, ma'am, I don't,” he said. “You don't live in Trumet, I know that.
You ain't seen me for twenty year, eh? Twenty year is quite a spell. And
yet there's somethin' sort of--sort of familiar about you, now that I
look closer. Who be you?”

“My name is Thankful Barnes--now. It didn't used to be. When you knew
me 'twas Thankful Cahoon. My grandmother, on my father's side, was your
mother's own cousin. Her name was Matilda Myrick. That makes you and me
sort of distant relations, Mr. Cobb.”

If she expected this statement to have the effect of making the little
man more cordial she was disappointed. In fact, if it had any effect at
all, it was the opposite, judging by his manner and expression. His only
comments on the disclosure of kinship were a “Humph!” and a brief “Want
to know!” He stared at Thankful and she at him. Then he said:

“Well?”

Mrs. Barnes was astonished.

“Well?” she repeated. “What's well? What do you mean by that?”

“Nothin's I know of. You said you came to see me about some business or
other. What sort of business?”

“I came to see you about gettin' some money. I need some money just now
and--”

Solomon interrupted her.

“Humph!” he grunted. “I cal'lated as much.”

“You cal'lated it! For the land sakes--why?”

“Because you begun by sayin' you was a relation of mine. I've got a good
many relations floatin' around loose and there ain't nary one of 'em
ever come to see me unless 'twas to get money. If I give money to all my
relations that asked for it I'd be a dum sight poorer'n I be now.”

Thankful was by this time thoroughly angry.

“Look here,” she snapped. “If I'd come to you expectin' you to GIVE me
any money I'd be an idiot as well as a relation. Far's that last part
goes I ain't any prouder of it than you are.”

This pointed remark had no more effect than the statement of
relationship. Mr. Cobb was quite unruffled.

“You came to see me,” he said, “and you ain't come afore for twenty
year--you said so. Now, when you do come, you want money, you said that,
too.”

“Well, what of it?”

“Nothin' of it, 'special. Only when a party comes to me and commences
by sayin' he or she's a relation I know what's comin' next. Relations!
Humph! My relations never done much for me.”

Thankful's fingers twitched. “'Cordin' to all accounts you never done
much for them, either,” she declared. “You don't even ask 'em to sit
down. Well, you needn't worry so far's I'm concerned. Good-by.”

She was on her way out of the office, but he called her back.

“Hi, hold on!” he called. “You ain't told me what that business was yet.
Come back! You--you can set down, if you want to.”

Thankful hesitated. She was strongly tempted to go and never return.
And yet, if she did, she must go elsewhere to obtain the mortgage she
wished. And to whom should she go? Reluctantly she retraced her steps.

“Set down,” said Mr. Cobb, pulling forward a chair. “Now what is it you
want?”

Mrs. Barnes sat down. “I'll tell you what I don't want,” she said with
emphasis. “I don't want you to give me any money or to lend me any,
either--without it's bein' a plain business deal. I ain't askin' charity
of you or anybody else, Solomon Cobb. And you'd better understand that
if you and I are goin' to talk any more.”

Mr. Cobb tugged at his whiskers.

“You've got a temper, ain't you,” he declared. “Temper's a good thing
to play with, maybe, if you can afford it. I ain't rich enough, myself.
I've saved a good many dollars by keepin' mine. If you don't want me to
give you nor lend you money, what do you want?”

“I want you to take a mortgage on some property I own. You do take
mortgages, don't you?”

More whisker pulling. Solomon nodded.

“I do sometimes,” he admitted; “when I cal'late they're safe to take.
Where is this property of yours?”

“Over in East Wellmouth. It's the old Abner Barnes place. Cap'n Abner
willed it to me. He was my uncle.”

And at last Mr. Cobb showed marked interest. Slowly he leaned back in
his chair. His spectacles fell from his nose into his lap and lay there
unheeded.

“What? What's that you say?” he asked, sharply. “Abner Barnes was your
uncle? I--I thought you said your name was Cahoon.”

“I said it used to be afore I was married, when I knew you. Afterwards
I married Eben Barnes, Cap'n Abner's nephew. That made the captain my
uncle by marriage.”

Solomon's fingers groped for his spectacles. He picked them up and took
his handkerchief from his pocket. But it was his forehead he rubbed with
his handkerchief, not the glasses.

“You're--you're Abner Barnes' niece!” he said slowly.

“Yes--niece by marriage.”

“The one he used to talk so much about? What was her
name--Patience--Temp'rance--”

“Thankful--that's my name. I presume likely Uncle Abner did use to talk
about me. He always declared he thought as much of me as if I was his
own child.”

There was an interval of silence. Mr. Cobb replaced his spectacles and
stared through them at his visitor. His manner was peculiar--markedly
so.

“I went mate for Cap'n Abner a good many v'yages,” he said, after a
moment.

“Yes, I know you did.”

“He--he told you so, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“What else did he tell you; about--about me, I mean?”

“Why, nothin' 'special that I know of. Why? What was there to tell?”

“Nothin'. Nothin' much, I guess. Abner and me was sort of--sort of
chums and I didn't know but he might have said--might have told you
considerable about me. He didn't, hey?”

“No. He told me you was his mate, that's all.”

It may have been Thankful's imagination, but it did seem as if her
relative was a trifle relieved. But even yet he did not seem quite
satisfied. He pulled at his whiskers and asked another question.

“What made you come here to me?” he asked.

“Mercy on us! I've told you that, haven't I? I came to see about gettin'
a mortgage on his old place over to East Wellmouth. I knew you took
mortgages--at least folks said you did--and bein' as you was a relation
I thought--”

A wave of the hand interrupted her.

“Yes, yes,” broke in Solomon, hastily. “I know that. Was that the only
reason?”

“I presume likely 'twas. I did think it was a natural one and reason
enough, but I guess THAT was a mistake. It looks as if 'twas.”

She made a move to rise, but he leaned forward and detained her.

“There! there!” he said. “Set still, set still. So you're Abner Barnes'
niece?”

“My soul! I've told you so three times.”

“Abner's niece! I want to know!”

“Well, I should think you might know by this time. Now about that
mortgage.”

“Hey? Oh, yes--yes! You want a mortgage on Abner's place over to East
Wellmouth. Um! Well, I know the property and about what it's wuth--which
ain't much. What are you cal'latin' to do--live there?”

“Yes, if I can carry out the plan I've got in my head. I'm thinkin' of
fixin' up that old place and livin' in it. I'm figgerin' to run it as
a boardin'-house. It'll cost money to put it in shape and a mortgage is
the simplest way of raisin' that money, I suppose. That's the long and
short of it.”

The dealer in mortgages appeared to hear and there was no reason why
he should not have understood. But he seemed still unsatisfied, even
suspicious. The whiskers received another series of pulls and he
regarded Thankful with the same questioning stare.

“And you say,” he drawled, “that you come to me just because--”

“Mercy on us! If you don't know why I come by this time, then--”

“All right, all right. I--I'm talkin' to myself, I guess. Course you
told me why you come. So you're cal'latin' to start a boardin'-house,
eh? Risky things, boardin'-houses are. There's a couple of hundred
launched every year and not more'n ten ever make a payin' v'yage. Let's
hear what your plan is, the whole of it.”

Fighting down her impatience Thankful went into details concerning her
plan. She explained why she had thought of it and her growing belief
that it might be successful. Mr. Cobb listened.

“Humph!” he grunted, when she had finished. “So Obed Bangs advised you
to try it, hey? That don't make me think no better of it, as I know of.
I know Bangs pretty well.”

“Yes,” dryly; “I supposed likely you did. Anyhow, he said he knew you.”

“He did, hey? Told you some things about me, hey?”

“No, he didn't tell me anything except that you and he had had some
dealin's. Now, Mr. Cobb, we've talked a whole lot and it don't seem
to me we got anywheres. If you don't want to take a mortgage on that
place--”

“Sshh! Who said I didn't want to take it? How do I know what I want to
do yet? Lord! How you women do go on! Suppose I should take a mortgage
on that place--mind, I don't say I will, but suppose I should--how would
I know that the mortgage would be paid, or the interest, or anything?”

“If it ain't paid you can foreclose when the time comes, I presume
likely. As for the interest--well, I'm fairly honest, or I try to be,
and that'll be paid reg'lar if I live.”

“Ya'as. Well, fur's honesty goes, I could run a seine through Ostable
County any day in the week and load a schooner with honest folks; and
there wouldn't nary one of 'em have cash enough to pay for the wear and
tear on the net. Honesty's good policy, maybe, but it takes hard money
to pay bills.”

Thankful stood up.

“All right,” she said, decidedly, “then I'll go where they play the
honest game. And you needn't set there and weed your face any more on my
account.”

Mr. Cobb rose also. “There! there!” he protested. “Don't get het up. I
don't say I won't take your mortgage, do I?”

“You've said a good deal. If you say any more of the same kind you can
say it to yourself. I tell you, honest, I don't like the way you say
it.”

The owner of the “hen-house” looked as if he wished very much to retort
in kind. The glare he gave his visitor prophesied direful things. But
he did not retort; nor, to her surprise, did he raise his voice or order
her off the premises. Instead his tone, when he spoke again, was quiet,
even conciliatory.

“I--I'm sorry if I've said anything I shouldn't,” he stammered. “I'm
gettin' old and--and sort of short in my talk, maybe. I--I--there's
a good many folks round here that don't like me, 'count of my doin'
business in a business way, 'stead of doin' it like the average poor
fool. I suppose they've been talkin' to you and you've got sort of
prejudiced. Well, I don't know's I blame you for that. I shan't hold
no grudge. How much of a mortgage do you cal'late to want on Abner's
place?”

“Two thousand dollars.”

“Two thousand! . . . There, there! Hold on, hold on! Two thousand
dollars is a whole lot of money. It don't grow on every bush.”

“I know that as well as you do. If I did I'd have picked it afore this.”

“Um--hm. How long a time do you want?”

“I don't know. Three years, perhaps.”

Solomon shook his head.

“Too long,” he said. “I couldn't give as long a mortgage as that to
anybody. No, I couldn't do it. . . . Tell you what I will do,” he added.
“I--I don't want to act mean to a relation. I think as much of relations
as anybody does. I'd like to favor you and I will if I can. You give me
a week to think this over in and then I'll let you know what I'll do.
That's fair, ain't it?”

Mrs. Barnes declined the offer.

“It may be fair to you,” she said, “but I can't wait so long. I want
to settle this afore I go back to South Middleboro. And I shall go back
tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.”

Another session of “weeding.” Then said Mr. Cobb: “Well, all right, all
right. I'll think it over and then I'll drive across to East Wellmouth,
have another look at the property, and let you know. I'll see you day
after tomorrow forenoon. Where you stoppin' over there?”

Thankful told him. He walked as far as the door with her.

“Hope you ain't put out with me, ma'am,” he said. “I have to be kind of
sharp and straight up and down in my dealin's; they'd get the weather
gauge on me a dozen times a day if I wa'n't. But I'm real
kind inside--to them I take a notion to. I'll--I'll treat you
right--er--er--Cousin Thankful; you see if I don't. I'm real glad you
come to me. Good day.”

Thankful went down the path. As she reached the sidewalk she turned and
looked back. The gentleman with the kind interior was standing peering
at her through the cracked glass of the door. He was still tugging at
his whiskers and if, as he had intimated, he had “taken a notion” to
her, his expression concealed the fact wonderfully.

Captain Obed, who had evidently been on the lookout for his passenger,
appeared on the platform of the store on the other side of the road.
After asking if she had any other “port of call” in that neighborhood,
he assisted her into the carriage and they started on their homeward
trip. The captain must have filled with curiosity concerning the widow's
interview with Mr. Cobb, but beyond asking if she had seen the latter,
he did not question. Thankful appreciated his reticence; the average
dweller in Wellmouth--Winnie S., for instance--would have started in on
a vigorous cross-examination. Her conviction that Captain Bangs was much
above the average was strengthened.

“Yes,” she said, “he was there. I saw him. He's a--a kind of queer
person, I should say. Do you know him real well, Cap'n Bangs?”

The captain nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I know him about as well as anybody
outside of Trumet does. I ain't sure that anybody really knows him all
the way through. Queer!” he chuckled. “Well, yes--you might say Sol
Cobb was queer and you wouldn't be strainin' the truth enough to start a
plank. He's all that and then consider'ble.”

“What sort of a man is he?”

“Sol? Hum! Well, he's smart; anybody that beats Sol Cobb in a trade has
got to get up a long ways ahead of breakfast time. Might stay up all
night and then not have more leeway than he'd be liable to need.”

“Yes, Yes, I'm sure he's smart in business. But is he--is he a GOOD
man?”

The captain hesitated before replying.

“Git dap!” he ordered, addressing the horse. “Good? Is Sol good? Well,
I cal'late that depends some on what dictionary you hunt up the word
in. He's pious, sartin. There ain't many that report on deck at the
meetin'-house more reg'lar than he does. He don't cal'late to miss a
prayer-meetin' and when there's a revival goin' on he's right up front
with the mourners. Folks do say that his favorite hymn is 'I'm Glad
Salvation's Free' and they heave out consider'ble many hints that if
'twa'n't free he wouldn't have got it; but then, that's an old joke and
I've heard 'em say the same thing about other people.”

“But do you think he's honest?”

“I never heard of his doin' anything against the law. He'll skin honesty
as close as he can, there ain't much hide left when he gets through; but
I cal'late he thinks he's honest. And maybe he is--maybe he is. It all
depends on the definition, same as I said. Sol's pious all right. I
cal'late he'd sue anybody that had a doubt as to how many days Josiah
went cabin passenger aboard the whale. His notion of Heaven may be a
little mite hazy, although he'd probably lay consider'ble stress on
the golden streets, but he's sot and definite about t'other place.
Yes, siree!” he added, reflectively, “Sol is sartin there's a mighty
uncomf'table Tophet, and that folks who don't believe just as he does
are bound there. And he don't mean to go himself, if 'tendin' up to
meetin' 'll keep him clear.

“It's kind of queer to me,” he went on, slowly, “to see the number
of folks that make up their minds to be good--or what they call
good--because they're scared to be bad. Doin' right because right IS
right, and lettin' the Almighty credit 'em with that, because He's
generally supposed to know it's right full well as they do--that ain't
enough for their kind. They have to keep hollerin' out loud how good
they are so He'll hear and won't make any mistake in bookin' their own
particular passage. Sort of takin' out a religious insurance policy, you
might say 'twas. . . . Humph!” he added, coming out of his reverie and
looking doubtfully at his companion, “I--I hope I ain't shocked you,
ma'am. I don't mean to be irreverent, you understand. I've thought
consider'ble about such things and I have funny ideas maybe.”

Thankful declared that she was not shocked. She had heard but little of
her driver's long dissertation. She was thinking of her interview with
Mr. Cobb and the probability of his accepting her proposal and taking a
mortgage on her East Wellmouth property. If he refused, what should
she do then? And if he accepted and she went on to carry her plan into
execution, what would be the outcome? The responsibility was heavy. She
would be risking all she had in the world. If she succeeded, well and
good. If she failed she would be obliged to begin all over again, to try
for another position as housekeeper, perhaps to “go out nursing” once
more. She was growing older; soon she would be beyond middle life and
entering upon the first stages of old age. And what a lonely old age
hers was likely to be! Her husband was dead; her only near relative,
brother Jedediah, was--well, he might be dead also, poor helpless,
dreamy incompetent. He might have died in the Klondike, providing he
ever reached that far-off country, which was unlikely. He would have
been but an additional burden upon her had he lived and remained at
home, but he would have been company for her at least. Emily was a
comfort, but she had little hope of Emily's being able to leave her
school or the family which her salary as teacher helped to support. No,
she must carry her project through alone, all alone.

She spoke but seldom and Captain Obed, noticing the change in her manner
and possibly suspecting the cause, did his best to divert her thoughts
and cheer her. He chatted continuously, like, as he declared afterwards,
“a poll parrot with its bill greased.” He changed the topic from Mr.
Cobb and his piety to the prospects of good fishing in the spring, from
that to the failure of the previous fall's cranberry crop, and from
that again to Kenelm Parker and his sister Hannah. And, after a time,
Thankful realized that he was telling a story.




CHAPTER VI


“Takin' other folks' advice about your own affairs,” began Cap'n Obed,
“is like a feller readin' patent medicine circulars to find somethin'
to cure a cold. Afore he gets through his symptoms have developed into
bronchitis and pneumony, with gallopin' consumption dead ahead. You
never can tell what'll happen.

“You noticed how Hannah Parker sort of riz up when Kenelm started
smokin' yesterday? Yes, I know you did, 'cause you spoke of it. And you
notice, too, how meek and lowly she laid down and give in when he
kept right on doin' it. That ain't her usual way with Kenelm by a
consider'ble sight. I told you there was quite a yarn hitched to that
smokin' business. So there is.

“Kenelm's an old bach, you know. One time he used to work, or pretend
to, because he needed the money; but his Aunt Phoebe up to Brockton died
and left him four or five thousand dollars and he ain't worked of any
account since. He's a gentleman now, livin' on his income--and his
sister.

“Hannah ain't got but precious little money of her own, but she knows
how to take care of it, which her brother don't. She was housekeepin'
for some folks at Wapatomac, but when the inheritances landed she headed
straight for East Wellmouth, rented that little house they're in now,
and took charge of Kenelm. He wa'n't overanxious to have her do it, but
that didn't make any difference. One of her pet bugaboos was that, now
her brother was well-off--'cordin' to her idea of well-offness--some
designin' woman or other would marry him for his money. Down she
come, first train, and she's been all hands and the cook, yes, and
paymaster--with Kenelm a sort of steerage passenger, ever since. She
keeps watch over him same as the sewin' circle does over the minister's
wife, and it's 'No Anchorage for Females' around that house, I can tell
you.

“Another of her special despisin's--next to old maids and young
widows--used to be tobacco smoke. We had a revival preacher in East
Wellmouth that first winter and he stirred up things like a stick in a
mudhole. He was young and kind of good-lookin', with a voice like the
Skakit foghorn, and he took the sins of the world in his mouth, one
after the other, as you might say, and shook 'em same's a pup would a
Sunday bunnit. He laid into rum and rum sellin', and folks fairly got in
line to sign the pledge. 'Twas 'Come early and avoid the rush.' Got so
that Chris Badger hardly dast to use alcohol in his cigar-lighter.

“Then, havin' dried us up, that revival feller begun to smoke us out. He
preached six sermons on the evils of tobacco, and every one was hotter'n
the last. Accordin' to him, if you smoked now you'd burn later on. Lots
of the men folks threw their pipes away, and took to chewin' slipp'ry
ellum.

“Now, Kenelm smoked like a peat fire. He lit up after breakfast and
puffed steadily until bedtime, only puttin' his pipe down to eat, or to
rummage in his pocket for more tobacco. Hannah got him to go to one of
the anti-tobacco meetin's. He set through the whole of it, interested as
could be. Then, when 'twas over, he stopped in the church entry to
load up his pipe, and walked home with his sister, blowin' rings and
scratchin' matches and talkin' loud about how fine the sermon was.
He talked all next day about that sermon; said he'd go every night if
they'd let you smoke in there.

“So Hannah was set back a couple of rows, but she wa'n't
discouraged--not by a forty fathom. She got after her brother mornin',
noon and night about the smokin' habit. The most provokin' part of it,
so she said, was that he always agreed with her.

“'It's ruinin' your health,' she'd say.

“'Yes,' says Kenelm, lookin' solemn, 'I cal'late that's so. I've been
feelin' poorly for over a year now. Worries me consider'ble. Pass me
that plug on the top of the clock, won't you, Hannah?'

“Now what can you do with a feller like that?

“She couldn't start him with fussin' about HIS health, so she swung over
on a new tack and tried her own. She said so much smoke in the house
was drivin' her into consumption, and she worked up a cough that was
a reg'lar graveyard quickstep. I heard her practicin' it once, and, I
swan, there was harps and halos all through it!

“That cough made Kenelm set up and take notice; and no wonder. He
listened to a hundred or so of Hannah's earthquakes, and then he got up
and pranced out of the house. When he came back the doctor was with him.

“Now, this wa'n't exactly what his sister was lookin' for. She didn't
want to see the doctor. But Kenelm said she'd got to have her lungs
sounded right off, and he guessed they'd have to use a deep-sea lead,
'cause that cough seemed to come from the foundations. He waylaid the
doctor after the examination was over and asked all kinds of questions.
The doctor tried to keep a straight face, but I guess Kenelm smelt a
rat.

“Anyway, Hannah coughed for a day or two more, and then her brother come
totin' in a big bottle of med'cine.

“'There!' he says. 'That'll fix you!'

“'Where'd you get it?' says she.

“'Down to Henry Tubman's,' he says.

“'Henry Tubman! What on earth! Why, Henry Tubman's a horse doctor!'

“'I know he is,' says Kenelm, solemn as a roostin' pullet, 'but we've
been fishin' with the wrong bait. 'Tain't consumption that's ailin' you,
Hannah; you've got the heaves.'

“So Hannah didn't cough much more, 'cause, when she did, Kenelm would
trot out the bottle of horse med'cine, and chuck overboard a couple of
barrels of sarcasm. She tried openin' all the windows, sayin' she needed
fresh air, but he locked himself up in the kitchen and filled that so
full of smoke that you had to navigate it by dead reckonin'--couldn't
see to steer. So she was about ready to give up; somethin' that anybody
but a stubborn critter like her would have done long afore.

“But one afternoon she was down to the sewin' circle, and the women
folks there, havin' finished pickin' to pieces the characters of the
members not on hand, started in to go on about the revivals and how
much good they was doin'. 'Most everybody had some relation, if
'twa'n't nothin' more'n a husband, that had stopped smokin' and chewin'.
Everybody had some brand from the burnin' to brag about--everybody but
Hannah; she could only set there and say she'd done her best, but that
Kenelm still herded with the goats.

“They was all sorry for her, but the only one that had any advice to
give was Abbie Larkin, she that was Abbie Dillin'ham 'fore she married
old man Larkin. Larkin had one foot in the grave when she married him,
and she managed to crowd the other one in inside of a couple of years
afterward. Abbie is a widow, of course, and she is middlin' good-lookin'
and dresses pretty gay. Larkin left her a little money, but I guess
she's run through most of it by this time. The circle folks was dyin'
to talk about her, but she was always on hand so early that they hardly
ever got a chance.

“Well, after supper was over, Abbie gets Hannah over in a corner, and
says she:

“'Miss Parker,' says she, 'here's an advertisement I cut out of the
paper and saved a-purpose for you. I want you to look at it, but you
mustn't tell anybody I gave it to you.'

“So Hannah unfurls the piece of newspaper, and 'twas an advertisement of
'Kill-Smudge,' the sure cure for the tobacco habit. You could give it to
the suff'rer unbeknownst to him, in his tea or soup or somethin', and
in a couple of shakes he'd no more smoke than he'd lend money to his
brother-in-law, or do any other ridic'lous thing. There was testimonials
from half a dozen women that had tried it, and everyone showed a clean
bill.

“Hannah read the advertisement through twice. 'Well, I never!' says she.

“'Yes,' says Abbie, and smiles.

“'Of course,' says Hannah, lookin' scornful, 'I wouldn't think of
tryin' the stuff, but I'll just take this home and read it over. It's so
curious,' she says.

“'Ain't it?' says Abbie, and smiles some more.

“So that night, when Kenelm sat by the stove, turnin' the air blue, his
sister set at the other side of the table with that advertisement hid
behind the Wellmouth Advocate readin' and thinkin'. She wrote a letter
afore she went to bed and bought a dollar's worth of stamps at the
postoffice next day. And for a week she watched the mails the way one of
these city girls does when the summer's 'most over and eight or nine of
her fellers have finished their vacations and gone back to work.

“About ten days after that Kenelm begins to feel kind of off his feed,
so's to speak. Somethin' seemed to ail him and he couldn't make out what
'twas. They'd had a good many cranberries on their bog that year and
Hannah'd been cookin' 'em up fast so's they wouldn't spile. But one
night she brings on a cranberry pie, and Kenelm turned up his nose at
it.

“'More of that everlastin' sour stuff!' he snorts. 'I've et cranb'ries
till my stomach's puckered up as if it worked with a gath'rin' string.
Take it away! I don't want it!'

“'But, Kenelm, you're always so fond of cranb'ry pie.'

“'Me? It makes me shrivel just to look at it. Pass that sugar bowl, so's
I can sweeten ship.'

“Next day 'twas salt fish and potatoes that wa'n't good. He'd been
teasin' for a salt-fish dinner for ever so long, so Hannah'd fixed up
this one just to please him, but he swallered two or three knifefuls and
then looked at her kind of sad and mournful.

“'To think,' says he, 'that I've lived all these years to be p'isoned
fin'lly! And by my own sister, too! Well, that's what comes of bein'
wuth money. Give me my pipe and let me forget my troubles.'

“'Course this kind of talk made Hannah mad, but she argued that 'twas
the Kill-Smudge gettin' in its work, so she put a double dose into his
teacup that night, and trusted in Providence.

“And the next day she noticed that he swallered hard between every pull
at his pipe, and when, at last, he jumped out of his chair, let out
a swear word and hove his pipe at the cat, she felt consider'ble
encouraged. She thought 'twas her duty, however, to warn him against
profane language, but the answer she got was so much more prayerful than
his first remarks, that she come about and headed for the sittin'-room
quick.

“Well, to make a long yarn short, the Kill-Smudge done the bus'ness.
Kenelm stuck to smokin' till he couldn't read a cigar sign without his
ballast shiftin', and then he give it up. And--as you might expect from
that kind of a man--he was more down on tobacco than the Come-Outer
parson himself. He even got up in revival meetin' and laid into it
hammer and tongs. He was the best 'horrible example' they had, and
Hannah was so proud of him that she couldn't sleep nights. She still
stuck to the Kill-Smudge, though--layin' in a fresh stock every once in
a while--and she dosed the tea about every other day, so's her brother
wouldn't run no danger of relapse. I'm 'fraid Kenelm didn't get any too
much joy out of his meals.

“And so everything was all right--'cordin' to Hannah's reckonin'--and it
might have stayed all right if she hadn't took that trip to Washington.
Etta Ellis was goin' on a three weeks' cut-rate excursion, and she
talked so much about it, that Hannah got reckless and fin'lly said she'd
go, too.

“The only thing that worried her was leavin' Kenelm. She hated to do it
dreadful, but he seemed tame enough and promised to change his flannels
if it got cold, and to feed the cat reg'lar, and to stay to home, and
one thing and another, so she thought 'twas safe to chance it. She
cooked up a lot of pie and frosted cake, and wrote out a kind of
time-table for him to eat and sleep by, and then cried and kissed him
good-by.

“The first three days after she was gone Kenelm stayed 'round the house
and turned in early. He was feelin' fine, but 'twas awful lonesome.
The fourth day, after breakfast, he had a cravin' to smoke. Told me
afterward it seemed to him as if he MUST smoke or die of the fidgets. At
last he couldn't stand it no longer, but turned Hannah's time-table to
the wall and went out for a walk. He walked and walked and walked. It
got 'most dinner time and he had an appetite that he hadn't had afore
for months.

“Just as he was turnin' into the road by the schoolhouse who should come
out on the piazza of the house on the corner but Abbie Larkin. She'd
left the door open, and the smell of dinner that blew through it was
tantalizin'. Abbie was dressed in her Sunday togs and her hair was
frizzed till she couldn't wrinkle her forehead. If the truth was known,
I cal'late she'd seen Kenelm go past her house on the way downtown and
was layin' for him when he come back, but she acted dreadful surprised.

“'Why, Mr. Parker!' says she, 'how DO you do? Seems's if I hadn't
seen you for an age! Ain't it dreadful lonesome at your house now your
sister's away?'

“Kenelm colored up some--he always h'isted danger signals when women
heave in sight--and agreed that 'twas kind of poky bein' all alone. Then
they talked about the weather, and about the price of coal, and about
the new plush coat Cap'n Jabez Bailey's wife had just got, and how folks
didn't see how she could afford it with Jabez out of work, and so
on. And all the time the smell of things cookin' drifted through the
doorway. Fin'lly Abbie says, says she:

“'Was you goin' home, Mr. Parker?'

“'Yes, ma'am,' says Kenelm. 'I was cal'latin' to go home and cook
somethin' for dinner.'

“'Well, there, now!' says Abbie. 'I wonder why I didn't think of it
afore! Why don't you come right in and have dinner with me? It's ALL
ready and there's plenty for two. DO come, Mr. Parker, to please ME!'

“'Course Kenelm said he couldn't, and, likewise, of course, he did.
'Twas a smashin' dinner--chicken and mashed potatoes and mince pie, and
the land knows what. He ate till he was full clear to the hatches,
and it seemed to him that nothin' ever tasted quite so good. The widow
smiled and purred and colored up and said it seemed SO good to have a
man at the table; seemed like the old days when Dan'l--meanin' the late
lamented--was on deck, and so forth.

“Then, when the eatin' was over, she says, 'I was expectin' my cousin
Benjamin down for a week or so, but he can't come. He's a great smoker,
and I bought these cigars for him. You might as well use them afore they
dry up.'

“Afore Kenelm could stop her she rummaged a handful of cigars out of the
table drawer in the settin'-room.

“'There!' she says. 'Light right up and be comfortable. It'll seem just
like old times. Dan'l was such a 'smoker! Oh, my!' and she gave a little
squeal; 'I forgot you've stopped smokin'.'

“Well, there was the cigars, lookin' as temptin' as a squid to a
codfish; and there was Kenelm hankerin' for 'em so his fingers twitched;
and there was Abbie lookin' dreadful disapp'inted, but tryin' to make
believe she wasn't. You don't need a spyglass to see what happened.

“'I'd like to,' says Kenelm, pickin' up one of the cigars. 'I'd like to
mighty well, but'--here he bites off the end--''twouldn't hardly do, now
would it? You see--'

“'I see,' says Abbie, scratchin' a match; 'but WE'LL never tell. We'll
have it for our secret; won't we, Mr. Parker?'

“So that's how Kenelm took his first tumble from grace. He told me all
about it one day a good while afterward. He smoked three of the cigars
afore he went home, and promised to come to supper the next afternoon.

“'You DO look so comfortable, Mr. Parker,' purrs Abbie, as sweet and
syrupy as a molasses stopper. 'It must be SUCH a comfort to a man to
smoke. I don't care WHAT the minister says, you can smoke here just as
much as you want to! It must be pretty hard to live in a house where you
can't enjoy yourself. I shouldn't think it would seem like home. A man
like you NEEDS a good home. Why, how I do run on!'

“Oh, there ain't really nothin' the matter with the Widow Larkin--so
fur's smartness is concerned, there ain't.

“And for five days more Kenelm ate his meals at Abbie's and smoked and
was happy, happier'n he'd been for months.

“Meantime, Hannah and Etta was visitin' the President--that is to say,
they was lookin' over the White House fence and sayin' 'My stars!' and
'Ain't it elegant!' Nights, when the sightseein' was over, what they did
mostly was to gloat over how mean and jealous they'd make the untraveled
common tribe at sewin' circle feel when they got back home. They could
just see themselves workin' on the log-cabin quilt for the next sale,
and slingin' out little reminders like, 'Land sakes! What we're
talkin' about reminds me of what Etta and me saw when we was in the
Congressional Libr'ry. YOU remember that, Etta?' And that would be
Etta's hint to look cute and giggle and say, 'Well! I should say I DID!'
And all the rest of the circlers would smile kind of unhealthy smiles
and try to look as if trips to Washington wa'n't nothin'; THEY wouldn't
go if you hired 'em to. You know the game if you've ever been to sewin'
circle.

“But all this plannin' was knocked in the head by a letter that Hannah
got on an afternoon about a week after she left home. It was short but
there was meat in it. It said: 'If you want to keep your brother from
marryin' Abbie Larkin you had better come home quick!' 'Twas signed 'A
Friend.'

“Did Hannah come home? Well, didn't she! She landed at Orham the next
night. And she done some thinkin' on the way, too. She kept out of the
way of everybody and went straight up to the house. 'Twas dark and shut
up, but the back door key was under the mat, as usual, so she got in all
right. The plants hadn't been watered for two days, at least; the clock
had stopped; the cat's saucer was licked dry as a contribution box, and
the critter itself was underfoot every second, whoopin' for somethin'
to eat. The whole thing pretty nigh broke Hannah's heart, but she wa'n't
the kind to give up while there was a shot in the locker.

“She went to the closet and found that Kenelm's Sunday hat and coat was
gone. Then she locked the back door again and cut acrost the lots down
to Abbie's. She crept round the back way and peeked under the curtain
at the settin'-room window. There set Abbie, lookin' sweet and sugary.
Likewise, there was Kenelm, lookin' mighty comfortable, with a big
cigar in his mouth and more on the table side of him. Hannah gritted her
teeth, but she kept quiet.

“About ten minutes after that Chris Badger was consider'ble surprised to
hear a knock at the back door of his store and to find that 'twas Hannah
that had knocked.

“'Mr. Badger,' says Hannah, polite and smilin', 'I want to buy a box of
the best cigars you've got.'

“'Ma'am!' says Chris, thinkin' 'twas about time to send for the
constable or the doctor--one or t'other.

“'Yes,' says Hannah; 'if you please. Oh! and, Mr. Badger, please don't
tell anyone I bought 'em. PLEASE don't, to oblige me.'

“So Chris trotted out the cigars--ten cents straight, they was--and said
nothin' to nobody, which is a faculty he has when it pays to have it.

“When Kenelm came home that night he was knocked pretty nigh off his
pins to find his sister waitin' for him. He commenced a long rigmarole
about where he'd been, but Hannah didn't ask no questions. She said that
Washington was mighty fine, but home and Kenelm was good enough for her.
Said the thoughts of him alone had been with her every minute, and she
just HAD to cut the trip short. Kenelm wa'n't any too enthusiastic to
hear it.

“Breakfast next mornin' was a dream. Hannah had been up since five
o'clock gettin' it ready. There was everything on that table that Kenelm
liked 'special. And it all tasted fine, and he ate enough for four. When
'twas over Hannah went to the closet and brought out a bundle.

“'Kenelm,' she says, 'here's somethin' I brought you that'll
surprise you. I've noticed since I've been away that about everybody
smokes--senators and judges, and even Smithsonian Institute folks. And
when I see how much comfort they get out of it, my conscience hurt me
to think that I'd deprived my brother of what he got such a sight of
pleasure from. Kenelm, you can begin smokin' again right off. Here's
a box of cigars I bought on purpose for you; they're the kind the
President smokes.'

“Which wa'n't a bad yarn for a church member that hadn't had any more
practice than Hannah had.

“Well, Kenelm was paralyzed, but he lit up one of the cigars and found
'twas better than Abbie's brand. He asked Hannah what she thought the
church folks would say, but she said she didn't care what they said;
her travels had broadened her mind and she couldn't cramp herself to the
ideas of a little narrow place like East Wellmouth.

“Dinner that day was a bigger meal than breakfast, and two of the cigars
went fine after it. Kenelm hemmed and hawed and fin'lly said that he
wouldn't be home to supper; said he'd got to go downtown and would get a
bite at the Trav'lers' Rest or somewheres. It surprised him to find that
Hannah didn't raise objections, but she didn't, not a one. Just smiled
and said, 'All right,' and told him to have a good time. And Abbie's
supper didn't seem so good to him that night, and her cigars--bein' five
centers--wa'n't in it with that Washington box.

“Hannah didn't have dinner the next day until two o'clock, but 'twas
worth waitin' for. Turkey was twenty-three cents a pound, but she had
one, and plum puddin', too. She kept pressin' Kenelm to have a little
more, so 'twas after three when they got up from the table.

“'Twas a rainy, drizzly afternoon and the stove felt mighty homey and
cozy. So did the big rocker that Hannah transplanted from the parlor to
the settin'-room. That chair had been a kind of sacred throne afore, and
to set in it had been sort of sacrilegious, but there 'twas, and Kenelm
didn't object. And those President cigars certainly filled the bill.

“About half-past five Kenelm got up and looked out of the window. The
rain come spattin' against the pane and the wind whined and sounded
mean. Kenelm went back to the chair again. Then he got up and took
another observation. At last he goes back to the chair, stretches
himself out, puts his feet against the stove, pulls at the cigar, and
says he:

“'I was cal'latin' to go downtown on a bus'ness trip, same's I did last
night. But I guess,' he says--'I guess I won't. It's too comfort'ble
here,' says he.

“And I cal'late,” said Captain Obed, in conclusion, “that afore Hannah
turned in that night she gave herself three cheers. She'd gained a
tack on Abbie Larkin that had put Abbie out of the race, for that time,
anyhow.”

“But who sent the 'friend' letter?” asked Thankful, whose thoughts had
been diverted from her own troubles by hearing those of Miss Parker.

The captain laughed.

“That's a mystery, even yet,” he said. “I'm pretty sure Hannah thinks
'twas Elvira Paine. Elvira lives acrost the road from Abbie Larkin and,
bein' a single woman with mighty little hopes of recovery, naturally
might be expected to enjoy upsettin' anybody else's chance. But, at
any rate, Mrs. Barnes, the whole thing bears out what I said at the
beginnin': takin' other folks' advice about your own affairs is mighty
risky. I hope, if you do go ahead with your boardin'-house plan, it
won't be because I called it a good one.”

Thankful smiled and then sighed. “No,” she said, “if I go ahead with
it it'll be because I've made up my mind to, not on account of anybody
else's advice. I've steered my own course for quite a long spell and I
sha'n't signal for a pilot now. Well, here we are home again--or at East
Wellmouth anyhow.”

“So we be. Better come right to Hannah's along with me, hadn't you? You
must have had enough of the Holt Waldorf-Astory by this time.”

But Thankful insisted upon going to the hotel and there her new
friend--for she had begun to think of him as that--left her. She
informed him of her intention to remain in East Wellmouth for another
day and a half and he announced his intention of seeing her again before
she left.

“Just want to keep an eye on you,” he said. “With all of Mrs. Holt's
temptin' meals set afore you you may get gout or somethin' from
overeatin'. Either that or Winnie S.'ll talk you deef. I feel a kind
of responsibility, bein' as I'm liable to be your next-door neighbor
if that boardin'-house does start up, and I want you to set sail with a
clean bill of health. If you sight a suspicious-lookin' craft, kind
of antique in build, broad in the beam and makin' heavy weather up the
hills--if you sight that kind of craft beatin' down in this direction
tomorrow you'll know it's me. Good day.”

Thankful lay awake for hours that night, thinking, planning and
replanning. More than once she decided that she had been too hasty, that
her scheme involved too great a risk and that, after all, she had better
abandon it. But each time she changed her mind and at last fell asleep
determining not to think any more about it, but to wait until Mr. Cobb
came to accept or decline the mortgage. Then she would make a final
decision.

The next day passed somehow, though it seemed to her as if it never
would, and early the following forenoon came Solomon himself. The man of
business was driving an elderly horse which bore a faint resemblance
to its owner, being small and thin and badly in need of a hairdresser's
services. If the animal had possessed whiskers and could have tugged at
them Thankful was sure it would have done it.

Solomon tugged at his own whiskers almost constantly during that
forenoon. He and Mrs. Barnes visited the “Captain Abner place” and
Solomon inspected every inch of its exterior. For some reason or
other he absolutely refused to go inside. His conversation during the
inspection was, for the most part, sniffs and grunts, and it was not
until it was ended and they stood together at the gate, that he spoke to
the point, and then only because his companion insisted.

“Well!” said Thankful.

Mr. Cobb “weeded.”

“Eh?” he said.

“That's what I say--eh? What are you goin' to do about that mortgage,
Mr. Cobb?”

More weeding. Then: “Waal, I--I don't cal'late to want to be
unreasonable nor nothin', but I ain't real keen about takin' no mortgage
on that property; not myself, I ain't.”

“Well, it is yourself I'm askin' to take it. So you won't, hey? All
right; that's all I wanted to know.”

“Now--now--now, hold on! Hold on! I ain't sayin' I WON'T take it. I--I'd
like to be accommodatin', 'specially to a relation. But--”

“Never mind the relation business. I found out what you think
of relations afore you found out I was one. And I ain't askin'
accommodation. This is just plain business, seems to me. Will you let me
have two thousand dollars on a mortgage on this place?”

Mr. Cobb fidgeted. “I couldn't let you have that much,” he said. “I
couldn't. I--I--” he wrenched the next sentence loose after what seemed
a violent effort, “I might let you have half of it--a thousand, say.”

But Thankful refused to say a thousand. That was ridiculous, she
declared. By degrees, and a hundred at a time, Solomon raised his offer
to fifteen hundred. This being the sum Mrs. Barnes had considered in the
first place--and having asked for the two thousand merely because of her
judgment of human nature--she announced that she would think over the
offer. Then came the question of time. Here Mr. Cobb was firm. Three
years--two years--he would not consider. At last he announced that
he would take a one-year mortgage on the Barnes property for fifteen
hundred dollars; and that was all he would do.

“And I wouldn't do that for nobody else,” he declared. “You bein' my
relation I don't know's it ain't my duty as a perfessin' Christian
to--to help you out. I hadn't ought to afford it, but I'm willin' to go
so far.”

Thankful shook her head. “I'm glad you said, 'PROFESSIN' Christian.'”
 she observed. “Well,” drawing a long breath, “then I suppose I've got
to say yes or no. . . . And I'll say yes,” she added firmly. “And we'll
call it settled.”

They parted before the hotel. She was to return to South Middleboro that
afternoon. Mr. Cobb was to prepare the papers and forward them for her
signature, after which, upon receipt of them duly signed, he would send
her the fifteen hundred dollar check.

Solomon climbed into the buggy. “Well, good-by,” he said. “I hope you'll
do fust-rate. The interest'll be paid regular, of course. I'm real
pleased to meet you--er--Cousin Thankful. Be sure you sign them papers
in the right place. Good-by. Oh--er--er--sometimes I'll be droppin'
in to see you after you get your boardin'-house goin'. I come to East
Wellmouth once in a while. Yes--yes--I'll come and see you. You can tell
me more about Captain Abner, you know. I'd--I'd like to hear what he
said to you about me. Good-by.”

That afternoon, once more in the depot-wagon, which had been refitted
with its fourth wheel, Thankful, on her way to the Wellmouth railway
station, passed her “property.” The old house, its weather-beaten
shingles a cold gray in the half-light of the mist-shrouded, sinking
sun, looked lonely and deserted. A chill wind came from the sea and the
surf at the foot of the bluff moaned and splashed and sighed.

Thankful sighed also.

“What's the matter?” asked Winnie S.

“Oh, nothin' much. I wish I was a prophet, that's all. I'd like to be
able to look ahead a year.”

Winnie S. whistled. “Judas priest!” he said. “So'd I. But if I'd see
myself drivin' this everlastin' rig-out I'd wished I hadn't looked. I
don't know's I'd want to see ahead as fur's that, after all.”

Thankful sighed again. “I don't know as I do, either,” she admitted.




CHAPTER VII


March, so to speak, blew itself out; April came and went; May was here.
And on the seventeenth of May the repairs on the “Cap'n Abner place”
 were completed. The last carpenter had gone, leaving his shavings and
chips behind him. The last painter had spilled his last splash of paint
on the sprouting grass beneath the spotless white window sills. The last
paper-hanger had departed. Winnie S. was loading into what he called a
“truck wagon” the excelsior and bagging in which the final consignment
of new furniture had been wrapped during its journey from Boston. About
the front yard Kenelm Parker was moving, rake in hand. In the kitchen
Imogene, the girl from the Orphans' Home in Boston, who had been engaged
to act as “hired help,” was arranging the new pots and pans on the
closet shelf and singing “Showers of Blessings” cheerfully if not
tunefully.

Yes, the old “Cap'n Abner place” was rejuvenated and transformed and on
the following Monday it would be the “Cap'n Abner place” no longer: it
would then become the “High Cliff House” and open its doors to hoped-for
boarders, either of the “summer” or “all-the-year” variety.

The name had been Emily Howes' choice. She and Mrs. Barnes had carried
on a lengthy and voluminous correspondence and the selection of a name
had been left to Emily. To her also had been intrusted the selection of
wallpapers, furniture and the few pictures which Thankful had felt able
to afford. These were but few, for the cost of repairing and refitting
had been much larger than the original estimate. The fifteen hundred
dollars raised on the mortgage had gone and of the money obtained by the
sale of the cranberry bog shares--Mrs. Pearson's legacy--nearly half had
gone also. Estimates are one thing and actual expenditures are another,
a fact known to everyone who has either built a house or rebuilt one,
and more than once during the repairing and furnishing process Thankful
had repented of her venture and wished she had not risked the plunge.
But, having risked it, backing out was impossible. Neither was it
possible to stop half-way. As she said to Captain Obed, “There's enough
half-way decent boardin'-houses and hotels in this neighborhood now.
There's about as much need of another of that kind as there is of an
icehouse at the North Pole. Either this boardin'-house of mine must be
the very best there can be, price considered, or it mustn't be at all.
That's the way I look at it.”

The captain had, of course, agreed with her. His advice had been
invaluable. He had helped in choosing carpenters and painters and it was
owing to his suggestion that Mrs. Barnes had refrained from engaging an
East Wellmouth young woman to help in the kitchen.

“You could find one, of course,” said the captain. “There's two or three
I could think of right off now who would probably take the job, but two
out of the three wouldn't be much account anyhow, and the only one that
would is Sarah Mullet and she's engaged to a Trumet feller. Now let
alone the prospect of Sarah's gettin' married and leavin' you 'most
any time, there's another reason for not hirin' her. She's the
everlastin'est gossip in Ostable County, and that's sayin' somethin'.
What Sarah don't know about everybody's private affairs she guesses and
she always guesses out loud. Inside of a fortnight she'd have all you
ever done and a whole lot you never thought of doin' advertised from
Race P'int to Sagamore. She's a reg'lar talkin' foghorn, if there was
such a thing--only a foghorn shuts down in clear weather and SHE don't
shut down, day or night. Talks in her sleep, I shouldn't wonder. If I
was you, Mrs. Barnes, I wouldn't bother with any help from 'round here.
I'd hire a girl from Boston, or somewheres; then you could be skipper of
your own ship.”

Thankful, after thinking the matter over, decided that the advice was
good. The difficulty, of course, was in determining the “somewhere” from
which the right sort of servant, one willing to work for a small wage,
might be obtained. At length she wrote to a Miss Coffin, once a nurse in
Middleboro but now matron of an orphans' home in Boston. Miss Coffin's
reply was to the effect that she had, in her institution, a girl who
might in time prove to be just the sort which her friend desired.


Of course [she wrote], she isn't at all a competent servant now, but
she is bright and anxious to learn. And she is a good girl, although
something of a character. Her Christian name is Marguerite, at least
she says it is. What her other name is goodness only knows. She has been
with us now for nearly seven years. Before that she lived with and took
care of a drunken old woman who said she was the girl's aunt, though I
doubt if she was. Suppose I send her to you on trial; you can send her
back to us if she doesn't suit. It would be a real act of charity to
give her a chance, and I think you will like her in spite of her funny
ways.


This doubtful recommendation caused Thankful to shake her head. She had
great confidence in Miss Coffin's judgment, but she was far from certain
that “Marguerite” would suit. However, guarded inquiries in Wellmouth
and Trumet strengthened her conviction that Captain Obed knew what he
was talking about, and, the time approaching when she must have some
sort of servant, she, at last, in desperation wrote her friend to send
“the Marguerite one” along for a month's trial.

The new girl arrived two days later. Winnie S. brought her down in the
depot-wagon, in company with her baggage, a battered old valise and an
ancient umbrella. She clung to each of these articles with a death grip,
evidently fearful that someone might try to steal them. She appeared
to be of an age ranging from late sixteen to early twenty, and had a
turned-up nose and reddish hair drawn smoothly back from her forehead
and fastened with a round comb. Her smile was of the “won't come off”
 variety.

Thankful met her at the back door and ushered her into the kitchen, the
room most free from workmen at the moment.

“How do you do?” said the lady. “I'm real glad to see you. Hope you had
a nice trip down in the cars.”

“Lordy, yes'm!” was the emphatic answer, accompanied by a brilliant
smile. “I never had such a long ride in my life. 'Twas just like bein'
rich. I made believe I WAS rich most all the way, except when a man set
down in the seat alongside of me and wanted to talk. Then I didn't make
believe none, I bet you!”

“A man?” grinned Thankful. “What sort of a man?”

“I don't know. One of the railroad men I guess 'twas; anyhow he was
a fresh young guy, with some sort of uniform hat on. He asked me if I
didn't want him to put my bag up in the rack. He said you couldn't be
too careful of a bag like that. I told him never mind my bag; it was
where it belonged and it stayed shut up, which was more'n you could say
of some folks in this world. I guess he understood; anyhow he beat it.
Lordy!” with another smile. “I knew how to treat HIS kind. Miss Coffin's
told me enough times to look out for strange men. Is this where I'm
goin' to live, ma'am?”

“Why--why, yes; if you're a good girl and try hard to please and to
learn. Now--er--Marguerite--that's your name, isn't it?”

“No, ma'am, my name's Imogene.”

“Imo--which? Why! I thought you was Marguerite. Miss Coffin hasn't sent
another girl, has she?”

“No, ma'am. I'm the one. My name used to be Marguerite, but it's goin'
to be Imogene now. I've wanted to change for a long while, but up there
to the Home they'd got kind of used to Marguerite, so 'twas easier to
let it go at that. I like Imogene lots better; I got it out of a book.”

“But--but you can't change your name like that. Isn't Marguerite your
real name?”

“No'm. Anyhow I guess 'tain't. I got that out of a book, too. Lordy,”
 with a burst of enthusiasm, “I've had more names in my time! My Aunt
Bridget she called me 'Mag' when she didn't make it somethin' worse. And
when I first came to the Home the kids called me 'Fire Alarm,' 'cause my
hair was red. And the cook they had then called me 'Lonesome,' 'cause I
guess I looked that way. And the matron--not Miss Coffin, but the other
one--called me 'Maggie.' I didn't like that, so when Miss Coffin showed
up I told her I was Marguerite. But I'd rather be Imogene now, if you
ain't particular, ma'am.”

“Why--um--well, I don't know's I am; only seems to me I'd settle on one
or t'other and stay put. What's your last name?”

“I ain't decided. Montgomery's a kind of nice name and so's St. John,
or Wolcott--there used to be a Governor Wolcott, you know. I s'pose, now
I'm out workin' for myself, I ought to have a last name. Maybe you can
pick one out for me, ma'am.”

“Humph! Maybe I can. I've helped pick out first names for babies in my
time, but pickin' out a last name for anybody would be somethin' new,
I will give in. But I'll try, if you want me to. And you must try to do
what I want and to please me. Will you promise me that?”

“Lordy, yes'm!”

“Um! Well, you might begin by tryin' not to say 'Lordy' quite so many
times. That would please me, for a start.”

“All right'm. I got in the habit of sayin' it, I guess. When I first
come to the Home I used to say, 'God sakes,' but the matron didn't like
that.”

“Mercy on us! I don't wonder. Well--er--Imogene, now I'll show you the
house and your room and all. I hope you like 'em.”

There was no doubt of the liking. Imogene was delighted with everything.
When she was shown the sunny attic bedroom which was to be hers she
clapped her hands.

“It's elegant, ma'am,” she cried. “Just grand! OH! it's too splendid to
believe and yet there ain't any make-believe in it. Lordy! Excuse me,
ma'am, I forgot. I won't say it again. I'll wait and see what you say
and then I'll say that. And now,” briskly, “I guess you think it's time
I was gettin' to work. All right, I can work if I ain't got no other
accomplishments. I'm all ready to begin.”

As a worker she was a distinct success. There was not a lazy bone in her
energetic body. She was up and stirring each morning at five o'clock
and she evinced an eager willingness to learn that pleased Mrs. Barnes
greatly. Her knowledge of cookery was limited, and deadly, but as
Thankful had planned to do most of the cooking herself, for the
first season at least, this made little difference. Altogether the
proprietress of the High Cliff House was growing more and more sure that
her female “hired help” was destined to prove a treasure.

“I am real glad you like it here so well, Imogene,” she said, at the end
of a fortnight. “I was afraid you might be lonesome, down here so far
from the city.”

Imogene laughed. “Who? Me?” she exclaimed. “I guess not, ma'am. Don't
catch me bein' lonesome while there's folks around I care about. I was
lonesome enough when I first came to the Home and the kids used to
make fun of me. But I ain't lonesome now, with you so kind and nice. No
indeedy! I ain't lonesome and I ain't goin' to be. You watch!”

Captain Obed heartily approved of Imogene. Of Kenelm Parker as
man-of-all-work his approval was much less enthusiastic. He had been
away attending to his fish weirs, when Kenelm was hired, and the bargain
was made before he returned. It was Hannah Parker who had recommended
her brother for the position. She had coaxed and pleaded and, at last,
Thankful had consented to Kenelm's taking the place on trial.

“You'll need a nice, trustworthy man to do chores,” said Hannah. “Now
Kenelm's honest; there ain't a more honest, conscientious man in East
Wellmouth than my brother, if I do say it. Take him in the matter of
that umbrella he lost the night you first came, Mrs. Barnes. Take that,
for instance. He'd left it or lost it somewheres, he knew that, and the
ordinary person would have been satisfied; but not Kenelm. No sir-ee!
He hunted and hunted till he found that umbrella and come fetchin' of it
home. 'Twas a week afore he did that, but when he did I says, 'Well,' I
says, 'you have got more stick-to-it than I thought you had. You--'”

“Where did he find it?” interrupted Thankful.

“Land knows! He didn't seem to know himself--just found it, he said.
He acts so sort of upsot and shameful about that umbrella that he and
I don't talk about it any more. But it did show that he had a sense of
responsibleness, and a good one. Anybody that'll stick to and persecute
a hunt for a lost thing the way he done will stick to a job the same
way. Don't you think so yourself, Mrs. Barnes?”

Thankful was not convinced, but she yielded. When she told Captain Bangs
he laughed and observed: “Yup, well, maybe so. Judgin' by other jobs
Kenelm's had he'll stick to this one same as he does to his bed of
a Sunday mornin'--lay down on it and go to sleep. However, I presume
likely he ought to have the chance. Of course Hannah's idea is plain
enough. Long's he's at work over here, she can keep an eye on him. And
it's a nice, satisfactory distance from the widow Larkin, too.”

So Kenelm came daily to work and did work--some. When he did not he
always had a plausible excuse. As a self-excuser he was a shining light.

Thankful had, during the repairs on the house, waited more or less
anxiously for developments concerning the mystery of the little back
bedroom. Painters and paperhangers had worked in that room as in others,
but no reports of strange sounds, or groans, or voices, had come from
there. During the week preceding the day of formal opening Thankful
herself had spent her nights in that room, but had not heard nor seen
anything unusual. She was now pretty thoroughly convinced that the storm
had been responsible for the groans and that the rest had been due to
her imagination. However, she determined to let that room and the larger
one adjoining last of all; she would take no chances with the lodgers,
she couldn't afford it.

Among the equipment of the High Cliff House or its outbuildings were a
horse, a pig, and a dozen hens and two roosters. Captain Obed bought
the horse at Mrs. Barnes' request, a docile animal of a sedate age. A
second-hand buggy and a second-hand “open wagon” he also bought. The
pig and hens Thankful bought herself in Trumet. She positively would
not consent to the pig's occupying the sty beneath the woodshed and
adjoining the potato cellar, so a new pen was built in the hollow at
the rear of the house. Imogene was tremendously interested in the
live-stock. She begged the privilege of naming each animal and fowl.
Mrs. Barnes had been encouraging the girl to read literature more
substantial than the “Fireside Companion” tales in which she had
hitherto delighted, and had, as a beginning, lent her a volume of United
States history, one of several discarded schoolbooks which Emily Howes
sent at her cousin's request. Imogene was immensely interested in the
history. She had just finished the Revolution and the effect of her
reading was evident when she announced the names she had selected.

The horse, being the most important of all the livestock, she christened
George Washington. The pig was named Patrick Henry. The largest hen
was Martha Washington. “As to them two roosters,” she explained, “I did
think I'd name the big handsome one John Hancock and the littlest one
George Three. They didn't like each other, ma'am, that was plain at the
start, so I thought they'd ought to be on different sides. But the very
first fight they had George pretty near licked the stuffin' out of John,
so I've decided to change the names around. That ought to fix it; don't
you think so, ma'am?”

On the seventeenth the High Cliff House was formally opened. It was
much too early to expect “summer” boarders, but there were three of the
permanent variety who had already engaged rooms. Of these the first was
Caleb Hammond, an elderly widower, and retired cranberry grower, whose
wife had died fifteen years before and who had been “boarding around” in
Wellmouth Centre and Trumet ever since. Caleb was fairly well-to-do and
although he had the reputation of being somewhat “close” in many matters
and “sot” in his ways, he was a respected member of society. He selected
a room on the second floor--not a front room, but one on the side
looking toward the Colfax estate. The room on the other side, across the
hall, was taken by Miss Rebecca Timpson, who had taught the “upstairs”
 classes in the Wellmouth school ever since she was nineteen, a
considerable period of time.

The large front rooms, those overlooking the bluff and the sea, Thankful
had intended reserving for guests from the city, but when Mr. Heman
Daniels expressed a wish to engage and occupy one of them, that on the
left of the hall, she reconsidered and Mr. Daniels obtained his desire.
It was hard to refuse a personage like Mr. Daniels anything. He was not
an elderly man; neither was he, strictly speaking, a young one. His age
was, perhaps, somewhere in the late thirties or early forties and he was
East Wellmouth's leading lawyer, in fact its only one.

Heman was a bachelor and rather good-looking. That his bachelorhood was
a matter of choice and not necessity was a point upon which all of East
Wellmouth agreed. He was a favorite with the ladies, most of them, and,
according to common report, there was a rich widow in Bayport who
would marry him at a minute's notice if he gave the notice. So far,
apparently, he had not given it. He was a “smart” lawyer, everyone said
that, and it is probable that he himself would have been the last to
deny the accusation. He was dignified and suave and gracious, also
persuasive when he chose to be.

He had been boarding with the Holts, but, like the majority of the hotel
lodgers and “mealers,” was very willing to change. The location of the
High Cliff House was, so he informed Thankful, the sole drawback to its
availability as a home for him.

“If a bachelor may be said to have a home, Mrs. Barnes,” he added,
graciously. “However, I am sure even an unfortunate single person like
myself may find a real home under your roof. You see, your reputation
had preceded you, ma'am. Ha, ha! yes. As I say, the location is the only
point which has caused me to hesitate. My--er--offices are on the Main
Road near the postoffice and that is nearly a mile from here. But, we'll
waive that point, ma'am. Six dollars a week for the room and seven for
meals, you say. Thirteen dollars--an unlucky number: Ha, ha! Suppose we
call it twelve and dodge the bad luck, eh? That would seem reasonable,
don't you think?”

Thankful shook her head. “Altogether too reasonable, Mr. Daniels, I'm
afraid,” she replied. “I've cut my rates so close now that I'm afraid
they'll catch cold in bad weather. Thirteen dollars a week may be
unlucky, but twelve would be a sight more unlucky--for me. I can let you
have a side room, of course, and that would be cheaper.”

But Mr. Daniels did not wish a side room; he desired a front room
and, at last, consented to pay the regular rate for it. But when the
arrangement was concluded Thankful could not help feeling that she had
taken advantage of an unworldly innocence.

Captain Obed Bangs, when she told him, reassured her.

“Don't worry, ma'am,” he said. “I wouldn't lay awake nights fearin' I'd
got ahead of Heman Daniels much. If you have got ahead of him you're the
only person I ever see that did, and you ought to be proud instead of
ashamed. And I'd get him to make his offer in writin' and you lock up
the writin'.”

“Why! Why, Captain Obed! How you do talk! You don't mean that Mr.
Daniels is a cheat, do you? You don't mean such a thing as THAT?”

The captain waved a protesting hand.

“No, no,” he declared. “I wouldn't call any lawyer a cheat. That's too
one-sided a deal to be good business. The expense of hirin' counsel is
all on one side if it ever comes to a libel suit. And besides, I don't
think Daniels is a cheat. I never heard of him doin' anything that
wa'n't legally honest. He's sharp and he's smart, but he's straight
enough. I was only jokin', Mrs. Barnes. Sometimes I think I ought to
hang a lantern on my jokes; then folks would see 'em quicker.”

So Mr. Daniels came, and Mr. Hammond came, and so also did Miss Timpson.
The first dinner was served in the big dining-room and it was a success,
everyone said so. Beside the boarders there were invited guests, Captain
Bangs and Hannah Parker, and Kenelm also. It was a disappointment to
Thankful, although she kept the disappointment to herself, the fact
that the captain had not shifted what he called his “moorings” to her
establishment. She had hoped he might; she liked him and she believed
him to be just the sort of boarder she most desired. It may be that he,
too, was disappointed. What he said was:

“You see, ma'am, I've been anchorin' along with Hannah and Kenelm now
for quite a spell. They took me in when 'twas a choice between
messin' at the Holt place or eatin' grass in the back yard like King
Nebuchadnezzar. Hannah don't keep a reg'lar boardin'-house but she does
sort of count on me as one of the family, and I don't feel 'twould be
right to shift--not yet, anyhow. But maybe I can pilot other craft into
High Cliff Harbor, even if I don't call it my own home port.”

That first dinner was a bountiful meal. Miss Parker expressed the
general opinion, although it was expressed in her own way, when she
said:

“My sakes alive, Mrs. Barnes! If THIS is the way you're goin' to feed
your boarders right along then I say it's remarkable. I've been up to
Boston a good many times in my life, and I've been to Washington once,
but in all MY experience at high-toned hotels I never set down to
a better meal. It's a regular Beelzebub's feast, like the one in
Scriptur'--leavin' out the writin' on the wall of course.”

Kenelm ate enough for two and then, announcing that he couldn't heave
away no more time, having work to do, retired to the rear of the barn
where, the rake beside him, he slumbered peacefully for an hour.

“There!” said Thankful to Imogene that night. “We've started anyhow. And
'twas a good start if I do say it.”

“Good!” exclaimed Imogene. “I should say 'twas good! But if them
boarders eat as much every day as they have this one 'twon't be a
start, 'twill be a finish. Lor--I mean mercy on us, ma'am--if this is a
boardin'-house I'd like to know what a palace is. Why a king never had
better grub served to him. Huh! I guess he didn't. Old George Three used
to eat gruel, like a--like a sick orphan at the Home. Oh, he did, ma'am,
honest! I read about it in one of them history books you lent me. He was
a tight-wad old gink, he was. Are you goin' to give these guys as much
every meal, ma'am?”

“I mean to, of course,” declared Mrs. Barnes. “Nobody shall starve at my
table. And please, Imogene, don't call people ginks and guys. That ain't
nice talk for a young woman.”

Imogene apologized and promised to be more careful. But she thought a
great deal and, at the end of the first week, she imparted her thoughts
to Captain Obed.

“Say, Captain Bangs,” she said, “do you know what is the matter with
the name of this place? I tell you what I think is the matter. It hadn't
ought to be the HIGH Cliff House. The CHEAP Cliff House would be a sight
better. Givin' guys--folks, I mean--fifteen-dollar-a-week board for
seven dollars may be mighty nice for them, but it's plaguy poor business
for Mrs. Thankful.”

The captain shook his head; he had been thinking, too, and his
conclusions were much the same.

“You mustn't find fault with Mrs. Barnes, Imogene,” he said. “She's a
mighty fine woman.”

“Fine woman! You bet she is! She's too plaguy fine, that's the trouble
with her. She's so afraid her boarders'll starve that she forgets all
about makin' money. She's the best woman there is in the world, but she
needs a mean partner. Then the two of them might average up all right, I
guess.”

Captain Obed rubbed his chin. “Think she needs a business manager, eh?”
 he observed.

Imogene nodded emphatically. “She needs two of them,” she declared. “One
to manage the place and another to keep that Parker man workin'. He can
eat more and talk more and work less than any guy ever I see. Why, he'd
spend half his time in this kitchen gassin' with me, if I'd let him. But
you bet I don't let him.”

The captain thought more and more during the days that followed. At
length he wrote a letter to Emily Howes at South Middleboro. In it he
expressed his fear that Mrs. Barnes, although in all other respects
perfect, was a too generous “provider” to be a success as a
boarding-house keeper in East Wellmouth.


She'll have boarders enough, you needn't worry about that, [he wrote]
but she'll lose money on every one. I've tried to hint, but she don't
take the hint, and it ain't any of my affair, rightly speaking, so I
can't speak out plain. Can't you write her a sort of warning afore it's
too late? Or better still, can't you come down here and talk to her? I
wish you would. Excuse my nosing in and writing you this way, please.
I'm doing it just because I want to see her win out in the race, that's
all. I wish you'd answer this pretty prompt, if you don't mind.


But the reply he hoped for did not come and he began to fear that he had
made a bad matter worse by writing. Doubtless Miss Howes resented his
“nosing in.”

Thankful now began advertising in the Boston papers. And the answers to
the ads began to arrive. Sometimes men and women from the city came down
to inspect the High Cliff House, preparatory to opening negotiations for
summer quarters. They inspected the house itself, interviewed Thankful,
strolled along the bluff admiring the view, and sampled a meal. Then,
almost without exception, they agreed upon terms and selected rooms.
That the house would be full from top to bottom by the first of July
was now certain. But, as Imogene said to Captain Bangs, “If we lose five
dollars a week on everyone of 'em that ain't nothin' to hurrah about,
seems to me.”

The captain had not piloted any new boarders to the High Cliff. Perhaps
he thought, under the circumstances, this would be a doubtful kindness.
But the time came when he did bring one there. And the happenings
leading to that result were these:

It was a day in the first week in June and Captain Obed, having business
in Wellmouth Centre, had hired George Washington, Mrs. Barnes' horse,
and the buggy and driven there. The business done he left the placid
George moored to a hitching-post by the postoffice and strolled over to
the railway station to watch the noon train come in.

The train was, of course, late, but not very late in this instance, and
the few passengers alighted on the station platform. The captain, seated
on the baggage-truck, noticed one of these passengers in particular. He
was a young fellow, smooth-faced and tall, and as, suitcase in hand, he
swung from the last car and strode up the platform it seemed to Captain
Obed as if there was something oddly familiar in that stride and the
set of his square shoulders. His face, too, seemed familiar. The captain
felt as if he should recognize him--but he did not.

He came swinging on until he was opposite the baggage-truck. Then he
stopped and looked searchingly at the bulky form of the man seated upon
it. He stepped closer and looked again. Then, with a twinkle in his
quiet gray eye, he did a most amazing thing--he began to sing. To
sing--not loudly, of course, but rather under his breath. And this is
what he sang:

     “Said all the little fishes that swim there below:
     'It's the Liverpool packet!  Good Lord, let her go!'”

To the average person this would have sounded like the wildest insanity.
But not to Captain Obed Bangs of East Wellmouth. The captain sprang from
the truck and held out his hand.

“Johnnie Kendrick!” he shouted. “It's Johnnie Kendrick, I do believe!
Well, I swan to man!”

The young man laughed, and, seizing the captain's hand, shook it
heartily.

“I am glad you do,” he said. “If you hadn't swanned to man I should have
been afraid there was more change in Captain Obed Bangs than I cared to
see. Captain Obed, how are you?”

Captain Obed shook his head. “I--I--” he stammered. “Well, I cal'late my
timbers are fairly strong if they can stand a shock like this. Johnnie
Kendrick, of all folks in the world!”

“The very same, Captain.”

“And you knew me right off! Well done for you, John! Why, it's all of
twenty odd year since you used to set on a nail keg in my boathouse
and tease me into singing the Dreadnought chanty. I remember that. Good
land! I ought to remember the only critter on earth that ever ASKED me
to sing. Ho! ho! but you was a little towheaded shaver then; and now
look at you! What are you doin' away down here?”

John Kendrick shook his head. “I don't know that I'm quite sure myself,
Captain,” he said. “I have some suspicions, of course, but they may not
be confirmed. First of all I'm going over to East Wellmouth; so just
excuse me a minute while I speak to the driver of the bus.”

He was hurrying away, but his companion caught his arm.

“Heave to, John!” he ordered. “I've got a horse and a buggy here myself,
such as they are, and unless you're dead sot on bookin' passage in
Winnie S.'s--what did you call it?--bust--I'd be mighty glad to have you
make the trip along with me. No, no. 'Twon't be any trouble. Come on!”

Five minutes later they were seated in the buggy and George Washington
was jogging with dignified deliberation along the road toward East
Wellmouth.

“And why,” demanded Captain Obed, “have you come to Wellmouth again,
after all these years?”

Mr. Kendrick smiled.

“Well, Captain Bangs,” he said, “it is barely possible that I've come
here to stay.”

“To stay! You don't mean to stay for good?”

“Well, that, too, is possible. Being more or less optimistic, we'll hope
that if I do stay it will be for good. I'm thinking of living here.”

His companion turned around on the seat to stare at him.

“Livin' here!” he repeated. “You? What on earth--? What are you goin' to
do?”

The passenger's eyes twinkled, but his tone was solemn enough.

“Nothing, very likely,” he replied. “That's what I've been doing for
some time.”

“But--but, the last I heard of you, you was practicin' law over to New
York.”

“So I was. That, for a young lawyer without funds or influence, is as
near doing nothing as anything I can think of.”

“But--but, John--”

“Just a minute, Captain. The 'buts' are there, plenty of them. Before we
reach them, however, perhaps I'd better tell you the story of my life.
It isn't exciting enough to make you nervous, but it may explain a few
things.”

He told his story. It was not the story of his life, his whole life, by
any means. The captain already knew the first part of that life. He had
known the Kendricks ever since he had known anyone. Every person in
East Wellmouth of middle age or older remembered when the two brothers,
Samuel Kendrick and Bailey Kendrick--Bailey was John's father--lived in
the village and were the “big” men of the community. Bailey was the more
important and respected at that time, for Samuel speculated in stocks
a good deal and there were seasons when he was so near bankruptcy that
gossip declared he could not pass the poorhouse without shivering. If
it had not been for his brother Bailey, so that same gossip affirmed,
he would most assuredly have gone under, but Bailey lent him money and
helped him in many ways. Both brothers were widowers and each had a son;
but Samuel's boy Erastus was fifteen years older than John.

The families moved from Wellmouth when John was six years old. They went
West and there, so it was said, the positions of the brothers changed.
Samuel's luck turned; he made some fortunate stock deals and became
wealthy. Bailey, however, lost all he had in bad mining ventures and
sank almost to poverty. Both had been dead for years now, but Samuel's
son, Erastus--he much preferred to be called E. Holliday Kendrick--was
a man of consequence in New York, a financier, with offices on Broad
Street and a home on Fifth Avenue. John, the East Wellmouth people had
last heard of as having worked his way through college and law school
and as practicing his profession in the big city.

So much Captain Bangs knew. And John Kendrick told him the rest. The
road to success for a young attorney in New York he had found hard and
discouraging. For two years he had trodden it and scarcely earned enough
to keep himself alive. Now he had decided, or practically decided, to
give up the attempt, select some small town or village and try his luck
there. East Wellmouth was the one village he knew and remembered with
liking. So to East Wellmouth he had come, to, as Captain Obed described
it, “take soundin's and size up the fishin' grounds.”

“So there you are, Captain,” he said, in conclusion. “That is why I am
here.”

The captain nodded reflectively.

“Um--yes,” he said. “I see; I see. Well, well; and you're figgerin' on
bein' a lawyer here--in East Wellmouth?”

Mr. Kendrick nodded also. “It may, and probably will be, pretty close
figuring at first,” he admitted, “but at least there will be no more
ciphers in the sum than there were in my Manhattan calculations.
Honestly now, Captain Bangs, tell me--what do you think of the idea?”

The captain seemed rather dubious.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Well, I don't know, John. East Wellmouth ain't a
very big place.”

“I know that. Of course I shouldn't hope to do much in East Wellmouth
alone. But it seemed to me I might do as other country lawyers have
done, have an office--or a desk--in several other towns and be in those
towns on certain days in the week. I think I should like to live in East
Wellmouth, though. It is--not to be sentimental but just truthful--the
one place I remember where I was really happy. And, as I remember too,
there used to be no lawyer there.”

Captain Obed's forehead puckered.

“That's just it, John,” he said. “There is a lawyer here now. Good deal
of a lawyer, too--if you ask HIM. Name's Heman Daniels. You used to know
him as a boy, didn't you?”

Kendrick nodded assent.

“I think I did,” he said. “Yes, I remember him. He was one of the big
boys when I was a little one, and he used to bully us small chaps.”

“That's the feller. He ain't changed his habits so much, neither. But
he's our lawyer and I cal'late he's doin' well.”

“Is he? Well, that's encouraging, at any rate. And he's the only lawyer
you have? Only one lawyer in a whole town. Why in New York I couldn't
throw a cigar stump from my office window without running the risk of
hitting at least two and starting two damage suits.”

The captain chuckled.

“I presume likely you didn't throw many,” he observed. “That would be
expensive fun.”

“It would,” was the prompt reply. “Cigars cost money.”

They jogged on for a few minutes in silence. Then said Captain Obed:

“Well, John, what are you plannin' to do first? After we get into port,
I mean.”

“I scarcely know. Look about, perhaps. Possibly try out a boarding-house
and hunt for a prospective office. By the way, Captain, you don't happen
to know of a good, commodious two by four office that I could hire at a
two by four figure, do you? One not so far from the main street that
I should wear out an extravagant amount of shoe leather walking to and
from it?”

More reflection on the captain's part. Then he said:

“Well, I don't know as I don't. John, I'll tell you: I've got a buildin'
of my own. Right abreast the post-office; Henry Cahoon has been usin'
it for a barber-shop. But Henry's quit, and it's empty. The location's
pretty good and the rent--well, you and me wouldn't pull hair over the
rent question, I guess.”

“Probably not, but I should insist on paying as much as your barber
friend did. This isn't a charity proposition I'm making you, Captain
Bangs. Oh, let me ask this: Has this--er--office of yours got a good
front window?”

“Front window! What in time--? Yes, I guess likely the front window's
all right. But what does a lawyer want of a front window?”

“To look out of. About all a young lawyer does is look out of the
window. Now about a boarding-place?”

Captain Obed had been waiting for this question.

“I've got a boardin'-place for you, John,” he declared. “The office I
may not be so sartin about, but the boardin'-place I am. There ain't a
better one this side of Boston and I know it. And the woman who keeps it
is--well, y

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