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The Rise of Roscoe Paine

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln · English · Gutenberg #3137 · 734,016 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Rise of Roscoe Paine

Author: Joseph Crosby Lincoln


        
Release date: June 3, 2006 [eBook #3137]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2023

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3137

Credits: Donald Lainson; David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RISE OF ROSCOE PAINE ***




THE RISE OF ROSCOE PAINE

By Joseph C. Lincoln




CHAPTER I


“I'm going up to the village,” I told Dorinda, taking my cap from the
hook behind the dining-room door.

“What for?” asked Dorinda, pushing me to one side and reaching for the
dust-cloth, which also was behind the door.

“Oh, just for the walk,” I answered, carelessly.

“Um-hm,” observed Dorinda.

“Um-hm” is, I believe, good Scotch for “Yes.” I have read that it
is, somewhere--in one of Barrie's yarns, I think. I had never been in
Scotland, or much of anywhere else, except the city I was born in, and
my college town, and Boston--and Cape Cod. “Um-hm” meant yes on the
Cape, too, except when Dorinda said it; then it might mean almost
anything. When Mother asked her to lower the window shade in the
bed-room she said “Um-hm” and lowered it. And, five minutes later, when
Lute came in, loaded to the guards with explanations as to why he had
forgotten to clean the fish for dinner, she said it again. And the
Equator and the North Pole are no nearer alike, so far as temperature
is concerned, than those two “Um-hms.” And between them she had others,
expressing all degrees from frigid to semi-torrid.

Her “Um-hm” this time was somewhere along the northern edge of Labrador.

“It's a good morning for a walk,” I said.

“Um-hm,” repeated Dorinda, crossing over to Greenland, so to speak.

I opened the outside door. The warm spring sunshine, pouring in, was a
pleasant contrast and made me forget, for the moment, the glacier at my
back. Come to think of it, “glacier” isn't a good word; glaciers move
slowly and that wasn't Dorinda's way.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Work,” snapped Dorinda, unfurling the dust cloth. “It's a good mornin'
for that, too.”

I went out, turned the corner of the house and found Lute sound asleep
on the wash bench behind the kitchen. His full name was Luther Millard
Filmore Rogers, and he was Dorinda's husband by law, and the burden
which Providence, or hard luck, had ordered her to carry through this
vale of tears. She was a good Methodist and there was no doubt in
her mind that Providence was responsible. When she rose to testify in
prayer-meeting she always mentioned her “cross” and everybody knew that
the cross was Luther. She carried him, but it is no more than fair to
say that she didn't provide him with cushions. She never let him forget
that he was a steerage passenger. However, Lute was well upholstered
with philosophy, of a kind, and, so long as he didn't have to work his
passage, was happy, even if the voyage was a rather rough one.

Just now he was supposed to be raking the back yard, but the rake was
between his knees, his head was tipped back against the shingled wall
of the kitchen, and he was sleeping, with the sunshine illuminating his
open mouth, “for all the world like a lamp in a potato cellar,” as his
wife had said the last time she caught him in this position. She went on
to say that it was a pity he wouldn't stand on his head when he slept.
“Then I could see if your skull was as holler as I believe it is,” she
told him.

Lute heard me as I passed him and woke up. The “potato cellar” closed
with a snap and he seized the rake handles with both hands.

“I was takin' a sort of observation,” he explained hurriedly. “Figgerin'
whether I'd better begin here or over by the barn. Oh, it's you, Roscoe,
is it! Land sakes! I thought first 'twas Dorindy. Where you bound?”

“Up to the village,” I said.

“Ain't goin' to the post-office, be you?”

“I may; I don't know.”

Lute sighed. “I was kind of cal'latin' to go there myself,” he observed,
regretfully. “Thoph Newcomb and Cap'n Jed Dean and the rest of us
was havin' a talk on politics last night up there and 'twas mighty
interestin'. Old Dean had Thoph pretty well out of the race when I
hauled alongside, but when I got into the argument 'twas different.
'What's goin' to become of the laborin' men of this country if you have
free trade?' I says. Dean had to give in that he didn't know. 'Might
have to let their wives support 'em,' he says, pompous as ever. 'That
would be a calamity, wouldn't it, Lute?' That wasn't no answer, of
course. But you can't expect sense of a Democrat. I left him fumin' and
come away. I've thought of a lot more questions to ask him since and
I was hopin' I could get at him this mornin'. But no! Dorindy's sot on
havin' this yard raked, so I s'pose I've got to do it.”

He had dropped the rake, but now he leaned over, picked it up, and rose
from the wash bench.

“I s'pose I've got to do it,” he repeated, “unless,” hopefully, “you
want me to run up to the village and do your errand for you.”

“No; I hadn't any errand.”

“Well, then I s'pose I'd better start in. Unless there was somethin'
else you'd ruther I'd do to-day. If there was I could do this
to-morrer.”

“To-morrow would have one advantage: there would be more to rake then.
However, judging by Dorinda's temper this morning, I think, perhaps, you
had better do it to-day.”

“What's Dorindy doin'?”

“She is dusting the dining-room.”

“I'll bet you! And she dusted it yesterday and the day afore. Do you
know--” Lute sat down again on the bench--“sometimes I get real worried
about her.”

“No! Do you?”

“Yes, I do. I think she works too hard. Seems's if sometimes it had kind
of struck to her brains--work, I mean. She don't think of nothin' else.
Now take the dustin', for instance. Dustin's all right; I believe in
dustin' things. But I don't believe in wearin' 'em out dustin' 'em. That
ain't sense, is it?”

“It doesn't seem like it, that's a fact.”

“You bet it don't! And it ain't good religion, neither. Now take--well,
take this yard, for instance. What is it that I'm slavin' myself over
this fine mornin'? Why, rakin' this yard! And what am I rakin'? Why,
dead leaves from last fall, and straws and sticks and pieces of seaweed
and such that have blowed in durin' the winter. And what blowed 'em in?
Why, the wind, sartin! And whose wind was it? The Almighty's, that's
whose! Now then! if the Almighty didn't intend to have dead leaves
around why did he put trees for 'em to fall off of? If he didn't want
straws and seaweed and truck around why did He send them everlastin'
no'theasters last November? Did that idea ever strike you?”

“I don't know that it ever did, exactly in that way.”

“No. Well, that's 'cause you ain't reasoned it out, same as I have.
You've got the same trouble that most folks have, you don't reason
things out. Now, let's look at it straight in the face.” Lute let go of
the rake altogether and used both hands to illustrate his point. “That
finger there, we'll say, is me, rakin' and rakin' hard as ever I can.
And that fist there is the Almighty, not meanin' anything irreverent.
I rake, same as I'm doin' this mornin'. The yard's all cleaned up.
Then--zing!” Lute's clenched fist swept across and knocked the
offending finger out of the way. “Zing! here comes one of the Almighty's
no'theasters, same as we're likely to have to-morrer, and the consarned
yard is just as dirty as ever. Ain't that so?”

I looked at the yard. “It seems to be about as it was,” I agreed, with
some sarcasm. Lute was an immune, so far as sarcasm was concerned.

“Yup,” he said, triumphantly. “Now, Dorindy, she's a good, pious woman.
She believes the Powers above order everything. If that's so, then ain't
it sacrilegious to be all the time flyin' in the face of them Powers by
rakin' and rakin' and dustin' and dustin'? That's the question.”

“But, according to that reasoning,” I observed, “we should neither rake
nor dust. Wouldn't that make our surroundings rather uncomfortable,
after a while?”

“Sartin. But when they got uncomfortable then we could turn to and make
'em comfortable again. I ain't arguin' against work--needful work, you
understand. I like it. And I ain't thinkin' of myself, you know, but
about Dorindy. It worries me to see her wearin' herself out with--with
dustin' and such. It ain't sense and 'tain't good religion. She's my
wife and it's my duty to think for her and look out for her.”

He paused and reached into his overalls pocket for a pipe. Finding it,
he reached into another pocket for the wherewithal to fill it.

“Have you suggested to her that she's flying in the face of Providence?”
 I asked.

Lute shook his head. “No,” he admitted, “I ain't. Got any tobacco about
you? Dorindy hove my plug away yesterday. I left it back of the clock
and she found it and was mad--dustin' again, of course.”

He took the pouch I handed him, filled his pipe and absently put the
pouch in his pocket.

“Got a match?” he asked. “Thanks. No, I ain't spoke to her about it,
though it's been on my mind for a long spell. I didn't know but you
might say somethin' to her along that line, Roscoe. 'Twouldn't sound so
personal, comin' from you. What do you think?”

I shook my head. “Dorinda wouldn't pay much attention to my ideas on
such subjects, I'm afraid,” I answered. “She knows I'm not a regular
church-goer.”

Lute was plainly disappointed. “Well,” he said, with a sigh, “maybe
you're right. She does cal'late you're kind of heathen, though she hopes
you'll see the light some day. But, just the same,” he added, “it's a
good argument. I tried it on the gang up to the post-office last night.
I says to 'em, says I, 'Work's all right. I believe in it. I'm a workin'
man, myself. But to work when you don't have to is wrong. Take Ros
Paine,' I says--”

“Why should you take me?” I interrupted, rather sharply.

“'Cause you're the best example I could think of. Everybody knows you
don't do no work. Shootin' and sailin' and fishin' ain't work, and
that's about all you do. 'Take Ros,' says I. 'He might be to work. He
was in a bank up to the city once and he knows the bankin' trade. He
might be at it now, but what would be the use?' I says. 'He's got enough
to live on and he lives on it, 'stead of keepin' some poor feller out of
a job.' That's right, too, ain't it?”

I didn't answer at once. There was no reason why I should be irritated
because Luther Rogers had held me up as a shining example of the
do-nothing class to the crowd of hangers-on in a country post-office.
What did I care for Denboro opinion? Six years in that gossipy village
had made me, so I thought, capable of rising above such things.

“Well,” I asked after a moment, “what did they say to that?”

“Oh, nothin' much. They couldn't; I had 'em, you see. Some of 'em
laughed and old Cap'n Jed he hove out somethin' about birds of a feather
stickin' up for each other. No sense to it. But, as I said afore, what
can you expect of a Democrat?”

I turned on my heel and moved toward the back gate. “Ain't goin', be
you?” asked Lute. “Hadn't you better set down and rest your breakfast a
spell?”

“No, I'm going. By the way, if you're through with that tobacco pouch of
mine, I'll take it off your hands. I may want to smoke by and by.”

Lute coolly explained that he had forgotten the pouch; it had “gone
clean out of his head.” However, he handed it over and I left him seated
on the wash bench, with his head tipped back against the shingles. I
opened the gate and strolled slowly along the path by the edge of the
bluff. I had gone perhaps a hundred yards when I heard a shrill voice
behind me. Turning, I saw Dorinda standing by the corner of the kitchen,
dust cloth in hand. Her husband was raking for dear life.

I walked on. The morning was a beautiful one. Beside the path, on the
landward side, the bayberry and beach-plum bushes were in bud, the green
of the new grass was showing above the dead brown of the old, a bluebird
was swaying on the stump of a wild cherry tree, and the pines and scrub
oaks of the grove by the Shore Lane were bright, vivid splashes of color
against the blue of the sky. At my right hand the yellow sand of the
bluff broke sharply down to the white beach and the waters of the
bay, now beginning to ebb. Across the bay the lighthouse at Crow Point
glistened with new paint and I could see a moving black speck, which I
knew was Ben Small, the keeper, busy whitewashing the fence beside
it. Down on the beach Zeb Kendrick was overhauling his dory. In the
distance, beyond the grove, I could hear the carpenters' hammers on the
roof of the big Atwater mansion, which was now the property of James
Colton, the New York millionaire, whose rumored coming to Denboro to
live had filled the columns of the country weekly for three months. The
quahaug boats were anchored just inside the Point; a clam digger was
wading along the outer edge of the sedge; a lobsterman was hauling his
pots in the channel; even the bluebird on the wild cherry stump had
a straw in his beak and was plainly in the midst of nest building.
Everyone had something to do and was doing it--everyone except Lute
Rogers and myself, the “birds of a feather.” And even Lute was working
now, under compulsion.

Ordinarily the sight of all this industry would not have affected me. I
had seen it all before, or something like it. The six years I had spent
in Denboro, the six everlasting, idle, monotonous years, had had their
effect. I had grown hardened and had come to accept my fate, at first
rebelliously, then with more of Lute's peculiar kind of philosophy.
Circumstances had doomed me to be a good-for-nothing, a gentleman loafer
without the usual excuse--money--and, as it was my doom, I forced myself
to accept it, if not with pleasure, at least with resignation. And I
determined to get whatever pleasure there might be in it. So, when I saw
the majority of the human race, each with a purpose in life, struggling
to attain that purpose, I passed them by with my gun or fishing rod
on my shoulder, and a smile on my lips. If my remnant of a conscience
presumed to rise and reprove me, I stamped it down. It had no reasonable
excuse for rising; I wasn't what I was from choice.

But, somehow, on this particular morning, my unreasonable conscience was
again alive and kicking. Perhaps it was the quickening influence of the
spring which resurrected it; perhaps Luther's quotation from the remarks
of Captain Jedediah Dean had stirred it to rebellion. A man may know, in
his heart, that he is no good and still resent having others say that he
is, particularly when they say that he and Luther Rogers are birds of a
feather. I didn't care for Dean's good opinion; of course I didn't! Nor
for that of any one else in Denboro, my mother excepted. But Dean and
the rest should keep their opinions to themselves, confound them!

The path from our house--the latter every Denboro native spoke of as
the “Paine Place”--wound along the edge of the bluff for perhaps three
hundred yards, then turned sharply through the grove of scrub oaks and
pitch pines and emerged on the Shore Lane. The Shore Lane was not a
public road, in the strictest sense of the term. It was really a part of
my land and, leading, as it did, from the Lower Road to the beach, was
used as a public road merely because mother and I permitted it to be. It
had been so used, by sufferance of the former owner, for years, and when
we came into possession of the property we did not interfere with the
custom. Land along the shore was worth precious little at that time and,
besides, it was pleasant, rather than disagreeable, to hear the fish
carts going out to the weirs, and the wagons coming to the beach for
seaweed, or, filled with picnic parties, rattling down the Lane. We
could not see them from the house until they had passed the grove and
emerged upon the beach, but even the noise of them was welcome. The
Paine Place was a good half-mile from the Lower Road and there were few
neighbors; therefore, especially in the winter months, any sounds of
society were comforting.

I strode through the grove, kicking the dead branches out of my way, for
my mind was still busy with Luther and Captain Dean. As I came out into
the Lane I looked across at the Atwater mansion, now the property of the
great and only Colton, “Big Jim” Colton, whose deals and corners in Wall
Street supplied so many and such varied sensations for the financial
pages of the city papers, just as those of his wife and family supplied
news for the society columns; I looked across, I say, and then I stopped
short to take a longer look.

I could see the carpenters, whose hammers I had heard, at work upon the
roof of the barn, now destined to do double duty as a stable and garage.
They, and the painters and plumbers, had been busy on the premises for
months. The establishment had been a big one, even when Major Atwater
owned it, but the new owners had torn down and added and rebuilt until
the house loomed up like a palace or a Newport villa. A Newport villa
in Denboro! Why on earth any one should deliberately choose Denboro as a
place to live in I couldn't understand; but why a millionaire, with
all creation to select from, should build a Newport villa on the bluff
overlooking Denboro Bay was beyond comprehension. The reason given in
the Cape Cod Item was that Mrs. Colton was “in debilitated health,”
 whatever that is, and had been commanded by her doctors to seek sea air
and seclusion and rest. Well, there was sea air and rest, not to mention
seclusion or sand and mosquitoes, for a square mile about the new villa,
and no one knew that better than I, condemned to live within the
square. But if Mrs. Colton had deliberately chosen the spot, with malice
aforethought, the place for her was a home for the feeble minded. At
least, that was my opinion on that particular morning.

It was not the carpenters who caused me to pause in my walk and look
across the lane and over the stone wall at my new neighbor's residence.
What caught my attention was that the place looked to be inhabited. The
windows were open--fifty or so of them--smoke was issuing from one of
the six chimneys; a maid in a white cap and apron was standing by the
servants' entrance. Yes, and a tall, bulky man with a yachting cap
on the back of his head and a cigar in his mouth was talking with Asa
Peters, the boss carpenter, by the big door of the barn.

I had not been up to the village for two days, having been employed at
our boat-house on the beach below the house, getting my motor dory
into commission for the summer. But now I remembered that Lute had said
something about the Coltons being expected, or having arrived, and that
he seemed much excited over it. He would have said more, but Dorinda had
pounced on him and sent him out to shut up the chickens, which gave
him the excuse to play truant and take his evening's trip to the
post-office. It was plain that the Coltons HAD arrived. Very likely the
stout man with the yachting cap was the mighty “Big Jim” himself. Well,
I didn't envy him in his present situation. He had my pity, if anything.

Possibly the fact that I could pity some one other than myself helped
to raise my spirits. At any rate I managed to shake off a little of my
gloom and tramped on up the Lane, feeling more like a human being and
less like a yellow dog. Less as I should imagine a yellow dog ought
to feel, I mean, for, as a matter of fact, most yellow dogs of my
acquaintance seem to be as happy as their brown or white or black
relatives. I walked up the Lane, turned into the Lower Road, and headed
for the village. The day was a gorgeous one, the air bracing as a tonic,
and my thirtieth birthday was not yet so far astern as to be lost in
the fog. After all, there were some consolations in being alive and in a
state of health not “debilitated.” I began to whistle.

A quarter of a mile from the junction of the Shore Lane, on the Lower
Road, was a willow-shaded spot, where the brook which irrigated Elnathan
Mullet's cranberry swamp ran under a small wooden bridge. It was there
that I first heard the horn and, turning, saw the automobile coming from
behind me. It was approaching at a speed of, I should say, thirty miles
an hour, and I jumped to the rail of the bridge to let it pass. Autos
were not as common on the Cape then as they have become since. Now the
average pedestrian of common-sense jumps first and looks afterwards.

However, I jumped in time, and stood still to watch the car as it went
by. But it did not go by--not then. Its speed slackened as it
approached and it came to a halt on the bridge beside me. A big car;
an aristocratic car; a machine of pomp and price and polish, such as
Denboro saw but seldom. It contained three persons--a capped and goggled
chauffeur on the front seat, and a young fellow and a girl in the
tonneau. They attracted my attention in just that order--first the
chauffeur, then the young fellow, and, last of all, the girl.

It was the chauffeur who hailed me. He leaned across the upholstery
beside him and, still holding the wheel, said:

“Say, Bill, what's the quickest way to get to Bayport?”

Now my name doesn't happen to be Bill and just then I objected to the
re-christening. At another time I might have appreciated the joke and
given him the information without comment. But this morning I didn't
feel like joking. My dissatisfaction with the world in general included
automobilists who made common folks get out of their way, and I was
resentful.

“I should say that you had picked about as quick a way as any,” I
answered.

The chauffeur didn't seem to grasp the true inwardness of this brilliant
bit.

“Aw, what--” he stammered. “Say, what--look here, I asked you--”

Then the young man in the tonneau took charge of the conversation. He
was a very young man, with blond hair and a silky mustache, and his
clothes fitted him as clothes have no right to fit--on Cape Cod.

“That'll do, Oscar,” he ordered. Then, turning to me, he said:

“See here, my man, we want to go to Bayport.”

I was not his man, and wouldn't have been for something. The chauffeur
had irritated me, but he irritated me more. I didn't like him, his
looks, his clothes, and, particularly, his manner. Therefore, because
I didn't feel like answering, I showed my independence by remaining
silent.

“What's the matter?” he demanded, impatiently. “Are you deaf? I say we
want to go to Bayport.”

A newspaper joke which I had recently read came to my mind. “Very well,”
 I said, “you have my permission.”

It was a rude thing to say, and not even original. I don't attempt to
excuse it. In fact, I was sorry as soon as I had said it. It had its
effect. The young man turned red. Then he laughed aloud.

“Well, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “What have we here? A humorist, I do
believe! Mabel, we've discovered a genuine, rural humorist. Another
David Harum, by Jove! Look at him!”

The girl in the tonneau swept aside her veil and looked, as directed.
And I looked at her. The face that I saw was sweet and refined and
delicate, a beautiful young face, the face of a lady, born and bred. All
this I saw and realized at a glance; but what I was most conscious of at
the time was the look in the dark eyes as they surveyed me from head
to foot. Indifference was there, and contemptuous amusement; she
didn't even condescend to smile, much less speak. Under that look my
self-importance shrank until the yellow dog with which I had compared
myself loomed as large as an elephant. She might have looked that way at
some curious and rather ridiculous bug, just before calling a servant to
step on it.

The young man laughed again. “Isn't it a wonder, Mabel?” he asked. “The
native wit on his native heath! Reuben--pardon me, your name is Reuben,
isn't it?--now that you've had your little joke, would you condescend to
tell us the road which we should take to reach Bayport in the shortest
time? Would you oblige us to that extent?”

The young lady smiled at this. “Victor,” she said, “how idiotic you
are!”

I agreed with her. Idiot was one of the terms, the mildest, which I
should have applied to that young man. I wanted very much to remove him
from that car by what Lute would call the scruff of the neck. But most
of all, just then, I wanted to be alone, to see the last of the auto and
its occupants.

“First turn to the right, second to the left,” I said, sullenly.

“Thank you, Reuben,” vouchsafed the young man. “Here's hoping that your
vegetables are fresher than your jokes. Go ahead, Oscar.”

The chauffeur threw in the clutch and the car buzzed up the road,
turning the corner at full speed. There was a loose board projecting
from the bridge just under my feet. As a member--though an inactive
one--of the Village Improvement Society I should have trodden it back
into place. I didn't; I kicked it into the brook.

Then I walked on. But the remainder of my march was a silent one,
without music. I did not whistle.



CHAPTER II


The post-office was at Eldredge's store, and Eldredge's store, situated
at the corners, where the Main Road and the Depot Road--which is also
the direct road to South Denboro--join, was the mercantile and social
center of Denboro. Simeon Eldredge kept the store, and Simeon was also
postmaster, as well as the town constable, undertaker, and auctioneer.
If you wanted a spool of thread, a coffin, or the latest bit of gossip,
you applied at Eldredge's. The gossip you could be morally certain of
getting at once; the thread or the coffin you might have to wait for.

I scarcely know why I went to Eldredge's that morning. I did not
expect mail, and I did not require Simeon's services in any one of his
professional capacities. Possibly Lute's suggestion had some sort of
psychic effect and I stopped at the post-office involuntarily. At any
rate, I woke from the trance in which the encounter with the automobile
had left me to find myself walking in at the door.

The mail was not yet due, to say nothing of having arrived or been
sorted, but there was a fair-sized crowd on the settees and perched on
the edge of the counter. Ezra Mullet was there, and Alonzo Black and
Alvin Baker and Thoph Newcomb. Beriah Doane and Sam Cahoon, who lived
in South Denboro, were there, too, having driven over behind Beriah's
horse, on an errand; that is, Beriah had an errand and Sam came along to
help him remember it. In the rear of the store, by the frame of letter
boxes, Captain Jedediah Dean was talking with Simeon.

Alvin Baker saw me first and hailed me as I entered.

“Here's Ros Paine,” he exclaimed. “He'll know more about it than anybody
else. Hey, Ros, how many hired help does he keep, anyhow? Thoph says
it's eight, but I know I counted more'n that, myself.”

“It's eight, I tell you,” broke in Newcomb, before I could answer.
“There's the two cooks and the boy that waits on 'em--”

“The idea of having anybody wait on a cook!” interrupted Mullet. “That's
blame foolishness.”

“I never said he waited on the cooks. I said he waited on them--on the
family. And there's a coachman--”

“Why do they call them kind of fellers coachmen?” put in Thoph. “There
ain't any coach. I see the carriages when they come--two freight cars
full of 'em. There was a open two-seater, and a buckboard, and that
high-wheeled thing they called a dog-cart.”

Beriah Doane laughed uproariously. “Land of love!” he shouted. “Does the
dog have a cart all to himself? That's a good one! You and me ain't got
no dog, Sam, but we might have a couple of cat-carts, hey? Haw! haw!”

Thoph paid no attention to this pleasantry. “There was the dog-cart,” he
repeated, “and another thing they called the 'trap.' But there wan't any
coach; I'll swear to it.”

“Don't make no difference,” declared Alvin; “there was a man along that
SAID he was the coachman, anyhow. And a big minister-lookin' feller
who was a butler, and two hired girls besides the cooks. That's nine,
anyhow. One more'n you said, Thoph.”

“And that don't count the chauffeur, the chap that runs the
automobiles,” said Alonzo Black. “He's the tenth. Say, Ros,” turning to
me, “how many is there, altogether?”

“How many what?” I asked. It was my first opportunity to speak.

“Why, hired help--servants, you know. How many does Mr. Colton keep?”

“I don't know how many he keeps,” I said. “Why should I?”

The group looked at me in amazement. Thoph Newcomb voiced the general
astonishment.

“Why should you!” he repeated. “Why shouldn't you, you mean! You're
livin' right next door to 'em, as you might say! My soul! If I was you I
cal'late I'd know afore this time.”

“No doubt you would, Thoph. But I don't. I didn't know the Coltons had
arrived until I came by just now. They have arrived, I take it.”

Arrived! There was no question of the arrival, nor of its being
witnessed by everyone present, myself and the South Denboro delegates
excepted. Newcomb and Baker and Mullet and Black began talking all
together. I learned that the Colton invasion of Denboro was a spectacle
only equaled by the yearly coming of the circus to Hyannis, or the
opening of the cattle show at Ostable. The carriages and horses had
arrived by freight the morning before; the servants and the family on
the afternoon train.

“I see 'em myself,” affirmed Alonzo. “I was as nigh to 'em as I be to
you. Mrs. Colton is sort of fleshy, but as handsome a woman as you'd
want to see. I spoke to her, too. 'It's a nice day,' I says, 'ain't
it?'”

“What did she say?” asked Newcomb.

“She didn't say nothin'. Engine was makin' such a noise she didn't hear,
I presume likely.”

“Humph!” sniffed Baker, evidently envious; “I guess she heard you, all
right. Fellers like you make me tired. Grabbin' every chance to curry
favor with rich folks! Wonder you didn't tell her you drove a fish-cart
and wanted her trade! As for me, I'm independent. Don't make no
difference to me how well-off a person is. They're human, just the same
as I am, and _I_ don't toady to 'em. If they want to talk they can send
for me. I'll wait till they do.”

“Hope you've got lots of patience, Alvin,” observed Mullet drily.
During the hilarity which followed, and while the offended apostle of
independence was trying to think of a sufficiently cutting reply, I
walked to the rear of the store.

Our letter box was Number 218, in the center of the rack, and, as I
approached, I glanced at it involuntarily. To my surprise there was a
letter in it; I could see it through the glass of the box door. Lute
had, as I knew, got the mail the previous evening and the morning's mail
had not yet arrived. Therefore this letter must have been written by
some one in Denboro and posted late the night before or early that
morning. It was not the custom for Denboro residents to communicate with
each other through the medium of the post. They preferred to save the
two cents stamp money, as a general thing. Bills sometimes came by mail,
but this was the tenth, not the first, of the month; and, besides, our
bills were paid.

I reached into my pocket for my keys, unlocked the box and took out the
letter. The envelope was square, of an expensive quality, and eminently
aristocratic. It was postmarked Denboro, dated that morning, and
addressed in a sharp, clear masculine hand unfamiliar to me, to “Roscoe
Paine, Esq.” The “Esq.” would have settled it, if the handwriting had
not. No fellow-townsman of my acquaintance would address me, or any
one else, as Esquire. Misters and Captains were common enough, but
Esquires--no.

It was a Denboro custom, when one received a mysterious letter, to get
the fullest enjoyment out of the mystery before solving it. I had known
Dorinda Rogers to guess, surmise and speculate for ten minutes before
opening a patent medicine circular. But, though mysteries were uncommon
enough in my life, I think I should have reached the solution of
this one in the next second--in fact, I had torn the end from the
envelope--when I was interrupted.

It was Captain Dean who interrupted me. He had evidently concluded his
conversation with the postmaster and now was bearing down majestically
upon me, like a ten thousand ton steamer on a porgie schooner.

“Hey, you--Ros!” he roared. He was at my elbow, but he roared just the
same. Skipper of a coaster in his early days, he had never outgrown the
habit of pitching his voice to carry above a fifty-mile gale. “Hey, Ros.
See here; I want to talk to you.”

I did not want to talk with any one, particularly with him. He was the
individual who, according to Lute, had bracketed Mr. Rogers and myself
as birds of a feather, the remark which was primarily responsible for my
ill humor of the morning. If he had not said that, and if Lute had not
quoted the saying to me, I might have behaved less like a fool when that
automobile overtook me, I might not have given that young idiot, whose
Christian name it seemed was Victor, the opportunity to be smart at my
expense. That girl with the dark eyes might not have looked at me as if
I were a worm or a June bug. Confound her! what right had she to look at
me like that? Victor, or whatever his name was, was a cub and a cad and
as fresh as the new paint on Ben Small's lighthouse, but he had deigned
to speak. Whereas that girl--!

No, I did not want to talk with Jedediah Dean. However, he wanted to
talk to me, and what he wanted he usually got.

Captain Dean was one of Denboro's leading citizens. His parents had been
as poor as Job's turkey, but Jedediah had determined to get money and
now he had it. He was reputed to be worth “upwards of thirty thousand,”
 owned acres and acres of cranberry swamps, and the new house he had just
built was almost as big as it was ugly, which is saying considerable. He
had wanted to be a deacon in the church and, though the church was by no
means so eager, deacon he became. He was an uncompromising Democrat, but
he had forced himself into the Board of Selectmen, every other member
a Republican. He was director in the Denboro bank, and it was town talk
that his most ardent desire at the present time was to see his daughter
Helen--Nellie, we all called her--married to George Taylor, cashier of
that bank. As George and Nellie were “keeping company” it seemed likely
that Captain Jed would be gratified in this, as in all other desires.
He was a born boss, and did his best to run the town according to his
ideas. Captain Elisha Warren, who lived over in South Denboro and was
also a director in the bank, covered the situation when he said: “Jed
Dean is one of those fellers who ought to have a big family to order
around. The Almighty gave him only one child and so he adopted Denboro
and is bossin' that.”

“I want to talk to you, Ros,” repeated Captain Jed. “Come here.”

He led the way to the settee by the calico and dress goods counter. I
put the unread letter in my pocket and followed him.

“Set down,” he ordered. “Come to anchor alongside.”

I came to anchor.

“How's your mother?” he asked. “Matilda was cal'latin' to go down and
set with her a spell this afternoon, if she didn't have anything else to
do--if Matilda didn't, I mean.”

Matilda was his wife. In her husband's company she was as dumb as a
broken phonograph; when he was not with her she talked continuously,
as if to get even. A call from Matilda Dean was one of the additional
trials which made Mother's invalid state harder to bear.

“Course she may not come,” Jedediah hastened to say. “She's pretty busy
these days. But if she don't have anything else to do she will. I told
her she'd better.”

“Mother will be charmed,” I said. Captain Jed was no fool and he looked
at me sharply.

“Um; yes,” he grunted. “I presume likely. You're charmed, too, ain't
you?”

I was not expecting this. I murmured something to the effect that I was
delighted, of course.

“Sartin. Well, that's all right. I didn't get you on this settee to
charm you. I want to talk business with you a minute.”

“Business! With me?”

“Yup. Or it may be business later on. I've been thinkin' about that
Shore Lane, the one that runs through your land. Us town folks use that
a whole lot. I cal'late most everybody's come to look at it as a reg'lar
public road to the beach.”

“Why, yes, I suppose they have,” I said, puzzled to know what he was
driving at. “It is a public road, practically.”

“No, 'tain't, neither. It's a private way, and if you wanted to you
could shut it off any day. A good many folks would have shut it off
afore this.”

“Oh, I guess not.”

“I guess yes. I'd shut it off myself. I wouldn't have Tom, Dick and
Harry drivin' fish wagons and tip carts full of seaweed through my
premises free gratis for nothin'.”

“Why?” I asked. “What harm does it do?”

“I don't know as it does any. But because a tramp sleepin' on my front
piazza might not harm the piazza, that's no reason why I'd let him sleep
there.”

I laughed. “The two cases aren't exactly alike, are they?” I said. “The
land is of no value to us at present. Mother and I are glad to have the
Lane used, if it is a convenience, as I suppose it is.”

“It's that, sartin. Ros, who owns that land the Lane runs through--you
or your mother?”

“It is in my name,” I said.

“Um-hm. Well, would you sell it?”

“Sell it! Sell that strip of sand and beach grass! Who would buy it?”

“I don't know as anybody would. I just asked if you'd sell it, that's
all.”

“Perhaps I would. I presume I should, if I had the chance.”

“Ain't had any chance yet, have you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothin', nothin'! Well, you just think it over. If you decide you
would sell it and get so fur as fixin' a price on it, let me know, will
you?”

“Captain, what in the world do you want of that land? See here! you
don't want to shut off the Shore Lane, do you?”

“What in time would I want to shut it off for? I use it as much as
anybody, don't I?”

“Then I don't see--”

“Maybe there ain't nothin' TO see. Only, if you decide to sell, let me
know. Yes, and don't sell WITHOUT lettin' me know. Understand?”

“No, I don't.”

“Well, you understand enough, I cal'late. All I want you to do is to
promise not to sell that land the Lane's on without speakin' to me fust.
Will you promise that?”

I considered for a moment. “Yes,” I said, “I'll promise that. Though I
can't imagine what you're driving at.”

“You don't need to. Maybe I'm just drivin' blind; I hope I am. That's
all I wanted to talk about,” rising from the settee. “Oh, by the way,”
 he added, “your neighborhood's honored just now, ain't it? The King of
New York's arrived, they tell me.”

“King of New York? Oh! I see; you mean the Coltons.”

“Sartin. Who else? Met his Majesty yet?”

“No. Have you?”

“I met him when he was down a month ago. Sim Eldredge introduced me
right here in the store. 'Mr. Colton,' says Sim, proud but humble, so
to speak, 'let me make you acquainted with one of our selectmen, Cap'n
Dean. Cap'n, shake hands with Mr. Colton of New York.' We shook, and I
cal'late I'd ought to have kept that hand in a glass case ever since.
But, somehow or other, I ain't.”

“What sort of a chap is Colton?” I asked.

“Oh, all right of his kind, I guess. In amongst a gang of high financers
like himself he'd size up as a pretty good sport, I shouldn't wonder.
And he was polite enough to me, I suppose. But, darn him, I didn't like
the way he looked at me! He looked as if--as if--well, I can't tell you
how he looked.”

“You don't need to,” I said, brusquely. “I know.”

“You do, hey? He ain't looked at you, has he? No, course he ain't! You
said you hadn't met him.”

“I've met others of his kind.”

“Yes. Well, I'm a hayseed and I know it. I'm just a countryman and he's
a millionaire. He'll be the big show in this town from now on. When he
blows his nose seven-eighths of this community 'll start in workin' up a
cold in the head.”

He turned on his heel and started to go.

“Will you?” I asked, slily.

He looked back over his shoulder. “I ain't subject to colds--much,” he
snapped. “But YOU better lay in a supply of handkerchiefs, Ros.”

I smiled. I knew what was troubling him. A little tin god has a pleasant
time of it, no doubt, until the coming of the eighteen carat gold idol.
Captain Jed had been boss of Denboro--self-appointed to that eminent
position, but holding it nevertheless--and to be pushed from his
perch by a city rival was disagreeable. If I knew him he would not be
dethroned without a fight. There were likely to be some interesting and
lively times in our village.

I could understand Dean's dislike of Colton, but his interest in the
Shore Lane was a mystery. Why should he wish to buy that worthless strip
of land? And what did he mean by asking if I had chances to sell it?
Still pondering over this puzzle, I walked toward the front of the
store, past the group waiting for the mail, where the discussion
concerning the Coltons was still going on, Thoph Newcomb and Alvin Baker
both talking at once.

“You ask Ros,” shouted Alvin, pounding the counter beside him. “Say,
Ros, Newcomb here seems to think that because a feller comes from the
city and is rich that that gives him the right to order the rest of us
around as if we was fo'mast hands. He says--”

“I don't neither!” yelled Thoph. “What I say is that money counts,
and--”

“You do, too! Ros, do YOU intend to get down on your knees to them
Coltons?”

I laughed and went on without replying. I left the store and strolled
across the road to the bank, intending to make a short call on George
Taylor, the cashier, my most intimate acquaintance and the one person in
Denboro who came nearest to being my friend.

But George was busy in the directors' room, and, after waiting a few
moments in conversation with Henry Small, the bookkeeper, I gave it up
and walked home, across the fields this time; I had no desire to meet
more automobilists.

Dorinda had finished dusting the dining room and was busy upstairs.
I could hear the swish-swish of her broom overhead. I opened the door
leading to Mother's bedroom and entered, closing the door behind me.

The curtains were drawn, as they always were on sunny days, and the room
was in deep shadow. Mother had been asleep, I think, but she heard my
step and recognized it.

“Is that you, Boy?” she asked. If I had been fifty, instead of
thirty-one, Mother would have called me “Boy” just the same.

“Yes, Mother,” I said.

“Where have you been? For a walk? It is a beautiful morning, isn't it.”

Her only way of knowing that the morning was a beautiful one was that
the shades were drawn. She had not seen the sunlight on the bay, nor the
blue sky; she had not felt the spring breeze on her face, or the green
grass beneath her feet. Her only glimpses of the outside world were
those which she got on cloudy or stormy days when the shades were raised
a few inches and, turning her head on the pillow, she could see beneath
them. For six years she had been helpless and bedridden in that little
room. But she never complained.

I told her that I had been uptown for a walk.

“Did you meet any one?” she asked.

I said that I had met Captain Dean and Newcomb and the rest. I said
nothing of my encounter with the motor car.

“Captain Jed graciously informed me that his wife might be down to sit
with you this afternoon,” I said. “Provided she didn't have anything
else to do; he took pains to add that. You mustn't see her, of course.”

She smiled. “Why not?” she asked. “Matilda is a little tiresome at
times, but she means well.”

“Humph! Mother, I think you would make excuses for the Old Harry
himself. That woman will talk you to death.”

“Oh, no! Not as bad as that. And poor Matilda doesn't talk much at home,
I'm afraid.”

“Her husband sees to that; I don't blame him. By the way, the Captain
had a queer bee in his bonnet this morning. He seems to be thinking of
buying some of our property.”

I told her of Jedediah's interest in the Shore Lane and his hint
concerning its possible purchase. She listened and then said
thoughtfully:

“What have you decided to do about it, Roscoe?”

“I haven't decided at all. What do you think, Mother?”

“It seems to me that I shouldn't sell, at least until I knew his reason
for wanting to buy. It would be different if we needed the money, but,
of course, we don't.”

“Of course,” I said, hastily. “But why not sell? We don't use the land.”

“No. But the Denboro people need that Lane. They use it a great deal.
If it were closed it would put many of them to a great inconvenience,
particularly those who get their living alongshore. Every one in Denboro
has been so kind to us. I feel that we owe them a debt we never can
repay.”

“No one could help being kind to you, Mother. Oh! I have another
piece of news. Did you know that our new neighbors, the Coltons, have
arrived?”

“Yes. Dorinda told me. Have you met any of them?”

“No.”

“Dorinda says Mrs. Colton is an invalid. Poor woman! it must be hard
to be ill when one has so much to enjoy. Dorinda says they have a very
pretty daughter.”

I made no comment. I was not interested in pretty daughters, just then.
The memory of the girl in the auto was too fresh in my mind.

“Did you go to the post-office, Roscoe?” asked Mother. “I suppose there
were no letters. There seldom are.”

Then I remembered the letter in my pocket. I had forgotten it
altogether.

“Why, yes, there was a letter, a letter for me. I haven't read it yet.”

I took the envelope from my pocket and drew out the enclosure. The
latter was a note, very brief and very much to the point. I read it.

“Well, by George!” I exclaimed, angrily.

“What is it, Roscoe?”

“It appears to be a summons from what Captain Jed called the King of New
York. A summons to appear at court.”

“At court?”

“Oh, not the criminal court. Merely the palace of his Majesty. Just
listen.”

This was the letter:


Roscoe Paine, Esq.

Dear Sir:

I should like to see you at my house this--Thursday--forenoon, on a
matter of business. I shall expect you at any time after ten in the
morning.

Yours truly,

JAMES W. COLTON.


“From Mr. Colton!” exclaimed Mother. “Why! what can he want of you?”

“I don't know,” I answered. “And I don't particularly care.”

“Roscoe!”

“Mother, did you ever hear such a cool, nervy proposition in your life?
He wants to see me and he orders me to come to him. Why doesn't he come
to me?”

“I suppose he didn't think of it. He is a big man in New York and he has
been accustomed to having people come at his convenience. It's his way
of doing things, I suppose.”

“Then I don't like the way. This is Denboro, not New York. He will
expect me at any time after ten, will he? Well, as Mullet said to Alvin
Baker just now at the post-office, I hope he has lots of patience. He'll
need it.”

“But what can he want of you?”

“I don't know. Wants to look over his nearest jay neighbor, I should
imagine, and see what sort of a curio he is. He thinks it may be
necessary to put up barbed wire fences, I suppose.”

“Roscoe, don't be narrow-minded. Mr. Colton's ways aren't ours and we
must make allowances.”

“Let him make a few, for a change.”

“Aren't you going to see him?”

“No. At least not until I get good and ready.”

Dorinda came in just then to ask Mother some questions concerning
dinner, for, though Mother had not seen the dining room since that day,
six years ago, when she was carried from it to her bedroom, she kept
her interest in household affairs and insisted on being consulted on all
questions of management and internal economy. I rose from my chair and
started toward the door.

“Are you going, Roscoe?” asked Mother.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Oh, just out of doors; perhaps to the boat-house.”

“Boy.”

“Yes, Mother?”

“What is the matter? Something has gone wrong; I knew it as soon as you
came in. What is it?”

“Nothing. That is, nothing of any consequence. I'm a little out of sorts
to-day and that man's letter irritates me. I'll get over it. I'll be
back soon. Good-by, Mother.”

“Good-by, Boy.”

I went out through the dining room and kitchen, to the back yard, where,
seating myself on Lute's favorite resting place, the wash bench, I lit
my pipe and sat thinking, gloomily thinking.



CHAPTER III


It is a dreadful thing to hate one's own father; to hate him and be
unable to forgive him even though he is dead, although he paid for his
sin with his life. Death is said to pay all debts, but there are some
it cannot pay. To my father I owed my present ambitionless, idle,
good-for-nothing life, my mother's illness, years of disgrace, the loss
of a name--everything.

Paine was my mother's maiden name; she was christened Comfort Paine. My
own Christian name is Roscoe and my middle name is Paine. My other name,
the name I was born with, the name that Mother took when she married,
we dropped when the disgrace came upon us. It was honored and respected
once; now when it was repeated people coupled it with shame and crime
and dishonor and broken trust.

As a boy I remember myself as a spoiled youngster who took the luxuries
of this world for granted. I attended an expensive and select private
school, idled my way through that somehow, and entered college, a
happy-go-lucky young fellow with money in my pocket. For two-thirds
of my Freshman year--which was all I experienced of University life--I
enjoyed myself as much as possible, and studied as little. Then came the
telegram. I remember the looks of the messenger who brought it, the cap
he wore, and the grin on his young Irish face when the fellow sitting
next me at the battered black oak table in the back room of Kelly's
asked him to have a beer. I remember the song we were singing, the crowd
of us, how it began again and then stopped short when the others saw the
look on my face. The telegram contained but four words: “Come home at
once.” It was signed with the name of my father's lawyer.

I presume I shall never forget even the smallest incident of that night
journey in the train and the home-coming. The lawyer's meeting me at the
station in the early morning; his taking care that I should not see the
newspapers, and his breaking the news to me. Not of the illness or death
which I had feared and dreaded, but of something worse--disgrace. My
father was an embezzler, a thief. He had absconded, had run away, like
the coward he was, taking with him what was left of his stealings. The
banking house of which he had been the head was insolvent. The police
were on his track. And, worse and most disgraceful of all, he had not
fled alone. There was a woman with him, a woman whose escapades had
furnished the papers with sensations for years.

I had never been well acquainted with my father. We had never been
friends and companions, like other fathers and sons I knew. I remember
him as a harsh, red-faced man, whom, as a boy, I avoided as much as
possible. As I grew older I never went to him for advice; he was to me a
sort of walking pocket-book, and not much else. Mother has often told
me that she remembers him as something quite different, and I suppose it
must be true, otherwise she would not have married him; but to me he was
a source of supply coupled with a bad temper, that was all. That I was
not utterly impossible, that, going my own gait as I did, I was not a
complete young blackguard, I know now was due entirely to Mother. She
and I were as close friends as I would permit her to be. Father had
neglected us for years, though how much he had neglected and ill-treated
her I did not know until she told me, afterward. She was in delicate
health even then, but, when the blow fell, it was she and not I who bore
up bravely and it was her pluck and nerve, not mine, which pulled us
through that dreadful time.

And it was dreadful. The stories and pictures in the papers! The
rumors, always contradicted, that the embezzler had been caught! The
misrepresentation and lies and scandal! The loss of those whom we had
supposed were friends! Mother bore them all, wore a calm, brave face
in public, and only when alone with me gave way, and then but at rare
intervals. She clung to me as her only comfort and hope. I was sullen
and wrathful and resentful, an unlicked cub, I suspect, whose complaints
were selfish ones concerning the giving up of my college life and its
pleasures, and the sacrifice of social position and wealth.

Mother had--or so we thought at the time--a sum in her own name which
would enable us to live; although not as we had lived by a great deal.
We took an apartment in an unfashionable quarter of the city, and thanks
to the lawyer--who proved himself a real and true friend--I was given
a minor position in a small bank. Oddly enough, considering my former
life, I liked the work, it interested me, and during the next few years
I was made, by successive promotions, bookkeeper, teller, and, at last,
assistant cashier. No news came from the absconder. The police had lost
track of him, and it seemed probable that he would never be heard of
again. But over Mother and myself hung always the dread that he might
be found and all the dreadful business revived once more. Mother never
mentioned it, nor did I, but the dread was there.

Then came the first breakdown in Mother's health which necessitated her
removal to the country. Luther and Dorinda Rogers were distant relatives
of our friend, the lawyer. They owned the little house by the shore at
Denboro and the lawyer had visited them occasionally on shooting and
fishing trips. They were in need of money, for, as Dorinda said: “We've
got two mouths in this family and only one pair of hands. One of the
mouths is so big that the hands can't fill it, let alone the mouth that
belongs to THEM.” Mother--as Mrs. Paine, a widow--went there first as
a boarder, intending to remain but a few months. Dorinda took to her at
once, being attracted in the beginning, I think, by the name. “They call
you Comfort Paine,” she said, “and you are a comfort to everybody else's
pain. Yet you ain't out of pain a minute scurcely, yourself. I never see
anything like it. If 'twan't wicked I'd say that name was give you by
the Old Scratch himself, as a sort of divilish joke. But anybody can see
that the Old Scratch never had anything in common with you, even a hand
in the christenin'.”

Dorinda was very kind, and Lute was a never-ending joy in his peculiar
way. Mother would have been almost happy in the little Denboro home,
if I had been with her. But she was never really happy when we were
separated, a condition of mind which grew more acute as her health
declined. I came down from the city once every month and those Sundays
were great occasions. The Denboro people know me as Roscoe Paine.

For a time Mother seemed to be holding her own. In answer to my
questions she always declared that she was ever so much better. But
Doctor Quimby, the town physician, looked serious.

“She must be kept absolutely quiet,” he said. “She must not be troubled
in any way. Worry or mental distress is what I fear most. Any sudden bad
news or shock might--well, goodness knows what effect it might have. She
must not be worried. Ros--” after one has visited Denboro five times in
succession he is generally called by his Christian name--“Ros, if you've
got any worries you keep 'em to yourself.”

I had worries, plenty of them. Our little fortune, saved, as we thought,
from the wreck, suffered a severe shrinkage. A considerable portion
of it, as the lawyers discovered, was involved and belonged to the
creditors. I said nothing to Mother about this: she supposed that we
had a sufficient income for our needs, even without my salary. Without
telling her I gave up our city apartment, stored our furniture, and took
a room in a boarding-house. I was learning the banking business, was
trusted with more and more responsibility, and believed my future was
secure. Then came the final blow.

I saw the news in the paper when I went out to lunch. “Embezzler and His
Companion Caught in Rio Janeiro. He Commits Suicide When Notified of
His Arrest.” These headlines stared at me as I opened the paper at the
restaurant table. My father had shot himself when the police came. I
read it with scarcely more than a vague feeling of pity for him. It was
of Mother that I thought. The news must be kept from her. If she should
hear of it! What should I do? I went first of all to the lawyer's
office: he was out of town for the day. I wandered up and down the
streets for an hour. Then I went back to the bank. There I found a
telegram from Doctor Quimby: “Mrs. Paine very ill. Come on first train.”
 I knew what it meant. Mother had heard the news; the shock which the
doctor dreaded had had its effect.

I reached Denboro the next morning. Lute met me at the station. From his
disjointed and lengthy story I gathered that Mother had been “feelin'
fust-rate for her” until the noon before. “I come back from the
post-office,” said Lute, “and I was cal'latin' to read the newspaper,
but Dorindy had some everlastin' chore or other for me to do--I believe
she thinks 'em up in her sleep--and I left the paper on the dinin'-room
table and went out to the barn. Dorindy she come along to boss me, as
usual. When we went back to the house there was Mrs. Comfort on the
dinin'-room floor--dead, we was afraid at fust. The paper was alongside
of her, so we judge she was just a-goin' to read it when she was took.
The doctor says it's a paralysis or appleplexy or somethin'. We carried
her into the bedroom, but she ain't spoke sence.”

She did not speak for weeks and when she did it was to ask for me.
She called my name over and over again and, if I left her, even for a
moment, she grew so much worse that the doctor forbade my going back to
the city. I obtained a leave of absence from the bank for three months.
By that time she was herself, so far as her reason was concerned, but
very weak and unable to bear the least hint of disturbance or worry. She
must not be moved, so Doctor Quimby said, and he held out no immediate
hope of her recovering the use of her limbs. “She will be confined to
her bed for a long time,” said the doctor, “and she is easy only when
you are here. If you should go away I am afraid she might die.” I did
not go away. I gave up my position in the bank and remained in Denboro.

At the end of the year I bought the Rogers house and land, moved a
portion of our furniture down there, sold the rest, and resigned myself
to a period of idleness in the country. Dorinda I hired as housekeeper,
and when Dorinda accepted the engagement she threw in Lute, so to speak,
for good measure.

And here I have been ever since. At first I looked upon my stay in
Denboro as a sort of enforced vacation, which was to be, of course, only
temporary. But time went on and Mother's condition continued unchanged.
She needed me and I could not leave her. I fished and, shot and sailed
and loafed, losing ambition and self-respect, aware that the majority of
the village people considered me too lazy to earn a living, and
caring little for their opinion. At first I had kept up a hit or miss
correspondence with one or two of my associates in the bank, but after
a while I dropped even this connection with the world. I was ashamed
to have my former acquaintances know what I had become, and they,
apparently, were quite willing to forget me. I expected to live and die
in Denboro, and I faced the prospect with indifference.

The summer people, cottagers and boarders, I avoided altogether and my
only friend, and I did not consider him that, was George Taylor, the
Denboro bank cashier. He was fond of salt-water and out-door sports and
we, occasionally enjoyed them together.

Thanks to the lawyer, our names had been scarcely mentioned in the
papers at the time of my father's death. No one in the village knew our
identity or our story. And, because I knew that Mother would worry if
she were told, I kept from her the fact that our little income was but
half of what it had been. Our wants were few, and if my clothes were no
longer made by the best tailors, if they were ready-made and out-of-date
and lacked pressing, they were whole, at all events, because Dorinda was
a tip-top mender. In fact, I had forgotten they were out-of-date until
the sight of the immaculately garbed young chap in the automobile
brought the comparison between us to my mind.

But now, as I sat on the wash-bench, thinking of all this, I looked down
at my baggy trousers and faded waistcoat with disgust. One of the surest
signs of the loss of self-respect is a disregard of one's personal
appearance. I looked like a hayseed--not the independent countryman who
wears old clothes on week days from choice and is proudly conscious of
a Sunday suit in the closet--but that other variety, the post-office and
billiard-room idler who has reached the point of utter indifference, is
too shiftless to care. Captain Jed was not so far wrong, after all--Lute
Rogers and I were birds of a feather in more ways than one.

No wonder that girl in the auto had looked at me as if I were something
too contemptible for notice. Yet I hated her for that look. I had
behaved like a boor, of course. Because I was a failure, a country
loafer with no prospect of ever being anything else, because I could
not ride in automobiles and others could--these were no good reasons
for insulting strangers more fortunate than I. Yet I did hate that girl.
Just then I hated all creation, especially that portion of it which
amounted to anything.

I took the letter from my pocket and read it again. “I should like
to see you . . . on a matter of business.” What business could “Yours
truly, James W. Colton” have with me? And Captain Jed also had talked
business. I supposed that I had given up business long ago and for good;
now, all at once, it seemed to be hunting me. Well, all the hunting
should be on its side.

At another time I might have treated the great Colton's “summons to
court” as a joke. I might, like Mother, have regarded the curtness
of the command and its general tone of taking my prompt obedience for
granted as an expression of the Wall Street magnate's habit of mind,
and nothing more. He was used to having people jump when he snapped his
fingers. But now it made me angry. I sympathized with Dean and Alvin
Baker. The possession of money did not necessarily imply omnipotence.
This was Cape Cod, not New York. His Majesty might, as Captain Jed put
it, have blown his Imperial nose, but I, for one, wouldn't “lay in a
supply of handkerchiefs”--not yet.

I heard a rustle in the bushes and, turning my head, saw Lute coming
along the path. He was walking fast--fast for him, that is--and seemed
to be excited. His excitement, however, did not cause him to forget
prudence. He looked carefully about to be sure his wife was not in
sight, before he spoke.

“Dorindy ain't been here sence I've been gone, has she?” was his first
question.

“I guess not,” said I. “She has been in the house since I got back. But
I don't know how long you've been gone.”

“Only a few minutes. I--I just stepped over 'cross the Lane for a jiffy,
that's all. Say, by time; them Coltons must have money!”

“That's a habit of millionaires, I believe.”

“Hey? What do you mean by that? If they didn't have money they couldn't
be millionaires, could they? How'd you like to be a millionaire, Ros?”

“I don't know. I never tried.”

“By time! I'D like to try a spell. I've been over lookin' 'round their
place. You never see such a place! Why, their front doorstep's big as
this yard, pretty nigh.”

“Does it have to be raked?” I asked.

“Raked! Whoever heard of rakin' a doorstep?”

“Give it up! But it does seem to me that I have heard of raking a yard.
I think Dorinda mentioned that, didn't she?”

Lute looked at me: then he hurried over and picked up the rake which
was lying near the barn, a pile--a very small pile--of chips and leaves
beside it.

“When did she mention it?” he asked.

“A week ago, I think, was the first time. She has referred to it
occasionally since. She was mentioning it to you when I went up town
this morning. I heard her.”

Lute looked relieved. “Oh, THEN!” he said. “I thought you meant lately.
Well, I'm rakin' it, ain't I? Say, Ros,” he added, eagerly, “did you
go to the post-office when you was uptown? Was there a letter there for
you?”

“What makes you think there was?”

“Asa Peters' boy, the bow-legged one, told me. The chauffeur, the feller
that pilots the automobiles, asked him where the post-office was and he
see the address on the envelope. He said the letter was for you. I told
him he was lyin'--”

“What in the world did you tell him that for?” I interrupted. I had
known Lute a long time, but he sometimes surprised me, even yet.

“'Cause he is, nine times out of ten,” replied Lute, promptly. “You
never see such a young-one for dodgin' the truth. Why, one time he told
his grandmother, Asa's ma, I mean, that--”

“What did he say about the letter?”

“Said 'twas for you. And the chauffeur said Mr. Colton told him to mail
it right off. 'Twan't for you, was it, Ros?”

“Yes.”

“It WAS! Well, by time! What did a man like Mr. Colton write to you
about?”

Among his other lackings Lute was conspicuously short of tact. This was
no time for him to ask me such a question, especially to emphasize the
“you.”

“Why shouldn't he write to me?” I asked, tartly.

“But--but HIM--writin' to YOU!”

“Humph! Even a god stoops once in a while. Read your mythology, Lute.”

“Hey? Say, look here, what are you swearin' about?”

“Swearing? Oh, that's all right. The god I referred to was a heathen
one.”

“Well, it's a good thing Dorindy didn't hear you; she's down on
swearin', heathen or any other kind. But what did Mr. Colton write to
you for?”

“He says he wants to see me.”

“See you? What for?”

“Don't know. Perhaps he wants to borrow money.”

“Borrow--! I believe you're crazy!”

“No, I'm tolerably sane. There! there! don't look at me like that.
Here's his letter. Read it, if you want to.”

Lute's fingers were so eager to grasp that letter that they were all
thumbs. He dropped it on the grass, picked it up with as much care as if
it was a diamond, and holding it a foot from his nose--he had broken
his spectacles and was afraid to ask Dorinda for the money to have them
repaired--he spelt it out to the last word.

“Well, by time!” he exclaimed, when he had finished. “He wants to see
you at his house this forenoon! And--and--why, the forenoon's all but
gone now! What are you settin' here for?”

“Well, I thought I should enjoy watching you rake the yard. It is a
pleasure deferred so far.”

“Watchin' me--! Roscoe Paine, you are out of your head! Ain't you goin'
to see him?”

“No.”

“You AIN'T!”

“No.”

“Ros Paine, have you jined in with them darn fools uptown?”

“Who's swearing now? What fools do you mean?”

“Darn ain't swearin'. Dorindy herself says that once in a while. I mean
Alvin Baker, and Jed Dean and the rest of 'em. They was goin' on about
Mr. Colton last night; said THEY wan't goin' to run at his beck and
call. I told 'em, says I, 'You ain't had the chance. You'll run fast
enough when you do.'”

“Did you say that to Captain Jed?”

“No-o. I said it to Alvin, but old Jed's just as bad. He's down on
anybody that's got more'n he has. But Ros, you ain't foolish enough to
side with Jed Dean. Just think! Here's Mr. Colton, richer'n King Solomon
and all his glory. He's got servants and butlers and bonds and cowpons
and horses and teams and automobiles and--”

I rose from the wash bench.

“I know what he's got, Lute,” I interrupted. “And I know what he hasn't
got.”

“What? Is there anything he ain't got?”

“He hasn't got me--not yet. If he wants to see me he may. I expect to be
at home for the next day or two.”

“You don't mean you expect a millionaire like him to come cruisin' after
YOU! Well, by time! I think I see him!”

“When you do, let me know,” I said. “I should like to be prepared.”

“Well,--by--time!” said Lute, by way of summing up. I ate dinner with
Dorinda. Her husband did not join us. Dorinda paid a visit to the back
yard and, seeing how little raking had been done, announced that until
the job was finished there would be “no dinner for some folks.” So she
and I ate and Lute raked, under protest, and vowing that he was so faint
and holler he cal'lated to collapse 'most any time.

After the meal was finished I went down to the boathouse. The boathouse
was a little building on the beach at the foot of the bluff below the
house. It was a favorite resort of mine and I spent many hours there.
My eighteen foot motor launch, the Comfort, the one expensive luxury I
allowed myself and which I had bought second-hand two years before,
was jacked up in the middle of the floor. The engine, which I had taken
apart to clean, was in pieces beside it. On the walls hung my two shot
guns and my fishing rod. Outside, on the beach, was my flat-bottomed
skiff, which I used for rowing about the bay, her oars under the
thwarts. In the boathouse was a comfortable armchair and a small shelf
of books, novels for the most part. A cheap clock and a broken-down
couch, the latter a discard from the original outfit of the cottage,
made up the list of furniture.

My idea in coming to the boathouse was to continue my work with the
engine. I tried it for a half hour or so and then gave it up. It did not
interest me then. I shut the door at the side of the building, that by
which I had entered--the big double doors in front I had not opened at
all--and, taking a book from the shelf, stretched myself on the couch to
read.

The book I had chosen was one belonging to the Denboro Ladies' Library;
Miss Almena Doane, the librarian, had recommended it highly, as a “real
interesting story, with lots of uplifting thoughts in it.” The thoughts
might be uplifting to Almena, but they did not elevate my spirits. As
for the story--well, the hero was a young gentleman who was poor but
tremendously clever and handsome, and the heroine had eyes “as dark and
deep as starlit pools.” The poor but beautiful person met the pool-eyed
one at a concert, where he sat, “his whole soul transfigured by the
music,” and she had been “fascinated in spite of herself” by the look on
his face. I read as far as that and dropped the book in disgust.

After that I must have fallen asleep. What awakened me was a knock
on the door. It was Lute, of course. Probably mother wanted me for
something or other, and Dorinda had sent her husband to hunt me up.

The knock was repeated.

“Come in,” I said, sleepily.

The door opened and in came, not Lute, but a tall, portly man, with a
yachting cap on the back of his gray head, and a cigar in his mouth. He
looked at me as I lay on the couch and I lay on the couch and looked at
him.

“Afternoon,” he said, curtly. “Is your name Paine?”

I nodded. I was waking rapidly, but I was too astonished to speak.

“Roscoe Paine?”

“Yes.”

“Well, mine's Colton. I sent you a letter this morning. Did you get it?”



CHAPTER IV


I sat up on the couch. Mr. Colton knocked the ashes from his cigar,
waited an instant, and then repeated his question.

“Did you get my letter?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Oh, you did. I was afraid that man of mine might have forgotten to mail
it.”

“No, I got it. Won't you--er--won't you sit down?” He pulled the
armchair toward him and sat down. I noticed that he had a habit of doing
things quickly. His sentences were short and to the point and he spoke
and acted like one accustomed to having his own way. He crossed his
knees and looked about the little building.

“It is a pleasant day,” I observed, for the sake of saying something.
He did not seem to hear me, or, if he did, he was not interested in the
weather. For my part I found the situation embarrassing. I knew what his
next question would be, and I did not know how to answer. Sure enough,
he asked it.

“I wrote you to come over to my place this forenoon,” he said. “You
didn't come.”

“No. I--”

“Why not?”

Here was the issue joined. Here, if ever, was the opportunity to assert
my independence a la Jed Dean and Alvin Baker. But to assert it now,
after he had done the unexpected, after the mountain had come to
Mahomet, seemed caddish and ridiculous. So I temporized, weakly.

“I didn't read your letter until about noon,” I said.

“I see. Well, I waited until two o'clock and then I decided to hunt you
up. I called at your house. The woman there said you were down here.
Your mother?”

“No.” My answer was prompt and sharp enough this time. It was natural,
perhaps, that he should presume Dorinda to be my mother, but I did not
like it.

He paid absolutely no attention to the tone of my reply or its curtness.
He did not refer to Dorinda again. She might have been my wife or my
great-aunt for all he cared.

“This your workshop?” he asked, abruptly. Then, nodding toward the
dismembered engine, “What are you? a boat builder?”

“No, not exactly.”

“What's the price of a boat like that?” indicating the Comfort with a
kick in her direction.

“About two hundred and fifty dollars, I believe,” I answered.

“You believe! Don't you know?”

“No. I bought that boat second-hand.”

He did not refer to the boat again; apparently forgot it altogether. His
next move was to rise and turn toward the door. I watched him, wondering
what was going to happen next. He had a habit of jumping from one
subject to another which was bewildering.

“What's that fellow doing off there?” he asked, suddenly.

I looked where he was pointing.

“That is Zeb Kendrick,” I answered. “He's raking for quahaugs.”

“Raking for what hogs?”

“Quahaugs. What you New Yorkers call clams.”

“Oh! Sell 'em, does he?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him to call at my house next time you see him. And for heaven's
sake tell him to come to the servants' door. Don't you people down here
have any servants' doors to your houses? There have been no less than
fifty peddlers on my porch since yesterday and my butler will die of
apoplexy if it keeps on. He's a good one, for a wonder, and I don't want
to lose him.”

I made no reply to this observation and he did not seem to expect any.
He watched Zeb rake for a moment and then he turned back to me.

“Can you come over to my house now?” he asked.

I was not expecting this and again I did not have an answer ready.

“Can you?” he went on. “I've got a business deal to make with you and
I'd rather make it there. I've got a lot of carpenters and painters
at work and they ask me ten questions a minute. They are unnecessary
questions but if I don't answer them the fellows are sure to make some
fool mistake or other. They need a governess. If you'll come over with
me I'll be in touch with them and you and I can talk just as well. Can
come, can't you?”

I did not know what to say. I wanted to say no, that if he had any
business with me it could be discussed in that boathouse. I did not like
his manner, yet I had a feeling that it was his usual one and that he
had not meant to be rude. And I could think of no good reason for not
going with him.

“You can come, can't you?” he repeated.

“I suppose I can. But--”

“Of course if you're too busy to leave--”

I remembered the position he had found me in and I rather think I had
turned red. He did not smile, but there was a sort of grim twinkle in
his eyes.

“I'll come,” I said.

“Much obliged. I won't keep you long. Come on.”

He led the way and I followed, rebellious, and angry, not so much with
him as with myself. I wished now that I had gone over to the Colton
place when I first received the summons to court, instead of making
proclamations of defiance to mother and Lute Rogers. This seemed such
a complete backdown. As we passed the house I saw Lute peering from the
barn. I devoutly hoped he might not see me, but he did. His mouth opened
and he stared. Then, catching my eye, he winked triumphantly. I wanted
to punch his head.

The King of New York walked briskly on in silence until we were just at
the edge of the grove by the Shore Lane. Then he stopped and turned to
me.

“You own all this land, don't you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Humph! Get a good view from here.”

I admitted that the view was good. At that particular point it embraced
nearly the whole of the bay in front, and a large portion of the village
at the side.

He waved his hand toward the cluster of houses.

“There are eighteen hundred people in this town, they tell me,” he said.
“Permanent residents, I mean. What do they all do?”

“Do?”

“Yes. How do they get a living? They must get it somehow. In the regular
summer resorts they squeeze it out of the city people, I know that. But
there aren't so many cottagers and boarders here. What do you all do for
a living?”

I told him that most of masculine Denboro fished or farmed or kept
store.

“Which do you do?” he asked. “You said you weren't a boat-builder.”

“I'm not doing anything at present,” I replied, shortly.

“Out of a job?”

“You might call it that. Is this a part of the business you wished to
see me about, Mr. Colton?”

I was boiling inwardly and a little of the heat was expressed in my
tone. I don't know whether he took the hint or merely lost interest in
the subject. At any rate his reply was a brief “No,” and we continued
our walk.

As we reached the Shore Lane he paused again, and I thought he was about
to speak. He did not, however, and we crossed the boundary line of my
property and entered the Colton grounds. As we drew nearer to the house
I was surprised to see how large it was. When the Atwaters owned it
I was an occasional caller there, for old Major Atwater was fond of
shooting and sometimes borrowed my decoys. But, since it changed hands,
I had not been nearer to it than the Lane. With the new wing and the
other additions it was enormous. It fairly reeked of money, though, so
far as I was a judge, the taste shown in rebuilding and decorating was
good. We turned the corner, where Asa Peters, the head carpenter, came
hurrying up. Asa looked surprised enough to see me in company with his
employer and regarded me wonderingly. “Mr. Colton,” he said, “I wanted
to ask you about them skylights.” I stepped back out of hearing, but I
inferred from Colton's actions that the question was another one of the
“unnecessary” ones he had so scornfully referred to in the boathouse.

“Jackass!” he exclaimed, as he rejoined me. I judged he was classifying
Asa, but, if so, he did not trouble to lower his voice. “Come on,
Paine,” he added, and we passed a long line of windows, hung with costly
curtains, and stepped up on a handsome Colonial portico before two big
doors.

The doors were opened by an imposing personage in dark blue and brass
buttons, who bowed profoundly before Colton and regarded me with
condescending superiority. This personage, whom I recognized, from
Alvin's description, as the “minister-lookin'” butler, led us through
a hall about as large as our sitting-room, dining-room and kitchen
combined, but bearing no other resemblance to these apartments, and
opened another door, through which, bowing once more, he ushered us.
Then he closed the door, leaving himself, to my relief, outside. It had
been a long time since I was waited upon by a butler and I found this
specimen rather overpowering.

The room we were in was the library, and, though it was bigger and far
more sumptuous than the library I remembered so well as a boy, the sight
of the books in their cases along the walls gave me a feeling almost of
homesickness. My resentment against my millionaire neighbor increased.
Why should he and his have everything, and the rest of us be deprived of
the little we once had?

Colton seated himself in a leather upholstered chair and waved his hand
toward another.

“Sit down,” he said. He took a cigar from his pocket. “Smoke?” he asked.

I was a confirmed smoker, but I was not going to smoke one of his
cigars--not then.

“No thank you,” said I. He did not comment on my refusal, but lit the
cigar himself, from the stump of his former one. Then he crossed his
legs and proceeded, with characteristic abruptness, to his subject.

“Paine,” he began, “you own this land next to me, you say. Your property
ends at the fence this side of that road we just crossed, doesn't it?”

“It ends where yours begins,” I announced.

“Yes. Just this side of that road.”

“Of the Shore Lane. It isn't a road exactly.”

“I don't care what you call it. Road or lane or cow-path. It ends
there?”

“Yes.”

“And it IS your land? It belongs to you, personally, all of it, free and
clear?”

“Why--yes; it does.” I could not see what business of his my ownership
of that land might be.

“All right. I asked that because, if it wasn't yours, if it was tied up
or mortgaged in any way, it might complicate matters. But it isn't.”

“No.”

“Good! Then we can get down to brass tacks and save time. I want a piece
of that land.”

I looked at him.

“You want--?” I repeated, slowly.

“I want a strip of your land. Want to buy it, of course. I don't expect
you to give it to me. What's it worth, by the acre, say?”

I did not answer. All at once I was beginning to see a light. Captain
Jed Dean's mysterious conversation at the post-office was beginning to
lose some of its mystery.

“Well?” asked Colton, impatiently. Then, without waiting longer, he
added:

“By the way, before you name a figure, answer me one more question. That
road--or lane, or whatever it is--that is yours, too? Doesn't belong to
the town?”

The light was growing more brilliant. I could see breakers ahead.

“No,” I replied, slowly. “It is a private way. It belongs to me.”

“Good! Well, what's that land of yours worth by the acre?”

I shook my head. “I scarcely know,” I said. “I've never figured it that
way.”

“I don't care how you figure it. Here, let's get down to a business
proposition. I want to buy a strip of that land from the Lower
Road--that's what you call the one above here, isn't it?--to the beach.
The strip I want is about three hundred feet wide, for a guess. It
extends from my fence to the other side of that grove by the bluff. What
will you sell it for?”

The breakers were close aboard. However, I dodged them momentarily.

“Why do you want to buy?” I asked.

“For reasons.”

“I should think you had land enough already.”

“I thought I had, but it seems I haven't. Well, what's your price for
that strip?”

“Mr. Colton, I--I'm afraid--”

“Never mind that. I suppose you're afraid you'll make the price too low.
Now, see here, I'm a busy man. I haven't time to do any bargaining.
Name your price and, if it's anywhere within reason, we won't haggle.
I expect to pay more than anyone else would. That's part of my fine
for being a city man and not a native. Gad! the privilege is worth the
money. I'll pay the fine. What's the price?”

“But why do you want to buy?”

“For reasons of my own, I tell you. They haven't anything to do with
your selling.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That strip takes in the Shore Lane, Mr. Colton.”

“I know it.”

“And, if you buy, I presume the Lane will be closed.”

He looked at me, surprised, and, I thought, a little annoyed.

“Well?” he said; “suppose it is?”

“But it will be, won't it?”

“You bet your life it will! What of it?”

“Then I don't know that I care to sell.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“You don't care to sell!” he repeated, slowly. “What the devil do you
mean by that?”

“What I said. And, besides, Mr. Colton, I--”

He interrupted me.

“Why don't you care to sell?” he demanded. “The land is no good to you,
is it?”

“Not much. No.”

“Humph! Are you so rich that you've got all the money you want?”

I was angry all through. I rose from my chair.

“Good day, Mr. Colton,” I said.

“Here!” he shouted. “Hold on! Where are you going?”

“I can't see that there is any use of our talking further.”

“No use? Why--There! there! sit down. It's none of my business how rich
you are, and I beg your pardon. Sit down. Sit down, man, I tell you!”

I sat down, reluctantly. He threw his cigar, which had gone out, into
the fireplace and lit another.

“Say,” he said, “you surprise me, Paine. What do you mean by saying you
won't sell that land? You don't know what I'll pay for it yet.”

“No, I don't.”

“Then how do you know you won't sell it? I never had anything
yet--except my wife and family--that I wouldn't sell for a price. Look
here! I haven't got time to do any Down-East horse-jockeying. I'll make
you an offer. I'll give you five hundred dollars cash for that strip of
land. What do you say?”

I didn't say anything. Five hundred dollars was a generous offer. I
couldn't help thinking what Mother and I might do with that five hundred
dollars.

“What do you say?” he repeated.

I answered, Yankee fashion, with another question. “Mr. Colton,” I
asked, “why do you want to close that Shore Lane?”

“Because I do. What difference does it make to you why I want to close
it?”

“That Lane has been used by Denboro people for years. It is almost a
public necessity.”

He puffed twice on his cigar before he spoke again. When he did it was
in a different tone.

“I see,” he said. “Humph! I see. Paine, does the town pay you rent for
the use of that road?”

“No.”

“Has it been bidding to buy it?”

“No.”

“Is any one else after it?”

“No-o. I think not. But--”

“You THINK not. That means you're not sure. You've had a bite somewhere.
Somebody has been nibbling at your hook. Well, they've got to bite quick
and swallow some to get ahead of me. I want that road closed and I'm
going to have it closed, sooner or later. I'd prefer it sooner.”

“But why do you want to close it?”

Before he could answer there came a knock at the door. The butler
appeared.

“I beg your pardon, sir--” he began. His master cut him short.

“Tell 'em to wait,” he ordered. “I can't see any one now, Johnson. If it
is that damned carpenter he can wait.”

“It isn't the carpenter, sir,” explained Johnson. “It's Mrs. Colton,
sir. She wishes to know if you have bought that road. She says three of
those 'orrid fishcarts have gone by in the last hour, sir, and they are
making her very nervous. That's all, sir.”

“Tell her I've bought it,” snapped the head of the house. “Get out.”

The butler obeyed orders. Colton turned to me.

“You heard that, Paine,” he said. “That's my reason, the principal one.
I bought this place principally on account of Mrs. Colton's health. The
doctors said she needed quiet and rest. I thought she could have them
here--God knows the place looked forsaken enough--but it appears she
can't. Whenever she or I sit on the veranda or at a window we have to
watch a procession of jays driving smelly fish carts through that lane
of yours, or be stared at by a gang of countrymen hanging over the
fence. It's a nuisance. It is bad enough for me or my daughter and our
guests, but it will be the ruination of my wife's nerves, and I can't
stand for that. You see the position I'm in. You heard what I told that
butler. I said I had bought the road. You wouldn't make me a liar, would
you? I'll give you five hundred for that bunch of sand. You couldn't get
more for it if you sold it by the pound, like tea. Say yes, and close
the deal.”

I shook my head.

“I understand your position, Mr. Colton,” I said, “but I can't say yes.
Not now, at any rate.”

“Why not? Isn't five hundred enough?”

“It's a good offer.”

“Then why not accept it?”

“Because, if I were certain that I wanted to sell, I could not accept
any offer just now.”

“Why not? See here! are you afraid the town will be sore because the
road is closed?”

“It would be a great inconvenience to them.”

“It's a greater one to me as it is. Can you afford to be a
philanthropist? Are you one of those public-spirited citizens we read
about?”

He was sneering now, and my anger, which had lessened somewhat when he
spoke of his wife's ill health, was rising again.

“Are you?” he repeated.

“I don't know as to that. But, as I said a while ago, Mr. Colton, I
couldn't sell that land to you now.”

“Why not?”

“Because, if there were no other reason, I promised not to sell it
without telling another person first.”

He threw down his cigar and stood up. I rose also.

“I see,” he said, with sarcasm. “I knew there was something beside
public spirit. You think, by hanging off and playing me against this
other sucker, you can get a higher price. Well, if that's the game, I'll
keep him busy.”

He took out his watch, glanced at it, and thrust it back into his
pocket.

“I've wasted time enough over this fool thing,” he declared. “Now that I
know what the game is we'll talk to the point. It's highway robbery, but
I might have expected to be robbed. I'll give you six hundred for that
land.”

I did not answer. I was holding my temper by main strength and I could
not trust myself to speak.

“Well?” he sneered. “That shakes your public spirit some, hey? What do
you say?”

“No,” I answered, and started for the door.

“What!” he could hardly believe his ears. “By the Lord Harry! the fellow
is crazy. Six hundred and fifty then, you infernal robber.”

“No.”

“NO! Say, what in thunder do you mean?”

“I mean that you may go to the devil,” I retorted, and reached for the
door knob.

But before my fingers touched it there was the sound of laughter and
voices in the hall. The knob was turned from without. I stepped back and
to one side involuntarily, as the door opened and into the library
came, not the butler, but a young lady, a girl in an automobile coat and
bonnet. And, following her, a young man.

“Father,” said the young lady, “Johnson says you've bought that horrid
road. I'm so glad! When did you do it?”

“Congratulations, Mr. Colton,” said the young man. “We just passed a
cart full of something--seaweed, I believe it was--as we came along with
the car. Oscar had to slow down to squeeze by, and we certainly were
swept by ocean breezes. By Jove! I can smell them yet. I--”

The young lady interrupted him.

“Hush, Victor,” she said. “I beg your pardon, Father. I thought you were
alone. Victor, we're intruding.”

The open door had partially screened me from the newcomers. But Colton,
red and wrathful, had not ceased to glare in my direction and she,
following his gaze, saw me. She did not recognize me, I think--probably
I had not made sufficient impression upon her mind even for casual
remembrance--but I recognized her. She was the girl with the dark eyes,
whose look of contemptuous indifference had so withered my self-esteem.
And her companion was the young chap who, from the tonneau of the
automobile that morning, had inquired the way to Bayport.

The young man turned lazily. “Are we?” he said. “I--What! Why, Mabel,
it's the humorist!”

Then she recognized me. I could feel the blood climbing from my toes
to the roots of my hair. I was too astonished and chagrined to speak or
even move, though I wanted to move very much indeed. She looked at me
and I at her. Then she turned coldly away.

“Come, Victor,” she said.

But Victor was his own blase self. It took more than a trifle to shake
his calm. He laughed.

“It's the humorist,” he repeated. “Reuben, how are you?”

Colton regarded the three of us with amazement.

“What?” he began. “Mabel, do you--”

But I had recovered my powers of locomotion. I was on my way out of that
library.

“Here!” shouted Colton. “Stop!”

I did not stop. Feeling as I did at that moment it would have been
distinctly unpleasant for the person who tried to stop me. The girl was
in my way and, as I approached, she drew her skirts aside. No doubt
it was my imagination which made her manner of doing it seem like an
insult, but, imagination or reality, it was the one thing necessary to
clench my resolution. Now when she looked at me I returned the look with
interest. I strode through the doorway and across the hall. The butler
would have opened the outer door for me, but I opened it myself to the
imminent danger of his dignified nose. As I stepped from the portico I
heard behind me a roar from Big Jim Colton and a shout of laughter from
Victor.

I walked home at top speed. Only once did I look back. That was just as
I was about to enter the grove on the other side of the Shore Lane. Then
I turned and saw, at the big window at the end of the “Newport villa,”
 a group of three staring in my direction: Colton, his daughter and that
cub Victor. The distance was too great to see the expression of their
faces, but I knew that two of them, at least, were laughing--laughing at
me.

I did not laugh.

Lute was waiting for me by the gate and ran to meet me. He was wild with
excitement.

“He came after you, didn't he?” he cried, grabbing at my coat sleeve.
“You went over to his house with him, didn't you! I see you and at fust
I couldn't scurcely believe it. What did he want? What did he say?”

I did not answer. He ran along beside me, still clinging to my sleeve.

“What did he want?” he repeated. “What did he say to you? What did you
say to him? Tell a feller, can't you?”

“I told him to go to the devil,” I answered, savagely.

Lute let go of my sleeve.

“You--you--By time, you're stark loony!” he gasped; and collapsed
against the gate post.

I went into the house, up the back stairs to my room, and shut the door.



CHAPTER V


So she was his daughter. I might have guessed it; would have guessed
it if I had possessed the commonest of common-sense. I might have known
that the auto was Colton's. No other machine was likely to be traveling
on the Lower Road at that season of the year. She was the pretty
daughter of whom Dorinda had spoken to Mother. Well, she was pretty
enough; even I had to admit that. But I admitted it grudgingly. I hated
her for her beauty and fine clothes and haughty arrogance. She was the
incarnation of snobbishness.

But to be made twice ridiculous even by the incarnation of snobbishness
was galling. She was to be my next-door neighbor; we were likely to
meet almost anywhere at any time. When I thought of this and of the two
meetings which had already taken place I swore at the blue and white
water-pitcher on my bureau because it did not contain water enough to
drown me. Not that I would commit suicide on her account. She would not
care if I did and certainly I did not care whether she would care or
not; but if I were satisfactorily dead I probably should not remember
what a fool I had made of myself, or Fate had made of me.

Why had I not got out of that library before she came? Oh, if not, why
hadn't I stayed and told her father, in her hearing, and with dignity,
just what I thought of him and his remarks to me? But no; I had run
away. She--or that Victor--would tell of the meeting at the bridge, and
all my independence and the rest of it would be regarded as of a piece
with that, just the big-headed “smartness” of a country boor. In their
eyes I was a nuisance, that was all. A disagreeable one, perhaps, like
the Shore Lane, but a nuisance, one to laugh at and forget--if it could
not be gotten rid of.

Why had I gone with Colton at all? Why hadn't I remained at the
boathouse and there told the King of New York to go to the mischief? or
words to that effect. But I had, at all events, told him that. In spite
of my chagrin I could not help chuckling as I thought of it. To tell Big
Jim Colton to go to the devil was, in its way, I imagined, a privilege
enjoyed by few. It must have shaken his self-satisfaction a trifle.
Well, after all, what did I care? He, and his whole family--including
Victor--had my permission to migrate in that direction and I wished Old
Nick joy of their company.

Having derived this much satisfaction from my reflections, I went
downstairs. Dorinda was setting the table for supper. She looked at me
as I came in.

“Been visitin', I hear,” she observed, wiping an imaginary speck from
the corner of a plate with her “afternoon” apron.

“Yes,” said I.

“Um-hm,” said Dorinda. “Have a good time?”

I smiled. “I had an interesting one,” I told her.

“Um-hm, I judged so, from what Lute said.”

“Where is Lute?”

“Out in the barn, beddin' down the horse. That is, I told him to do
that, but his head was so full of you and what you told him you said to
Mr. Colton that I shouldn't be surprised if he's bedded down the hens
and was huntin' in the manger for eggs.”

“Lute thinks I've gone crazy,” I observed.

“Um-hm. He was all for fetchin' the doctor right off, but I told him I
cal'lated we could bear with your ravin's for a spell. Did you say what
he said you said?”

“I'm afraid I did.”

“Um-hm. Well, it didn't do any good, did it?”

“Good? What do you mean?”

“I mean he didn't obey orders--Colton, that is.”

“He hadn't when I left.”

“I thought not. I never saw any good come from profane language yet;
and, besides, judgin' from what I hear about the way that Colton man
lives, and what he does on Sundays and all, he'll make the port you sent
him to when his time comes. All you need is patience.”

I laughed, and she began sorting the plated spoons. We had silver ones,
but Dorinda insisted on keeping those to use when we had company. In
consequence we used them about twice a year, when the minister came.

“Of course,” she said, “I ain't askin' you what happened over there or
why he wanted to see you. But I give you fair warnin' that, if I don't,
Lute will. Lute's so stuffed with curiosity that he's li'ble to bust the
stitches any minute.”

“I'll tell you both, at supper,” I said.

“Um-hm,” said Dorinda. “Well, I can wait, and Lute'll have to. By
the way,” she added, seeing me about to enter Mother's room, “if it's
anything too unpleasant I wouldn't worry Comfort with it. She'll want to
know, of course, but I'd sort of smooth the edges.”

Mother did want to know, and I told her, “smoothing the edges” all I
could. I omitted my final order to “Big Jim” and I said nothing whatever
about his daughter. Mother seemed to think I had done right in refusing
to sell, though, as usual, she was ready to make allowances for the
other side.

“Poor woman,” she said, “I suppose the noise of the wagons and all that
are annoying to any one with weak nerves. It must be dreadful to be in
that condition. I am so sorry for her.”

She meant it, too. But I, remembering the Colton mansion, what I had
seen of it, and contrasting its splendor with the bare necessity of
that darkened bedroom, found it hard to spare pity for the sufferer from
“nerves.”

“You needn't be,” I said, bitterly. “I imagine she wouldn't think of
you, if the conditions were reversed. I doubt if she thinks of any one
but herself.”

“You shouldn't say that, Roscoe. You don't know. You have never met
her.”

“I have met the rest of the family. No, Mother, I think you needn't be
sorry for that woman. She has everything under the sun. Whereas you--”

“Hush! hush! There is one thing she hasn't got. She hasn't a son like
you, Boy.”

“Humph! That must be a terrible deprivation. There! there! Mother, I
won't be disagreeable. Let's change the subject. Did Matilda Dean come
to see you this afternoon?”

“No. I presume she was too busy. But, Roscoe, it is plain enough why
Captain Dean spoke to you about the Lane at the office this morning. He
must have heard, somehow, that Mr. Colton wished to buy it.”

“Yes. Or, if he didn't hear just that, he heard enough to make him guess
the rest. He is pretty shrewd.”

“You promised him you wouldn't sell without telling him beforehand.
Shall you tell him of Mr. Colton's offer?”

“If he asks me, I shall, I suppose.”

“I wonder what he will do then. Do you suppose he will try to persuade
the Selectmen to buy the Lane for the town?”

“I don't know. I shouldn't wonder.”

“It will be harder to refuse the town's offer.”

“Yes. Although the town can't afford to pay Colton's prices. I believe
that man would have raised his bid to a thousand, if I had let him. As a
matter of business and nothing else, I suppose I am foolish not to push
the price as high as possible and then sell. The land is worthless to
us.”

“I know. But this isn't just a matter of business, is it? And we DON'T
need the money. We're not rich, but we aren't poor, are we, Boy.”

“No. No, of course not. But, Mother, just see what I could do--for
you--with a thousand dollars. Why, there are so many little things,
little luxuries, that you need.”

“I had rather not get them that way. No, Roscoe, I wouldn't sell to Mr.
Colton. And I think I wouldn't sell to the town either.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because we don't have to sell, and selling to either party would
make ill-feeling. I should--of course I'm only a woman; you are a man
and know much more about such things than I--but why not let matters
stay just as they are? The townspeople can use the Lane, just as they
have always done, and, as I told you before, every one has been so kind
to us that I like to feel we are doing a little in return. Let them use
the Lane, without cost. Why not?”

“What do you think the Coltons would say to that?”

“Perhaps they don't understand the real situation. The next time you see
Mr. Colton you could explain more fully; tell him what the Lane means to
the town, and so on. I'm sure he would understand, if you told him that.
And then, if the sight of the wagons was too annoying, he could put up
some kind of a screen, or plant a row of fir trees by the fence. Don't
you think so?”

I imagined the great man's reply to such a suggestion. However, I
did not express my thoughts. I told Mother not to worry, I was sure
everything would be all right, and, as Dorinda called me to supper, I
went into the dining-room.

Lute was waiting for me at the table, and Dorinda, after taking the
tray into Mother's room, joined us. Lute was so full of excitement and
curiosity that he almost forgot to eat, a miracle of itself and made
greater by the fact that he did not ask a single question until his wife
asked one first. Then he asked three in succession. Dorinda, who was
quite as curious as he but would not have shown it for the world,
stopped him at the beginning of the fourth.

“There! there!” she said, sharply, “this is supposed to be a meal, not a
parrot shop, and we're humans, not a passel of birds on a telegraph wire
all hollerin' at once. Drink your tea and stop your cawin', Lute Rogers.
Ros'll tell us when he gets ready. What DID Mr. Colton want of you,
Roscoe?”

I told them as much of the interview at the Coltons' as I thought
necessary they should know. Lute kept remarkably quiet, for him, until
I named the figure offered by the millionaire. Then he could hold in no
longer.

“Five hundred!” he repeated “Five hundred DOLLARS for the Shore Lane!
Five--”

“He raised it to six hundred and fifty before I left,” I said.

“SIX hundred! Six hundred--and FIFTY! For the Shore Lane! Six hun--”

“Sshh! shh!” cut in Dorinda. “You sound like Sim Eldredge sellin'
somethin' at auction. DO be quiet! And you told him, Roscoe--?”

“I told you what I told him,” I said.

“Um-hm. I ain't forgot it. Be quiet, Lute. Well, Roscoe, I cal'late you
know your own affairs best, but, judgin' from some hints Matildy Dean
hove out when she was here this afternoon, I don't believe you've heard
the last from that Shore Lane.”

“Matilda Dean!” I repeated. “Why, Mother said Matilda wasn't here
to-day.”

“Um-hm. Well, she was here, though Comfort didn't know it. I took pains
she shouldn't. Matildy come about three o'clock, in the buggy, along
with Nellie. Nellie was doin' the drivin', of course, and her mother
was tellin' her how, as usual. I don't wonder that girl is such a
meek, soft-spoken kind of thing. Between her pa's bullyin' and her ma's
tongue, it's a wonder she's got any spirit left. It would be a mercy if
George Taylor should marry her and take her out of that house. Matildy
had a new book on Spiritu'lism and she was figgerin' to read some of it
out loud to Comfort, but I headed her off. I know _I_ wouldn't want to
be all stirred up about 'tests' and 'materializations' and such, and so
I told her Comfort was asleep.”

“She wasn't asleep, neither,” declared Lute. “What did you tell such a
whopper as that for? You're always sailin' into me if I stretch a yarn
the least mite. Why, last April Fool Day you give me Hail Columby for
jokin' you about a mouse under the kitchen table. Called me all kinds of
names, you did--after you got down off the table.”

His wife regarded him scornfully. “It's pretty hard to remember which IS
that partic'lar day with you around,” she said. “I'd told Comfort she'd
ought to take a nap and if she wan't takin' it 'twan't my fault. I wan't
goin' to have her seein' her granddad's ghost in every corner. But,
anyhow, Matildy made a little call on me, and, amongst the million other
things she said, was somethin' about Cap'n Jed hearin' that Mr. Colton
was cal'latin' to shut off that Lane. Matildy hinted that her husband
and the Selectmen might have a little to say afore 'twas closed. If
that's so I guess you may hear from him as well as the Colton man,
Roscoe.”

“Perhaps,” I said. I could see no use in repeating my conversation with
Captain Jed.

Dorinda nodded.

“Goin' to tell the town to go--where you sent the other one?” she asked,
dryly.

“I don't know.”

“Humph! Well,” with some sarcasm, “it must be fine to be in a position
where money's no object. I never tried it, myself, but it sounds good.”

I did not answer.

“Um-hm,” she said. “Well, anyhow it looks to me--Lute, you keep
still--as if there was goin' to be two parties in Denboro afore this
Lane business is over. One for the Coltons and one against 'em. You'll
have to take one side or the other, won't you, Roscoe?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Goin' to set on the fence, hey?”

“That's a good place TO sit, isn't it?”

Dorinda smiled, grimly.

“If it's the right kind of a fence, maybe 'tis,” she observed.
“Otherwise the pickets are liable to make you uncomf'table after a
spell, I presume likely.”

I went out soon after this, for my evening smoke and walk by the bluff.
As I left the dining-room I heard Lute reiterating his belief that I
had gone crazy. Colton had said the same thing. I wondered what Captain
Jed's opinion would be.

Whether it was another phase of my insanity or not, I don't know, but
I woke the next morning in pretty good spirits. Remembrance of the
previous day's humiliations troubled me surprisingly little. They did
not seem nearly so great in the retrospect. What difference did it make
to me what that crowd of snobs did or said or thought?

However, there was just enough bitterness in my morning's review of
yesterday's happenings to make me a little more careful in my dress. I
did not expect to meet my aristocratic neighbors--I devoutly wished it
might be my good luck never to meet any of them again--but in making
selections from my limited wardrobe I chose with more thought than
usual. Dorinda noticed the result when I came down to breakfast.

“Got your other suit on, ain't you,” she observed.

“Yes,” said I.

“Goin' anywheres special?”

“No. Down to the boathouse, that's all.”

“Humph! I don't see what you put those blue pants on for. They're awful
things to show water spots. Did you leave your brown ones upstairs?
Um-hm. Well, I'll get at 'em some time to-day. I noticed they was
wearin' a little, sort of, on the bottoms of the legs.”

I had noticed it, too, and this reminder confirmed my suspicions that
others had made the same observations.

“I'll try and mend 'em this afternoon,” went on Dorinda, “if I can find
time. But, for mercy's sake, don't spot those all up, for I may not get
time, and then you'd have to wear your Sunday ones.”

I promised, curtly, to be careful, and, after saying good morning to
Mother, I went down to the boathouse and set to work on the engine. It
was the only thing in the nature of work that I had to do, but, somehow
or other, I did not feel like doing it any more than I had the day
before. A little of my good spirits were wearing off, like the legs of
my “other” trousers, and after an hour of intermittent tinkering I
threw down the wrench and decided to go for a row. The sun was shining
brightly, but the breeze was fresh, and, as my skiff was low in the
gunwale and there was likely to be some water flying, I put on an old
oilskin “slicker” and sou-wester before starting.

I had determined to row across the bay over to the lighthouse, and ask
Ben Small, the keeper, if there were any signs of fish alongshore. The
pull was a long one, but I enjoyed every stroke of it. The tide was
almost full, just beginning to ebb, so there was scarcely any current
and I could make a straight cut across, instead of following the
tortuous channel. My skiff was a flat bottomed affair, drawing very
little, but in Denboro bay, at low tide, even a flat-bottomed skiff has
to beware of sand and eel-grass.

Small was busy whitewashing, but he was glad to see me. If you keep a
lighthouse, the average lighthouse, you are glad to see anybody. He put
his brush into the pail and insisted on my coming to the house, because
“the old woman,” his wife, would want to hear “all the sewin' circle
news.” “It's the biggest hardship of her life,” said Ben, “that she has
to miss sewin' circle when the bay ices in. Soon's it clears she's at me
to row her acrost to the meetin's. I've took her to two this spring,
but she missed the last one, on account of this whitewashin', and she's
crazy to know who's been talked about now. If anything disgraceful has
happened for the land sakes tell her; then she'll he more reconciled.”

I had nothing disgraceful to tell, but Mrs. Small was glad to see
me, nevertheless. She brought out doughnuts and beach-plum jelly and
insisted on my sampling both, the doughnuts because they were just made
and she “mistrusted” there was too much flour in them, and the jelly
because it was some she had left over and she wanted to see if I thought
it was “keepin'” all right. After this, Ben took me out to see his
hens, and then we walked to the back of the beach and talked fish. The
forenoon was almost gone when I got back to the skiff. The tide had
ebbed so far that the lightkeeper and I had to pull the little boat
twenty feet to launch her.

“There!” said Ben, “now you're afloat, ain't you. Cal'late you'll have
to go way 'round Robin Hood's barn to keep off the flats. I forgot about
the tide or I wouldn't have talked so much. Hello! there's another craft
about your size off yonder. Somebody else out rowin'. Two somebodys. My
eyes ain't as good for pickin' em out as they used to be, but one of 'em
IS a female, ain't it?”

I looked over my shoulder, as I sat in the skiff and saw, out in the
middle of the bay, another rowboat with two people in it.

“That ain't a dory or a skiff,” shouted Ben, raising his voice as
I pulled away from him. “Way she sets out of water I'd call her a
lap-streak dingy. If that feller's takin' his girl out rowin' he'll have
to work his passage home against this tide . . . Well, so long, Ros.
Come again.”

I nodded a goodby, and settled down for my long row, a good deal longer
this time on account of the ebb. There was water enough on this side of
the bay, but on the village side the channel made a wide detour and
I should be obliged to follow it for nearly a mile up the bay, before
turning in behind the long sand bar which made out from the point beyond
my boathouse.

The breeze had gone down, which made rowing easier, but the pull of the
tide more than offset this advantage. However, I had mastered that tide
many times before and, except that the delay might make me late for
dinner, the prospect did not trouble me. I swung into the channel and
set the skiff's bow against the current. Then from the beach I had just
left I heard a faint hail. Turning my head, I saw Ben Small waving his
arms. He was shouting something, too, but I was too far away to catch
the words.

The lightkeeper continued to shout and wave. I lifted an oar to show
that he had my attention. He recognized the signal, and began pointing
out over the water astern of me. I looked where he was pointing. I could
not see anything out of the ordinary. Except for my own skiff and the
gulls, and the row boat with the two persons in it there was nothing
astir on the bay. But Ben kept on waving and pointing. At last I decided
that it must be the row boat he was pointing at. I stopped rowing and
looked.

The row boat was a good distance off and its occupants were but specks.
Now one of the specks stood up and waved its arms. So far as I could
see, the boat was drifting; there were no flashes of sunlight on wet
blades to show that the oars were in use. No, it was drifting, and, as I
looked, it swung broadside on. The standing figure continued to wave its
arms.

Those people must be in trouble of some sort, I decided, and it was
evident that Small thought so, too. There could no imminent danger
threaten for, on a day like this, with no sea running, there was nothing
to fear in the bay. If, however, they should drift out of the bay it
might be unpleasant. And they certainly were drifting. I resigned myself
to the indefinite postponement of my dinner, swung the skiff about, and
pulled as hard as I could in the direction of the row boat.

With the tide to help me I made good progress, but, even at that, it
took me some time to overtake the drifting craft. She was, as Ben had
said, a lap-streaked, keel-bottomed dingy--good enough as a yacht's
tender or in deep water, but the worst boat in the world to row about
Denboro bay at low tide. Her high rail caught what breeze there was
blowing and this helped to push her along. However, I got within easy
hailing distance after a while and called, over my shoulder, to ask what
was the matter.

A man's voice answered me.

“We've lost an oar,” he shouted. “We're drifting out to sea. Lend us a
hand, will you?”

“All right,” I answered. “I'll be there in a minute.”

Within the minute I was almost alongside. Then I turned, intending to
speak again; but I did not. The two persons in the dingy were Victor--I
did not know his other name--and Mabel Colton.

I was wearing the oilskin slicker and had pulled down the brim of
my sou'wester to keep the sun from my eyes; therefore they had not
recognized me before. And I, busy at the oars and looking over my
shoulder only occasionally, had not recognized them. Now the recognition
was mutual. Miss Colton spoke first.

“Why, Victor!” she said, “it is--”

“What?” asked her companion. Then, looking at me, “Oh! it's you, is it?”

I did not answer. Luck was certainly against me. No matter where I went,
on land or water, I was fated to meet these two.

Victor, apparently, was thinking the same thing. “By Jove!” he observed;
“Mabel, we seem destined to . . . Humph! Well? Will you give us a hand?”

The most provoking part of it was that, if I had known who was in that
rowboat, I could have avoided the encounter. Ben Small could have gone
to their rescue just as well as I. However, here I was, and here they
were. And I could not very well go away and leave them, under the
circumstances.

Victor's patience was giving way.

“What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Aren't you going to help us?
We'll pay you for it.”

I pulled the skiff a little closer and, drawing in my oars, turned and
picked up the slack of my anchor rope.

“Here,” I said, brusquely; “catch this line and I'll tow you.”

I tossed him the loop of rope and he caught it.

“What shall I do with it?” he asked.

“Hold it, just as it is, for the present. What became of your other
oar?”

“Lost it overboard.”

“Why didn't you throw over your anchor and wait where you were?”

I think he had not thought of the anchor, but he did not deign to
explain. Instead he began pulling on the rope and the two boats drew
together.

“Don't do that,” I said. “Wait.”

I untied the rope, where it was made fast to the skiff's bow, and with
it and the anchor in my hands, scrambled aft and wedged the anchor under
the stern thwart of the little craft.

“Now,” I said, “you can pull in the slack until you get to the end. Then
make it fast to your bow somewhere.”

I suppose he did his best to follow instructions, but the rope was a
short one, the end jerked loose suddenly and he went backward in a heap.
I thought, for an instant, that he was going overboard and that mine
would be the mixed pleasure of fishing him out.

Miss Colton gave a little scream, which changed to a ripple of laughter.
I might have laughed, too, under different circumstances, but just now I
did not feel like it. Besides, the rope, having flown out of his hands,
was in the water again and the two boats were drifting apart.

“What did you do that for?” demanded the fallen one, scrambling to his
knees. I heard a sound from the dingy's stern as if the young lady was
trying to stifle her merriment. Victor, doubtless, heard it, too.

“Where are you going?” he sputtered, angrily. “Give me that rope.”

I gave it to him, literally gave it, for I pulled alongside and put the
end in his hands.

“Tie it in the bow of your boat,” I said. He did so. I drew in the slack
until a fair towing length remained and made it fast. While he was busy
I ventured to glance at Miss Colton. Her eyes were snapping with fun
and she seemed to be enjoying the situation. But, catching my look, her
expression changed. She turned away and looked indifferently out to sea.

I swung the skiff's bow around.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

Victor answered. “Back to Mr. Colton's landing,” he said. “Get as much
of a move on as you can, will you? I'll make it worth your while.”

I was as anxious to get there as he was. I did not care for a quarrel,
and I knew if he continued to use that tone in his remarks to me I
should answer as I felt. I pulled with all my strength, but against the
tide towing was hard work.

Victor sat on the amidships thwart of the dingy, with his back to me.
But Miss Colton, seated in the stern, was facing me and I could not help
looking at her. She did not look at me, or, if she did, it was as if I
were merely a part of the view; nothing to be interested in, one way or
the other.

She was beautiful; there was no doubt of that. Prettier even, in the
blue and white boating costume and rough-and-ready white felt hat, than
she had seemed when I saw her in the auto or her father's library. She
represented the world that I had lost. I had known girls like her. They
had not as much money as she, perhaps, but they were just as well-bred
and refined, and almost as pretty. I had associated with them as an
equal. I wondered what she would say, or think, if she knew that.
Nothing, probably; she would not care enough to think at all. It did
not matter to me what she thought; but I did wish I had not put on those
fool oilskins. I must look more like a country longshoreman than ever.

If I had any doubts about it they were dispelled when I had rowed the
two boats up the bay until we were abreast the Colton mansion. Then
Victor, who had been talking in a low tone with his fellow passenger in
the dingy, looked at the distant shore and, over his shoulder, at me.

“Here!” he shouted. “Where are you going? That's the landing over
there.”

“I know,” I answered. “But we shall have to go around that flat. We
can't cross here.”

“Why? What's the reason we can't?”

“Because there isn't water enough. We should get aground.”

He stood up to look.

“Nonsense!” he said. “There's plenty of water. I can't see any flat, or
whatever you call it.”

“It's there, though you can't see it. It is covered with eelgrass and
doesn't show. We shall have to go a half mile further before we turn
in.”

“A half mile! Why, confound it! it's past one o'clock now. We haven't
any time to waste.”

“I'm sorry, but we can't cross yet. And, if I were you, I shouldn't
stand up in that boat.”

He paid no attention to this suggestion.

“There are half a dozen boats, bigger than these, by the landing,” he
declared. “There is water enough for them. What are you afraid of? We
haven't any time to waste, I tell you.”

I did not answer. Silence, on my part, was the safest thing just then. I
continued rowing up the bay.

Miss Colton spoke to him and he sat down, a proceeding for which I was
thankful. They whispered together for a moment. Then he turned to me.

“See here,” he said; “this lady and I have an appointment. We must get
ashore. Go straight in. If you're afraid I'll take the risk. If there is
any danger I'll pay for that, too.”

There was no question of risk. It was a certainty. I knew that channel.

“We can't cross here,” I said, shortly.

“Why, confound you--”

“Victor!” cautioned Miss Colton.

“Hush, Mabel! This is ridiculous. You and I saw two boats go straight
out from the beach this morning. We went out that way ourselves. Here
you--Paine, or whatever your name is--we've had enough of this. I've
hired you to take us ashore, and I want to go there and not a half mile
in another direction. Will you do as I tell you?”

When the dingy and the other boats crossed the flat the tide had been
hours higher, of course; but I was in no mood to explain--to him.

“No,” I said, shortly.

“You won't? Then you give me an oar and I'll row the rest of the way
myself.”

There were only two oars in the skiff, but I could get on perfectly well
with one. And it would serve him beautifully right to let him go. But
there was the girl. I hesitated.

“Give me that oar,” he repeated, angrily. “You won't? Then, by Jove,
I'll do without it. Stop! Stop where you are! do you understand. We
don't require your services any longer.”

He turned and began untying the tow line. I stopped rowing.

Miss Colton looked troubled.

“Victor!” she cried. “What are you doing?”

“I know what I'm doing. Can't you see this fellow's game? The longer the
row the higher his price, that's all. He can't work me. I've seen his
kind before. Don't be frightened. If we can't do anything else we can
anchor and wait until they see us from the house.”

Idiot! At that point the channel was deep and the bottom soft mud. I
doubted if his anchor would touch and, if it did, I knew it would not
hold. I backed water and brought the skiff alongside the dingy, the rail
of which I seized and held.

“Keep off!” ordered Victor, still fumbling with the rope. “We don't want
your help.”

I wasted no breath on him. I addressed my remarks to the girl.

“Miss Colton,” I said, “will you listen to me, please. You can't anchor
here because your anchor will not hold. And you can't cross that flat at
this stage of the tide. I can give you an oar, of course, but it won't
do any good. My oars are too light and small for your boat. Unless you
wish to drift back where you were, or beyond, you must let me tow you
around the head of this flat.”

I don't know what answer she might have made. None, perhaps; although I
am sure she was listening. But Victor, who had succeeded in untying the
tow line, cut in ahead of her.

“Mabel,” he warned, “don't pay any attention to him. Didn't your father
tell us what he was? There!” throwing the end of the rope overboard
and addressing me; “now, you may clear out. We've done with you.
Understand?”

I looked at Miss Colton. But I might as well have looked at an iceberg.
I slid one of my oars over into the dingy.

“There you are,” I said, grimly. “But I warn you that you're in for
trouble.”

I let go of the rail and the boats fell apart. Victor seized the
borrowed oar with a triumphant laugh.

“Your bluff wouldn't work, would it, Reuben,” he sneered. “I'll send you
the oar and your pay later. Now, Mabel, sit tight. I'll have you ashore
in fifteen minutes.”

He began rowing toward the weed-covered flat. I said nothing. I
was furiously angry and it was some moments before I recovered
self-possession sufficiently to get my remaining oar over the skiff's
stern and, by sculling, hold her against the tide. Then I watched and
waited.

It was not a long wait. Victor was in difficulties almost from the
beginning. The oar belonging to the dingy was a foot longer than the one
I had given him and he zig-zagged wildly. Soon he was in the edge of the
eelgrass and “catching crabs,” first on one side, then on the other.
The dingy's bow slid up on the mud. He stood up to push it off, and the
stern swung around. Getting clear, he took a fresh start and succeeded
only in fouling again. This time he got further into the tangle before
he grounded. The bow rose and the stern settled. There was a mighty
splashing, as Victor pushed and tugged, but the dingy stuck fast. And
there she would continue to stick for four hours unless I, or some one
else, helped her off.

I did not want to help. In fact, I looked all up and down the bay before
I made a move. But it was dinner time and there was not another soul
afloat. More than that, I noticed, as I had not noticed before, that
brown clouds--wind clouds--were piling up in the west, and, if I was
anything of a prophet, we would have squalls and dirty weather long
before those four hours were over. And the dingy, in that position, was
not safe to face a blow. No, as the small boys say, it was “up to me.” I
wished it was not, but it was.

So again I went to the rescue, but this time in an entirely different
frame of mind. My anger and resentment had settled to a cold
determination, and this trip was purely business. I was not at a
disadvantage now, as I had been when I first met that girl and her
friend, in “Big Jim” Colton's library. I was master of this situation
and master I intended to be.

I sculled the skiff straight in to the edge of the flat, at a point
where the bank sloped sharply to deep water. I threw over my anchor,
shortened the rope and made it fast. Then I stepped out into water above
my shoe tops and waded toward the dingy. The water was icy cold, but I
did not know it at the time.

I splashed through the eelgrass. Victor saw me coming and roared an
angry protest. He was still trying to push the boat off with an oar.

“Here!” he shouted. “You keep away. We don't want you.”

I did not care what he wanted. I splashed alongside the dingy and looked
at her and the position she was in. My mind was made up instantly.

“You'll never get her off if you both stay aboard,” I said. “Let the
lady move amidships and you get out and wade.”

He glared at me as if I were as crazy as Colton or Lute had declared me
to be. Then he laughed contemptuously.

“You go back where you came from,” he ordered. “I'm running this.”

“Yes, I've noticed that. Now I'll state the facts as plainly as I can.
This boat is fast aground in the mud, the tide is still going out, and
there are squalls coming. She must be got off or there may be danger.
You can't get her off until she is lightened. Will you get out and
wade?”

He did not answer; instead he continued to push with the oar. I turned
to the girl.

“Miss Colton,” I said, “I must ask you to stand up. Be careful when you
rise.”

She made no move, nor did she reply. The look she gave me was enough.

“You must stand up,” I repeated, firmly. “Either your--this
gentleman--must get out, as I tell him to, or I shall have to carry you
to my skiff. We haven't any time to spare.”

She gazed at me in blank astonishment. Then the color flamed in her
cheeks and her eyes flashed.

“We don't wish your help,” she said, icily.

“I'm sorry, but that makes no difference. I--”

Victor whirled on me, the oar in his hands. I thought for an instant he
was going to strike me with it.

“You blackguard!” he shouted. “Will you go away?”

I looked at him and then at her. It had to be done, and my mind was made
up to do it. I waded in until the water was almost to my knees, and I
was abreast the stern of the stranded boat.

“Miss Colton,” I said, “I am going to carry you to my skiff. Are you
ready?”

“You--Why!--” she breathed.

I stooped, lifted her in my arms, and ploughed through the weeds and
water. The mud was soft and my feet sank into it. She struggled.

“You must keep still,” I said, sharply, “or I shall drop you.”

She gasped, but she stopped struggling. From behind me I heard a roar of
rage from Victor.

I carried her to the anchored skiff and, plunging in still deeper,
seated her on the stern thwart.

“Sit there, please, and don't move,” I said. “I shall be back as soon as
I've got your boat afloat.”

I waded back to the dingy. Victor was frantic, but he did not disturb
me. The worst of my unpleasant job was over.

“Now sit down,” I ordered. “Do you hear me? Sit down and sit still.”

“You--you--” he stammered.

“Because if you don't sit down,” I continued serenely, “you're likely to
tumble overboard. I'm going to push this boat off.”

The first push helped to make up his mind. He sat, involuntarily. I
pushed with all my might and, slowly and jerkily, the dingy slid off
the shoal. But there were others all about. With one hand on the bow
I guided her between them and to the edge of the channel. Then, wading
along the slippery bank, I brought her to the skiff. My passenger had
been making remarks in transit, but I paid no attention to them.

I made the rope fast for towing, took my oar from the dingy, pulled up
the skiff's anchor and climbed aboard.

“Sit where you are,” I said to Victor. “Miss Colton, please keep as
still as possible.”

I ventured to look at her as I said this, but I looked but once. All the
way home I kept my gaze fixed on the bottom boards of the skiff.

I made the landing just in time. In fact, the squall struck before I was
abreast the Colton place. The channel beyond the flat, which we had so
lately left, was whipped to whitecaps in a moment and miniature breakers
were beating against the mud bank where the dingy had grounded.

Under the high bluff it was calm enough. The tide was too low to make
use of the little wharf, so I beached the skiff and drew the towed
boat in by the line. I offered to assist Miss Colton ashore, but she,
apparently, did not see my proffered hand. Victor scrambled out by
himself. No one said anything. I untied the rope and pulled it in. Then
I prepared to push off.

“Here!” growled Victor. “Wait a minute.”

I looked up. He was standing at the edge of the water, with one hand in
his pocket. Miss Colton was behind him.

“Well?” I asked.

“I haven't paid you yet,” he said, sullenly. “How much?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I knew, of course, but it pleased me to
make him say it.

“Why, how much for towing us in? What's your price? Come, hurry up.”

“I haven't any price. I'm not in the salvage business.”

“Not--Say, don't bargain. What's your price, I ask you?”

“Nothing, of course. Very glad to have been of assistance.”

I took up my oars.

“Here!” he shouted. “Stop! hold on! Confound you! do you suppose we
don't intend to pay you for this?”

I shook my head. “It has been a pleasure,” I said, sweetly. “Good day.”

I rowed off, but all the way down to my boathouse I smiled contentedly.
I had seen the look on Mabel Colton's face. I rather thought I had
evened the account between us; at least I had reduced the balance a
trifle. This time it was not I who appeared ridiculous.

Dorinda saw me when I entered the kitchen. Her hands were upraised.

“My soul and body!” she exclaimed. “LOOK at them pants! LOOK at 'em! And
I ain't had time to put a needle to your other ones yet!”



CHAPTER VI


The rain, which I expected would follow the squall, did not come until
late that night, and it was still falling heavily the next morning.
It was a warm rain, however, and, after breakfast, I walked up to the
village. I said nothing, even to Mother, about the happenings in the
bay, and Dorinda, who had asked many sarcastic questions concerning the
state of my blue trousers--if I had “mistook 'em for a bathin' suit” and
the like--seemed satisfied with my hurried explanation that I had gotten
overboard. “Though how you fell in feet fust,” she observed, “I don't
see.” She had mended my brown pair, sitting up until after two to do so.

Lute informed me that he had been up to the post-office. “Everybody's
talkin' about them Coltons,” he declared. “I see their automobile last
night, myself. The Colton girl, she come into the store. My! she's a
stunner, ain't she! Sim waited on her, himself, and gave her the mail.
She wanted to buy some cheese--for a rabbit, she said. I never heard of
feeding a rabbit on cheese, did you, Ros?”

“No,” I replied, laughing. It was not worth while to explain.

“Nor nobody else, but her! I guess,” continued Lute, “likely she was
just jokin'. Anyhow, Sim was all out of cheese, but he had some nice
print butter, just in. She didn't want no butter, though.”

“Humph!” sniffed Dorinda. “Did Sim Eldredge cal'late she wanted to feed
the rabbit butter? Was the Colton girl alone?”

“No. There was a young feller with her; the one that's visitin' 'em.
Carver his name is--Victor Carver. Did you ever hear such a name in your
life? Afore I'd name a child of mine Victor!”

“Um-hm. Well, I wouldn't waste time worryin' about that, if I was you.
Look here, Lute Rogers, you didn't say anything about Roscoe's talk with
Mr. Colton, did you?”

“No, no! no, no! Course I didn't.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. 'Taint likely I would, would I? Cap'n Jed was on hand, as usual,
and he was full of questions, but he didn't get anything out of me.
'What did Colton say to Ros?' he says. 'How do I know what he said?'
says I. 'I wan't there, was I?' 'Where was you that forenoon?' he says.
'Forenoon!' says I, 'that shows how much you know about it. 'Twas three
o'clock in the afternoon.' Oh, I had the laugh on him!”

Dorinda looked at me and shook her head.

“It's too bad, Roscoe,” she said. “But I was afraid of it as soon as I
found he'd sneaked off to the post-office. I cal'late it's all over town
by now.”

“What do you mean by that?” Lute's dignity was outraged. “All over town!
I never told him nothin'.”

“No. Only that Ros and Mr. Colton were together and 'twas three o'clock
in the afternoon. And goodness knows how much more! DO be quiet! Seems
sometimes as if I should lose patience with you altogether. Is this
Carver the Colton girl's young man? Are they engaged?”

“I don't know. I guess he's keepin' company with her, by the looks. I
got as nigh to 'em as I could, but I didn't hear much they said. Only,
just as they was goin' out, he said somethin' about goin' for a little
spin in the car. She said no, her father would want his letters. Carver,
he said, why not send Oscar home--that's the chauffeur, you know--with
the letters, and he'd run the car himself. She kind of laughed, and said
she guessed not, she'd taken one trip with him already that day and she
didn't believe she cared for another. He seemed kind of put out about
it, I thought.”

I had been feeling rather provoked at Lute for giving Captain Jed the
information concerning my interview with Colton; but, somehow, this
other bit of news restored my good humor. When I started for the village
I did not take the short cut across the fields, but followed my regular
route, the path by the bluff and the Shore Lane. I was no longer fearful
of meeting my new neighbors. The memory of the happenings in the bay was
a delightful solace to my wounded self-respect. I chuckled over it as
I walked through the dripping pines of the little grove. No matter how
contemptuously indifferent that girl might pretend to be she would
not forget what had taken place; that she had been obliged to obey my
orders; that I had carried her to that skiff; that I had saved her from
a danger--not a great danger, and against her will, of course--but saved
her nevertheless. She was under an obligation to me; she could not help
herself. How that must gall her. I remembered the look on her face as I
rowed away. Sweet was revenge. And Victor--Victor was a joke.

When I reached the Lane I looked over at the Colton mansion. The rain
had given the carpenters and painters an enforced holiday, and, except
for the chauffeur, whom I could see through the open door of the garage,
there was no one in sight. I think I was a little disappointed. If “Big
Jim” had appeared and hailed me with another offer for the land I should
not have dodged. I was ready for him. But neither he, or any one else,
appeared and I walked on.

At the Corners, Sim Eldredge shouted to me from the platform of his
store.

“Hi, Ros!” he shouted. “You! Ros Paine! come here a minute, will you?”

I did not want to see him. I had intended avoiding the post-office
altogether. But I crossed to the platform.

“Say, Ros,” he asked eagerly, “what's this about you and Mr. Colton?”

I was annoyed.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Why, you know, don't you? He come to see you and you went to see him
over to his house. You had a reg'lar argument, I understand. About the
Shore Lane, wan't it?”

“Who told you that?” I inquired, sharply.

“Why, nobody told me, exactly. Lute Rogers and Cap'n Jed was here last
night and they got a-goin' as usual. The Cap'n does love to stir up
Lute, and he commenced hintin' about somethin' of the kind. I don't know
as they was hints, either, but Lute thought they was.”

He grinned. I understood.

“I see,” I said. “Well, what did Lute say?”

“I suppose he'd say he never said a word, but after he'd gone there was
a kind of general sentiment that Colton wanted to buy the Shore Lane
land off you, and that you and he had some words about it. Anyhow, you
didn't sell the land, did you?”

“Suppose I did, or didn't; what of it?”

“Why, nothin', nothin'. Only, I tell you, Ros--” he looked carefully
about to make sure no one was listening; “I tell you; it's just this
way. I can understand how you feel about it. You know Dean and some of
the others are sore on Mr. Colton 'cause he's got more money than they
have, and they want to make all the trouble for him they can. Jed's got
an idea that he's after that Lane, to close it off, and he's stirrin' up
sentiment against its bein' closed. He's talkin' about the town buyin'
it. Now of course I know your position. You want to get just as high a
price as you can afore you sell.”

“That's my position, is it?”

“It would be the position of any sensible man, wouldn't it? I don't
blame you. Now, what I wanted to say was this.” He bent forward and
lowered his voice to a whisper. “Why don't you let me handle this thing
for you? I can do it better'n you. I see Cap'n Jed every night, you
might say. And I see consider'ble of Mr. Colton. He knows I'm postmaster
in this town and sort of prominent. All the smart folks ain't in the
Board of Selectmen. I'll keep you posted; see? You just set back and
pretend you don't want to sell at all. Colton, he'll bid and Jed and
his gang'll bid. I'll tell each what the other bids, and we'll keep her
jumpin'. When we get to the last jump, we'll sell--and not afore. Of
course Mr. Colton 'll get it, in the end.”

“Oh, he will! What makes you think so?”

“What makes me think so? Don't be foolish. Ain't he a millionaire? How
can Denboro stand up against a millionaire? I tell you, Ros, it's money
counts in this world, and it pays to stand in with them that's got it.
I'm goin' to stand in with Mr. Colton. But I'll pretend to stand in with
Dean just as much. I can help a whole lot. Why, I shouldn't wonder if,
between us, we could get--er--er--I don't know how much, for that land.
What do you say?”

I smiled. “It's very kind of you, Sim, to be willing to go to so much
trouble on my account,” I observed. “I didn't know there was such
disinterested kindness in Denboro.”

Sim seemed a bit put out. “Why,” he stammered, “I--I--of
course I presumed likely you'd be willin' to pay me a little
commission--or--or--somethin'. I thought I might be a sort of--er--agent
for you. I've handled consider'ble real estate in my time--and--you see
what I mean, don't you?”

“Yes,” I said, drily; “I see. Well, Sim, if I decide to engage an agent
I'll let you know. Good morning.”

“But, hold on, Ros! I--”

I did not “hold on.” I walked across the road and entered the bank.
Alvin Baker met me in the vestibule. He seized my hand and shook it
violently.

“I declare,” he exclaimed, “it does me good to shake hands with a feller
that's got the grit you have. It does so! We're all proud of you.”

“Much obliged, Alvin, I'm sure. But why?”

He winked and nudged me with his elbow.

“You know why, all right,” he whispered. “Wouldn't sell him the land,
would you? Tell me: Did he make you a real bid for it? Lute as much as
said he did.”

For a person who had told nothing, Lute seemed to have “as much as said”
 a good many things. I shook my head.

“So you think I shouldn't sell the land?” I asked.

“Course you shouldn't--not to him. Ain't there such things as public
spirit and independence? But I'll tell you somethin' more, Ros,”
 mysteriously. “You may have a chance to sell it somewhere else.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir-ee! indeed! There's other public-spirited folks in Denboro as
well as you. I know who they be and I stand in with 'em pretty close,
too. I'm goin' to help you all I can.”

“That's very kind of you, Alvin.”

“No, no. I'm glad to do it. Shan't charge you nothin', neither.”

“That's kinder still.”

“No, 'tain't. . . Hold on a minute, Ros. Don't go. As I say, I'm goin'
to work tooth and nail to get the town to buy that Lane property of
yours. I'll stick out for you're gettin' a good price for it. I'll use
all my influence.”

“Thank you.”

“You needn't thank me. It's a matter of principle. We'll show these city
folks they ain't the whole ship, cargo and all. . . . Hold on a second
more. Ros, I--er--I wonder if you'd do a little favor for me.”

“What is it, Alvin?”

“Why, it's this way. I've got a note here in the bank; put it there when
I bought the power engine for my cat-boat. Hundred and fifty dollars,
'tis. You're a pretty good friend of George Taylor, cashier here, and I
was wonderin' if you'd mind puttin' in a word with him about my gettin'
it renewed when it comes due. Just tell him you think I'm all right, and
a good risk, or somethin' like that.”

I could not help smiling. Alvin seemed to find encouragement in the
smile.

“George thinks consider'ble of you,” he said. “And Captain Jed--he's one
of the directors--he will, too, now that you've stood up to Colton. Just
put in a word for me, will you? And don't forget I'm a friend of yours,
and I'm strong for your gettin' a good, fair price from the town.
Remember that, won't you?”

“I won't forget, Alvin. Good-by.”

I left him and went into the bank. Henry Small, the bookkeeper, was at
his desk. I walked over to speak to him, but he, looking up from his
figures, spoke first. There was, or so it seemed to me, a different note
in his greeting. It was more hearty, I thought. Certainly he regarded me
with a new and curious interest.

“Morning, Ros,” he said. “Well, how are you these days?”

I answered that I was well, and was moving on but he detained me.

“Lively times ahead, hey,” he whispered.

“What sort of times?” I asked.

He winked. “I guess you know, if anybody does,” he observed. “All right,
you'll have good friends on your side. I ain't saying anything, of
course, but I'm on, all right.”

He winked again. I walked back to the cashier's window. Taylor had,
evidently, seen me talking with the bookkeeper, for he was standing by
the little gate, waiting for me.

“Hello, Ros,” he said. “Glad to see you. Come in.”

George Taylor was a type of smart country boy grown to manhood in
the country. His tone, like his manner, was sharp and quick and
businesslike, but he spoke with the Down-East twang and used the Cape
phrases and metaphors. He was younger than I, but he looked older, and,
of late, it had seemed to me that he was growing more nervous. We shook
hands.

“Glad to see you,” he said again. “I was hoping you'd drift in. I
presumed likely you might. Sit down.”

I took the proffered chair. He looked at me with much the same curious
interest that Small had shown.

“We've been hearing about you,” he said. “You've been getting yourself
talked about.”

I mentally cussed Lute once more for his loquacity.

“I'll break the fellow's neck,” I declared, with emphasis.

He laughed. “Don't do that yet awhile,” he said. “The market is in bad
enough shape as it is. If his neck was broke the whole of Wall Street
would go to pot.”

“Wall Street? What in the world has Lute got to do with Wall Street?”

“Lute! Oh, I see! Yes, Lute's been doing considerable talking, but it
ain't his neck I mean. Say, Ros, what did you do to him, anyway? You
stirred him up some, judging by what he said to me.”

“Who said? What?”

“Why, Colton. He was in here yesterday. Opened what he called a
household account; that was his main business. But he asked about you,
along with it.”

This explained some things. It was clear now why Small had appeared so
interested. “Oh!” I said.

“You bet he did. Wanted to know if I knew you, and what you were, and so
on. I told him I knew you pretty well. 'What sort of a fellow is he?
A damn fool?' he asked. I strained the truth enough to say you were a
pretty good fellow and a long ways from that kind of a fool, according
to my reckoning. 'Umph!' says he. 'Is he rich?' I told him I guessed you
wan't so rich that you got round-shouldered lugging your money. 'Why?'
says I, getting curious. 'Have you met him, Mr. Colton? If you have you
ought to have sized him up yourself. I always heard you were a pretty
fair judge.' He looked at me kind of funny. 'I thought I was,' says he,
'but you seem to raise a new variety down here.' Then I guess he thought
he'd said enough. At any rate, he walked off. What did you and he say to
each other, Ros?”

I did not answer immediately. When I did the answer was non-committal.
“Oh, we had a business interview,” I said.

He nodded. “Well,” he observed, “I suppose it's your affair and not
mine. But, I tell you this, Ros: if it's what I suppose it is, it'll be
everybody's affair pretty soon.”

“You think so, do you?”

“I know so. Cap'n Jed's a fighter and he is on the war path. The two
sides are lining up already. Whichever way you decide you'll make
enemies, of course.”

I shrugged my shoulders. The prospect of enemies, more or less, in
Denboro, did not trouble me.

“But you'll have to decide,” he went on, “who you'll sell to.”

“Or not sell at all,” I suggested.

“Can you afford to do that? There'll be money--a whole lot of money--in
this before it's over, if I know the leaders on both sides. You've got
the whip-hand. There'll be money in it. Can you afford to let it slip?”

I did not answer. Suddenly his expression changed. He looked haggard and
care-worn.

“By the Almighty,” he said, between his teeth, and without looking at
me, “I wish I had your chance.”

“Why?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. . . . How's your mother nowadays?”

I told him that my mother was much as usual, and we talked of various
things.

“By the way,” he said, “I've got some news for you. Nothing surprising.
I guess all hands have seen it coming. I'm engaged to be married.”

“Good!” said I, with as much heartiness as I could answer; marriage did
not interest me. “Congratulations, George. Nellie Dean, of course.”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad for you. And for her. She'll make you a good wife, I'm sure.”

He drew a long breath. “Yes,” he said slowly, “Nellie's a good girl.”

“When is the--what do they call it? the happy event to take place?”

“In the fall some time, if all goes well. I hope it will.”

“Humph! Yes, I should think you might hope as much as that. Why
shouldn't it go well?”

“Hey? Oh, of course it will!” He laughed and rose from his chair as
several men came into the bank. “I'll have to leave you, Ros,” he said.
“There's a directors' meeting this morning. They're coming now.”

As I passed out of the gate and through the group of directors I noticed
that they also regarded me with interest. Two, men from neighboring
towns whom I scarcely knew, whispered to each other. Captain Elisha
Warren shook hands with me and inquired concerning Mother. The last of
the group was Captain Jedediah Dean, and he touched me on the shoulder.

“Ros,” he whispered, “you're all right. Understand? I say you're all
right.”

“Thanks,” I answered, briefly.

“I heard about it,” he whispered. “Ase Peters said the Grand Panjandrum
was cranky as a shark with the toothache all day yesterday. You must
tell me the yarn when we get together. I missed you when I called just
now, but I'll be down again pretty soon. You won't lose nothin' by this.
So long.”

As I came down the bank steps Sim Eldredge called across the road.

“Good-by, Ros,” he shouted. “Come in again next time you're up street.”

In all my period of residence in Denboro I had never before been treated
like this. People had never before gone out of their way to shake hands
with me. No one had considered it worth while to ask favors of me.
Sim and Alvin were not to be taken seriously, of course, and both were
looking after their own pocketbooks, but their actions were straws
proving the wind to be blowing in my direction. I thought, and smiled
scornfully, that I, all at once, seemed to have become a person of some
importance.

But my scorn was not entirely sincere. There was a certain gratification
in the thought. I might pretend--I had pretended--that Denboro opinion,
good or bad, was a matter of complete indifference to me. I had assumed
myself a philosopher, to whom, in the consciousness of right, such
trifles were of no consequence. But, philosophy or not, the fact
remained that I was pleased. People might dislike me--as that lofty
Colton girl and her father disliked me, though they could dislike me
no more than I did them--but I could compel them to respect me. They
already must think of me as a man. And so on--as I walked home through
the wet grass. It was all as foolish and childish and ridiculous as it
well could be. I deserved what was coming to me--and I got it.

For, as I came down the Lane, I met Oscar, the chauffeur, and a
companion, whom I judged to be a fellow servant--the coachman, I learned
afterwards--walking in the direction of the village. The rain had
ceased, but they wore natty raincoats and caps and had the city air of
smartness which I recognized and envied, even in them. The footpath was
narrow, but they apparently had no intention of stepping to one side,
so I made way for them. They whispered together as they approached and
looked at me curiously as we passed. A few steps further on I heard them
both burst out laughing. I caught the words, from Oscar, “fool Rube” and
“the old man'll make him look--” I heard no more, but as I turned into
the grove I saw them both looking after me with broad grins on their
faces.

Somebody has said that there is nothing harder to bear than the contempt
and ridicule of servants. For one thing, you cannot resent it without a
loss of dignity, and, for another, you may be perfectly sure that theirs
is but the reflection of their employers' frame of mind. This encounter
shook my self-satisfaction more than a little. It angered me, but it did
more than that; it brought back the feeling I had when I left the Colton
library, that my defiance was not, after all, taken seriously. That I
was regarded by Colton as just what Oscar had termed me, a “fool Rube.”
 When George Taylor told me of the great man's questions concerning my
foolishness, I accepted the question as a tribute to my independence.
Now I was not so sure.

Dorinda met me at the door.

“You've had two callers,” she said.

“So? Who were they?”

“One of 'em was Cap'n Jed. He drove down just after you left. He come to
see you about that land, I cal'late.”

“Oh, yes. I remember he told me he missed me this morning. So he came
here?”

“Um-hm. Him and me had a little talk. He seemed to know consider'ble
about your rumpus with Mr. Colton.”

“How did he know?”

“He wouldn't say, but I wouldn't wonder if he got a lot from Ase Peters.
Ase and he are pretty thick; he's got a mortgage on Ase's house, you
know. And Ase, bein' as he's doin' the carpenterin' over to Colton's,
hears a lot from the servants, I s'pose likely. Leastways, if they don't
tell all their bosses' affairs they're a new breed of hired help, that's
all I've got to say. Cap'n Jed says Mr. Colton cal'lates you're a fool.”

“Yes. So I've heard. What did the Captain say to that?”

“Seemed to think 'twas a pretty good joke. He said he didn't care how
big a fool you was so long's you was feeble-minded on the right side.”

So there it was again. My imagined importance in the eyes of the
townspeople simmered down to about that. I was an imbecile, but they
must pretend to believe me something else because I owned something they
wanted. Well, I still owned it.

“Of course,” continued Dorinda, “I didn't tell him you was figgerin' not
to sell the land at all. If I had, I s'pose he'd have thought--”

She stopped short.

“You suppose what?” I asked.

“Oh, nothin'.”

She had said enough. I could guess the rest. I walked to the window and
stood, looking out. The clouds were breaking and, as I stood there, a
ray of sunlight streamed through a rift and struck the bay just at the
spot where the dingy had grounded. The shallow water above the flat
flashed into fire. I am not superstitious, as a general thing, but the
sight comforted me. It seemed like an omen. There was the one bright
spot in the outlook. There, at least, I had not behaved like a “fool
Rube.” There I had compelled respect and been taken seriously.

Dorinda spoke again.

“You ain't asked who your other caller was,” she observed.

“Was there another?”

“Um-hm. I told you there was two. After Cap'n Jed left that chauffeur
feller from the big house come here. He fetched a note for you. Here
'tis.”

I took the note. It was addressed to me in a man's handwriting, not that
of “Big Jim” Colton. I opened the envelope and read:


Roscoe Paine.

Sir: The enclosed is in payment for your work. No receipt is necessary.

Yours truly,

B. VICTOR CARVER.


The “enclosed” was a five-dollar bill.

I stood staring at the note. Then I began to laugh.

“What's the joke?” asked Dorinda, who had not taken her eyes from my
face.

“This,” said I, handing her the money. She looked at it in astonishment.

“Um-hm,” she said, drily. “Well, I--well, a five-dollar bill may be a
joke to you, but _I_ ain't familiar enough with one to laugh at it. You
don't laugh as if 'twas awful funny, either. Who's the joke on?”

“It's on me, just now.

“Um-hm. I'd be willin' to be joked ten times a day, at that price. And
I'd undertake to laugh heartier than you're doin', too. What's it for?
the money, I mean.”

“It's for some 'work' I did yesterday.”

She was more astonished than ever.

“Work! You?” she exclaimed.

“Yes. But don't worry; I shan't do it again.”

“Land! THAT wouldn't worry me. What sort of work was it?”

“Oh, I--I picked up something adrift in the bay.”

“Um-hm. I see. Somethin' belongin' to the Coltons, I s'pose likely. Why
won't you do it again? Ain't they paid you enough?”

Again I laughed. “They have paid me too much,” I said, bitterly. “What I
picked up wasn't worth the money.”



CHAPTER VII


And that, in the end, was the answer I sent to Carver with his five
dollars. I spent an hour in my room trying to compose and write a
sarcastic reply to his note, but I finally gave it up. Then I put the
money in an envelope, addressed the latter, and sent it to the big house
by Lute. Lute was delighted with the errand.

“You'll explain to Dorindy, will you?” he asked. “She cal'lates I'm
goin' to clean the henhouse. But I can do that some other time.”

“You can--yes.”

“Do you know--” Lute leaned against the clothes post and prepared to
philosophize. “Do you know,” he observed, “that I don't take no stock in
cleanin' henhouses and such?”

“Don't you? I'm surprised.”

“You're surprised 'cause you ain't thought it out. That's my way; I
always think things out. Most folks are selfish. They want to do what
they want to do, and they want others to want the same thing. If the
others don't want it, then they like to make 'em have it; anyhow.
Dorindy is crazy on cleanin'. She wouldn't live in a dirty house no
more'n she'd live in a lobster pot. It's the way she's made. But a hen
ain't made that way. A hen LIKES dirt; she scratches in it and digs
holes in it to waller in, and heaves it over herself all day long. If
you left it to the hens would THEY clean their house? I guess not! So, I
say what's the use of cruelizin' 'em by makin' 'em live clean when they
don't want to? I--”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Lute, you're wasting your breath. It is
Dorinda you should explain all this to, not to me. And you're wasting my
time. I want you to take that envelope to Mr. Carver; and I want you to
go now.”

“Well, I'm goin', ain't I? I was only just sayin'--”

“Say it when you come back. And if Mr. Carver asks you why I sent that
envelope to him be sure and give him the message I gave you. Do you
remember it?”

“Sartin. That what you done wan't wuth so much.”

“Not exactly. That what I saved wasn't worth it.”

“All right. I'll remember. But what did you save, Ros? Dorindy says
'twas somethin' you found afloat in the bay. If it was somethin'
belongin' to them Coltons I'd have took the money, no matter what the
thing was wuth. They can afford to pay and, if I was you, I'd take the
reward.”

“I have my reward. Now go.”

I had my reward and I believed it worth much more than five dollars.
I had learned my lesson. I knew now exactly how I was regarded by the
occupants of the big house and by the townspeople as well. I should
cherish no more illusions as to my importance in their eyes. I meant to
be really independent from that time on. I did not care--really did not
care--for anything or anybody outside my immediate household. I was back
in the position I had occupied for years, but with one difference: I had
an ambition now. It was to make both sides in the Shore Lane controversy
realize that George Taylor was right when he said I had the whip-hand.
By the Almighty, they should dance when I cracked that whip!

My first opportunity to crack it came a day or two later, when Captain
Dean called upon me. He had a definite proposition to make, although
his Yankee shrewdness and caution prevented his making it until he had
discussed the weather and other unimportant trifles. Then he leaned
against the edge of my work-bench--we were in the boathouse--and began
to beat up to windward of his proposal.

“Ros,” he said, “you remember I told you you was all right, when I met
you at the bank t'other day.”

“I remember,” I answered.

“Yes. Well, I cal'late you know what I meant by that.”

I did not pretend ignorance of his meaning.

“I presume,” I replied, “that you meant I was right in not selling that
strip of land to Mr. Colton.”

“That's what I meant. You kept your promise to me and I shan't forget
it. Nor the town won't forget it, neither. Would you mind tellin' me
just what happened between you and His Majesty?”

“Not at all. He said he wanted to buy the Shore Lane strip and I refused
to sell it to him. He said I was crazy and an infernal robber and I told
him to go to the devil.”

“WHAT! you didn't!”

“I did.”

Captain Jed slapped his knee and shouted in delight. He insisted on
shaking hands with me.

“By the great and everlastin'!” he declared, between laughs, “you're
all right, Ros Paine! I said you was and now I'll swear to it. Told old
Colton to go to the devil! If that ain't--oh, I wish I'd been there!”

I went on sand-papering a valve plug. He walked up and down the floor,
chuckling.

“Well,” he said, at last, “you've made yourself solid in Denboro,
anyhow. And I told you you shouldn't lose nothin' by it. The Selectmen
held a meetin' last night and they feel, same as me, that that Shore
Lane shan't be shut off. You understand what that means to you, don't
you?”

I looked at him, coolly.

“No,” I answered.

“You don't! It means the town's decided to buy that strip of land of
yours. Definitely decided, practically speakin'. Now what'll you sell it
to us for?”

I put down the valve plug. “Captain,” said I, “that land is not for
sale.”

“Not for SALE? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I have decided not to sell it, for the present, at least.
Neither to Colton nor any one else.”

He could not believe it. Of course I would not sell it to Colton. Colton
was a stuck-up, selfish city aristocrat who thought all creation ought
to belong to him. But the town was different. Did I realize that it was
the town I lived in that was asking to buy now? The town of which I was
a citizen? Think of what the town had done for me.

“Very well,” I answered. “I'm willing to think. What has it done for
me?”

It had--it had--well, it had done a whole lot. As a citizen of that town
I owed it a--a--

“Look here, Captain Dean,” I interrupted, “there's no use in our arguing
the matter. I have decided not to sell.”

“Don't talk so foolish. Course you'll sell if you get money enough.”

“So Colton said, but I shan't.”

“Ros, I ain't got any authority to do it, but I shouldn't wonder if I
could get you three hundred dollars for that strip.”

“It isn't a question of price.”

“Rubbish! Anything's a question of price.”

“This isn't. If it was I probably should have accepted Mr. Colton's
offer of six hundred and fifty.”

“Six hun--! Do you mean to say he offered you six hundred and fifty
dollars for that little mite of land, and you never took him up?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you must be a . . . Humph! Six hundred and fifty! The town can't
meet no such bid as that, of course.”

“I don't expect it to.”

He regarded me in silence. He was chagrined and angry; his florid face
was redder than ever; but, more than all, he was puzzled.

“Well,” he observed, after a moment, “this beats me, this does! Last
time we talked you was willin' to consider sellin'. What's changed you?
What's the reason you won't sell? What business reason have you got for
not doin' it?”

I had no business reason at all. Except for Mother's counsel not to
sell, which was based upon sentiment and nothing else, and my own
stubbornness, I had no reason at all. Yet I was, if anything, more firm
in my resolve.

“How about the Lane?” he demanded. “You know what that Lane means to
Denboro?”

“I know what you say it means. The townspeople can continue to use the
Lane, just as they always have, so long as they behave themselves. There
is no use of our talking further, Captain. I've made up my mind.”

He went away, soon after, but he asked another question.

“Will you do this much for me?” he asked. “Will you promise me not to
sell the land to Colton?”

“No,” I said, “I will make no promise of any kind, to anybody.”

“Oh,” with a scornful sniff, “I see. I'm on to you. You're just hangin'
out for a big price. I might have known it. You're on Colton's side,
after all.”

I rose. I was angry now.

“I told you price had nothing to do with it,” I said, sharply. “I am on
no one's side. The town is welcome to use the Lane; that I have told you
already. There is nothing more to be said.”

He shook his head.

“I don't make many mistakes,” he observed, slowly; “but I guess I've
made one. You're a whole lot deeper'n I thought you was.”

So much for the proletariat. I heard from the plutocrats next day.
Sim Eldredge dropped in on me. After much wriggling about the bush he
intimated that he knew of Captain Jedediah's call and what had taken
place.

“You done just right, Ros,” he whispered. He had a habit of whispering
as the Captain had of shouting. “You done just right. Keep 'em guessin';
keep em guessin'. Jed's all upsot. He don't know whether he's keel down
or on his beam ends. He'll be makin' a higher bid pretty soon. Say,”
 with a wink, “I see Colton last night.”

“Did you?”

“Yup. Oh, I give him a jolt. I hinted that the town had made you a fine
offer and you was considerin' it.”

“What did you do that for? Who gave you the right to--”

“Sshh! Don't holler. Somebody might be listenin'. I come through the
woods and round the beach so's I wouldn't be seen. What do you s'pose
Colton said?”

“I don't care what he said.”

“You will when I tell you. He as much as offered a thousand dollars for
that land. My crimps! a thousand! think of that! I presume likely you
wouldn't take that, would you, Ros?”

“Sim, I'll tell you, as I told Captain Jed, that land is not for sale.”

I tried to make that statement firm and sharp enough to penetrate even
his wooden head; but he merely winked again.

“All right,” he whispered, hastily, “all right. I guess perhaps you're
correct in hangin' on. Still, a thousand is a lot of money, even after
you take out my little commission. But you know best. You put your trust
in me. I'll keep her jumpin'. I understand. Good-by.”

He went out hurriedly, and, though I shouted after him, he only waved
and ducked behind a beach-plum bush. He did not believe me serious in
my refusal to sell; neither did Dean, or Colton, or, apparently, any one
else. They all thought me merely shrewd, a sharp trader driving a hard
bargain, as they would have done in my place. They might think so, if
they wished; I should not explain. As a matter of fact, I could not have
explained my attitude, even to myself.

Yet this very attitude made a difference, a perceptible difference, in
my position in Denboro. I noticed it each time I went up to the village.
I saw the groups at the post-office and at the depot turn to watch me
as I approached and as I went away. Captain Jedediah did not mention the
Lane again--at least for some time--but he always hailed me cordially
when we met and seemed anxious to be seen in my company. Eldredge, of
course, was effusive; so was Alvin Baker. And other people, citizens of
consequence in the town, who had heretofore merely bowed, now stopped
to speak with me on the street. Members of the sewing circle called
on Mother more frequently, and Matilda Dean, Captain Jed's wife, came
regularly once a week. Sometimes she saw Mother and sometimes she did
not, depending upon Dorinda's state of mind at the time.

Lute, always a sort of social barometer, noticed the change in the
weather.

“Everybody's talkin' about you, Ros,” he declared. “They cal'late you're
a pretty smart feller. They don't just understand what you're up to, but
they think you're pretty smart.”

“No?” I commented, ironically. “Lute, you astonish me. Why am I smart?”

“Well, they don't know exactly, but they cal'late you must be. Oh,
I hear things. Cap'n Jed said t'other night you'd make a pretty good
Selectman.”

“_I_ would? A Selectman?”

“Yup. He as much as hinted that to me; wondered if you'd take the
nomination provided he could fix it for you. Sim Eldredge and Alvin and
some more all said they'd vote for you if they got a chance. ARE you
figgerin' to charge toll on the Lane?”

“Toll? What put that idea in your head?”

“Nothin', only some of the fellers wondered if you was. You see, you
won't sell, and so--”

“I see. That's a brilliant suggestion, Lute. When I adopt it I'll
appoint you toll-keeper.”

“By time! I wish you would. I'd make Thoph Newcomb pay up. He owes me
ten cents; bet it one time and never settled.”

Yes, my position in Denboro had changed. But I took no pride in the
change, as I had at first; I knew the reason for this sudden burst of
popularity. The knowledge made me more cynical than ever--cynical, and
lonely. For the first time since I came to the Cape I longed for a real
friend, not a relative or an acquaintance, but a friend to trust and
confide in. Some one, with no string of his own to pull, who cared for
me because I was myself.

And all the time I had such a friend and did not realize it. The
knowledge came to me in this way. Mother had one of her seizures, one
of the now infrequent “sinking spells,” as the doctor called them, on an
evening when I was alone with her. Dorinda and Lute had gone, with the
horse and buggy, to visit a cousin in Bayport. They were to stay over
night and return before breakfast the next morning.

I was alone in the dining-room when Mother called my name. There was
something in her tone which alarmed me and I hastened to her bedside.
One glance at her face was enough.

“Boy,” she said, weakly, “I am afraid I am going to be ill. I have tried
not to alarm you, but I feel faint and I am--you won't be alarmed, will
you? I know it is nothing serious.”

I told her not to worry and not to talk. I hurried out to the kitchen,
got the hot water and the brandy, made her swallow a little of
the mixture, and bathed her forehead and wrists with vinegar, an
old-fashioned restorative which Dorinda always used. She said she felt
better, but I was anxious and, as soon as it was safe to leave her,
hurried out to bring the doctor. She begged me not to go, because it
was beginning to rain and I might get wet, but I assured her it was not
raining hard, and went.

It was not raining hard when I started, but there was every sign of
a severe storm close at hand. It was pitch dark and I was weary from
stumbling through the bushes and over the rough path when I reached the
corner of the Lane and the Lower Road. Then a carriage came down that
road. It was an open wagon and George Taylor was the driver. He had been
up to the Deans' and was on his way home.

I hailed the vehicle, intending to ask for a ride, but when Taylor
discovered who his hailer was he insisted on my going back to the house.
He would get the doctor, he said, and bring him down at once. I was
afraid he would be caught in the storm, and hesitated in accepting the
offer, but he insisted. I did go back to the house, found Mother in much
the same condition as when I left her, and had scarcely gotten into the
kitchen again when Taylor once more appeared.

“I brought Nellie along to stay with your mother,” he said. “The Cap'n
and the old lady”--meaning Matilda--“were up at the meeting-house and we
just left a note saying where we'd gone. Nellie's all right. Between you
and me, she don't talk you deaf, dumb and blind like her ma, and she's
good company for sick folks. Now I'll fetch the doctor and be right
back.”

“But it's raining pitchforks,” I said. “You'll be wet through.”

“No, I won't. I'll have Doc Quimby here in no time.”

He drove off and Nellie Dean went into Mother's room. I had always
considered Nellie a milk-and-watery young female, but somehow her quiet
ways and soft voice seemed just what were needed in a sick room. I left
the two together and came out to wait for Taylor and the doctor.

But they did not come. The storm was under full headway now, and the
wind was dashing the rain in sheets against the windows. I waited nearly
an hour and still no sign of the doctor.

Nellie came out of Mother's room and closed the door softly behind her.

“She's quiet now,” she whispered. “I think she's asleep. Where do you
suppose George is?”

“Goodness knows!” I answered. “I shouldn't have let him go, a night like
this.”

“I'm afraid you couldn't stop him if his mind was made up. He's dreadful
determined when he sets out to be.”

“He's a good fellow,” I said, to please her. She worshipped the cashier,
a fact of which all Denboro was aware, and which caused gossip to report
that she did the courting for the two.

She blushed and smiled.

“He thinks a lot of you,” she observed. “He's always talking to me about
you. It's a good thing you're a man or I should be jealous.”

I smiled. “I seem to be talked about generally, just now,” said I.

“Are you? Oh, you mean about the Shore Lane. Yes, Pa can't make you out
about that. He says you've got something up your sleeve and he hasn't
decided what it is. I asked George what Pa meant and he just laughed. He
said whatever you had in your sleeve was your affair and, if he was any
judge of character, it would stay there till you got ready to shake it
out. He always stood up for you, even before the Shore Lane business
happened. I think he likes you better than any one else in Denboro.”

“Present company excepted, of course.”

“Oh, of course. If that wasn't excepted I should REALLY be jealous.
Then,” more seriously, “Roscoe, does it seem to you that George is
worried or troubled about something lately?”

I thought of Taylor's sudden change of expression that day in the bank,
and of his remark that he wished he had my chance. But I concealed my
thoughts.

“The prospect of marriage is enough to make any man worried, isn't it?”
 I asked. “I imagine he realizes that he isn't good enough for you.”

There was sarcasm in this remark, sarcasm of which I should have been
ashamed. But she took it literally and as a compliment. She looked at me
reproachfully.

“Good enough for me!” she exclaimed. “He! Sometimes I wonder if it is
right for me to be so happy. I feel almost as if it was wrong. As if
something must happen to punish me for it.”

I did not answer. To tell the truth, I was envious. There was real
happiness in the world. This country girl had found it; that Mabel
Colton would, no doubt, find it some day--unless she married her Victor,
in which case I had my doubts. But what happiness was in store for me?

Nellie did most of the talking thereafter; principally about George, and
why he did not come. At last she went in to see if Mother needed her,
and, twenty minutes later, when I looked into the bedroom, I saw that
she had fallen asleep on the couch. Mother, too, seemed to be sleeping,
and I left them thus.

It was almost eleven o'clock when the sound of carriage wheels in the
yard brought me to the window and then to the door. Doctor Quimby had
come at last and Taylor was with him. The doctor, in his mackintosh and
overshoes, was dry enough, but his companion was wet to the skin.

“Sorry I'm so late, Ros,” said the doctor. “I was way up to Ebenezer
Cahoon's in West Denboro. There's a new edition of Ebenezer, made port
this morning, and I was a little bit concerned about the missus. She's
all right, though. How's your mother?”

“Better, I think. She's asleep now. So is Nellie. I suppose George told
you she was with her.”

“Yes. George had a rough passage over that West Denboro road. It's bad
enough in daylight, but on a night like this--whew! I carried away a
wheel turning into Ebenezer's yard, and if George hadn't had his team
along I don't know how I'd have got here. I'll go right in and see Mrs.
Paine.”

He left us and I turned to Taylor.

“You're soaked through,” I declared. “Come out to the kitchen stove.
What in the world made you drive way up to that forsaken place? It's a
good seven miles. Come out to the kitchen. Quick!”

He sat down by the stove and put his wet boots on the hearth. I mixed
him a glass of the brandy and hot water and handed him a cigar.

“Why did you do it, George?” I said. “I never would have thought of
asking such a thing.”

“I know it,” he said. “Course you wouldn't ask it. There's plenty in
this town that would, but you wouldn't. Maybe that's one reason I was so
glad to do it for you.”

“I am almost sorry you did. It is too great a kindness altogether. I'm
afraid I shouldn't have done as much for you.”

“Go on! Yes, you would. I know you.”

I shook my head.

“No, you don't,” I answered. “Captain Jed--your prospective
father-in-law--said the other day that he had been mistaken; he thought
he knew me, but he was beginning to find he did not.”

“Did he say that? What did he mean?”

“I imagine he meant he wasn't sure whether I was the fool he had
believed me to be, or just a sharp rascal.”

Taylor looked at me over the edge of his glass.

“You think that's what he meant, do you?”

“I know it.”

He put the glass on the floor beside him and laid a hand on my knee.

“Ros,” he said, “I don't know for sure what the Cap'n meant, though
if he thinks you're either one of the two he's the fool. But _I_ know
you--better, maybe, than you know yourself. At least I believe I know
you better than any one else in the town.”

“That wouldn't be saying much.”

“Wouldn't it? Well, maybe not. But whose fault is it? It's yours, the
way I look at it. Ros, I've been meaning to have a talk with you some
day; perhaps this is as good a time as any. You make a big mistake in
the way you treat Denboro and the folks in it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just that. Your whole attitude is wrong, has been wrong ever
since you first came here to live. You never gave any of us a chance to
know you and like you--anybody but me, I mean, and even I never had
but half a chance. You make a mistake, I tell you. There's lots of good
folks in this town, lots of 'em. Cap'n Elisha Warren's one of 'em and
there's plenty more. They're countrymen, same as I am, but they're good,
plain, sensible folks, and they'd like to like you if they had a chance.
You belong to the Town Improvement Society, but you never go to a
meeting. You ought to get out and mix more.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess my mixing wouldn't be very welcome,” I
said. “And, besides, I don't care to mix.”

“I know you don't, but you ought to, just the same.”

“Nonsense! George, I'm not blind, or deaf. Don't you suppose I know what
Warren and Dean and the rest think of me? They consider me a loafer and
no good. I've heard what they say. I've noticed how they treat me.”

“How you treat them, you mean. You are as cold and freezing as a cake
of ice. They was willing to be friends but you wouldn't have it. And,
as for their calling you a loafer--well, that's your own fault, too.
You OUGHT to do something; not work, perhaps, but you'd be a whole lot
better off if you got really interested in something. Get into politics;
get into town affairs; get out and know the people you're living with.”

“I don't care to know them; and I'm sure they don't care to know me.”

“Yes, they do. I understand how you feel. In this Shore Lane matter now:
you think Cap'n Jed and Colton, because they pretend to call you a fool,
don't respect you for taking the stand you have. They do. They don't
understand you, maybe, but they can't help respecting you and, if they
knew you even as well as I do, they'd like you. Come! I ain't throwin'
any bouquets, but why do you suppose I'd be willing to drive to West
Denboro forty times over, on forty times worse nights than this, for
you? Why?”

“Heaven knows! Would you?”

“I would. I like you, Ros. I took a shine to you the first time I met
you. I don't know why exactly. Why does anybody like anybody else? But I
think a whole lot of you. I know this sounds foolish, and you don't feel
that way towards me, but it's the truth.”

I was amazed. I had always liked George Taylor, but I never felt any
strong affection for him. I was a little less indifferent to him than to
others in Denboro, that was all. And I had taken it for granted that
his liking for me was of the same casual, lukewarm variety. To hear him
declare himself in this way was astonishing--he, the dry, keen, Yankee
banker.

“But why, George?” I repeated.

“I don't know why; I told you that. It's because I can't help it, I
suppose. Or because, as I said, I know you better than any one else.”

I sighed. “Nobody knows me here,” I said.

“One knows you, Ros. I know you.”

“You may think you do, but you don't. You can thank God for your
ignorance.”

“Maybe I ain't so ignorant.”

I looked at him. He was looking me straight in the eye.

“What do you know?” I asked, slowly.

“I know, for one thing, that your name ain't Paine.”

I could not answer. I am not certain whether I attempted to speak or
move. I do remember that the pressure of his hand on my knee tightened.

“It's all right, Ros,” he said, earnestly. “Nobody knows but me, and
nobody ever shall know if I can help it.”

“How--how much do you know?” I stammered.

“Why, pretty much all, I guess. I've known ever since your mother was
taken sick. Some things I read in the paper, and the pictures of--of
your father, put me on, and afterwards I got more certain of it. But
it's all right. Nobody but me knows or shall know.”

I leaned my head on my hand. He patted my knee, gently.

“Are--are you sure no one else knows?” I asked.

“Certain sure. There was one time when it might have all come out. A
reporter fellow from one of the Boston papers got on the track somehow
and came down here to investigate. Luckily I was the first man he
tackled, and I steered him away. I presume likely I lied some, but my
conscience is easy so far as that goes.”

“And you have told no one? Not even Nellie?”

“No. I tell Nellie most things, but not all--not all.”

I remembered afterwards that he sighed as he said this and took his
hand from my knee; but then my agitation was too great to do more than
casually notice it. I rose to my feet.

“George! George!” I cried. “I--I can't say to you what I should like.
But why--WHY did you shield me? And lie for me? Why did you do it? I was
hardly more than a stranger.”

He sighed. “Don't know,” he answered. “I never could quite see why
a man's sins should be visited on the widows and fatherless. And, of
course, I realized that you and your mother changed your name and came
down here to get away from gossip and talk. But I guess the real reason
was that I liked you, Ros. Love at first sight, same as we read about;
hey?”

He looked up and smiled. I seized his hand.

“George,” I said, chokingly, “I did not believe I had a real friend in
the world, except Mother and Dorinda and Lute, of course. I can't
thank you enough for shielding us all these years; there's no use in my
trying. But if ever I can do anything to help YOU--anything--I'll do it.
I'll swear to that.”

He shook my hand.

“I know you will, Ros,” he said. “I told you I knew you.”

“If ever I can do anything--”

He interrupted me.

“There's one thing you can do right now,” he said. “That's get out and
mix. That'll please me as much as anything. And begin right off. Why,
see here, the Methodist society is going to give a strawberry festival
on the meeting-house lawn next Thursday night. About everybody's going,
Nellie and I included. You come, will you?”

I hesitated. I had heard about the festival, but I certainly had not
contemplated attending.

“Come!” he urged. “You won't say no to the first favor I ask you.
Promise me you'll be on hand.”

Before I could answer, we heard the door of Mother's room open. George
and I hastened into the dining-room. Doctor Quimby and Nellie Dean were
there. Nellie rushed over to her lover's side.

“You bad boy,” she cried. “You're wet through.”

Doctor Quimby turned to me.

“Your ma's getting on all right,” he declared. “About all that ails her
now is that she wants to see you.”

George was assisting Nellie to put on her wraps.

“Got to leave you now, Ros,” he said. “Cap'n Jed and Matildy'll think
we've eloped ahead of time. Good-night. Oh, say, will you promise me to
take in the strawberry festival?”

“Why” I answered, “I suppose--Yes, Mother, I'm coming--Why, yes, George,
I'll promise, to please you.”

I have often wondered since what my life story would have been if I had
not made that promise.



CHAPTER VIII


The Methodist church stood on the slope of a little hill, back from the
Main Road, and the parsonage was next door. Between the church and
the parsonage was a stretch of lawn, dotted with shrubs and cedars
and shaded by two big silver-leaf poplars. It was on this lawn that,
provided the night was fair, the strawberry festival was to be held. If
the weather should be unpropitious the festival was to be in the church
vestry.

All that day Dorinda was busy baking and icing cake. She was not going
to the festival--partly because I was going and she could not leave
Mother--but principally because such affairs were altogether too
frivolous to fit in her scheme of orthodoxy. “I don't recollect,” she
said, “that the apostles did much strawberry festivalin'; they had
other things to attend to.” Lute, however, was going and if he had been
invited to a Presidential reception he could not have been much more
excited. He was dressed and ready at supper time, although the festival
did not begin until seven-thirty.

“Think I'm all right, Dorindy, do you?” he queried, anxiously turning
himself about for his wife's inspection. “How about these new pants? Fur
enough down on my boots, be they?”

Dorinda looked him over with a critical eye. “Um-hm,” she observed,
“that end of 'em seems to be all right. But I cal'late the upper end
ain't been introduced to your vest yet. Anyhow, the two don't seem to be
well enough acquainted to associate close.”

Lute bent forward to inspect the hiatus between trousers and waistcoat.
“By time!” he exclaimed, “I told Sim Eldredge they was too short in the
waist. He said if they was any longer they'd wrinkle under the arms. I
don't know what to do. If I hist 'em up they'll be what the fellers call
high-water, won't them?”

“Humph! I'd ruther have 'em high-water than shoal in the middle of the
channel. You'll have to average up somehow. I ought to have known better
than to trust you to buy anything all by yourself.”

She condescended to approve of my appearance when, an hour later, I came
downstairs, garbed in my best.

“Humph!” she vouchsafed, after a long look. “I declare! I'd hardly know
you, Roscoe. You look more as you used to when you fust come here to
live.”

“Thanks,” I answered, drily. “I'm glad to see that you respect old age.
This suit is venerable enough to command that kind of respect.”

“'Tain't the suit, though that's all right enough. It's the way you wear
it, I guess. You look BETTER than you used to. You're browned up
and broadened out and it's real becomin'. But,” she added, with
characteristic caution, “you must remember that good looks don't count
for much. My father used to say to me that handsome is that handsome
does. Not that I was so homely I'd scare the crows, but he didn't want
me to be vain. Now don't fall overboard in THAT suit, will you?”

Mother noticed my unwonted grandeur when I went in to say good-night to
her.

“Why, Roscoe!” she exclaimed. “You must consider this strawberry
festival very important.”

“Why, Mother?”

“Because you've taken such pains to dress for it.”

“It did not require a great deal of pains. I merely put on what Dorinda
calls my Sunday clothes. I don't know why I did, either. I certainly
don't consider the festival important.”

“I am glad you did. I have been a little troubled about you of late,
Boy. It has seemed to me that you were growing--well, not careless,
exactly, but indifferent. As if you were losing interest in life. I
don't blame you. Compelled to waste your time here in the country, a
companion to a bedridden old woman like me.”

“Hush, Mother. You're not old; and as to wasting my time--why, Mother,
you know--”

“Yes, yes, Boy, I know what you would say. But it does trouble me,
nevertheless. I ought to bid you go back into the world, and take your
place among men. A hundred times I have been upon the point of telling
you to leave me, but--but--I am SO selfish.”

“Hush, Mother, please.”

“Yes, I AM selfish and I know it. I am growing stronger every day; I
am sure of it. Just a little longer, Roscoe, just a little longer, and
then--”

“Mother, I--”

“There, there!” she stroked my hand. “We won't be sad, will we. It
pleases me to see you taking an interest in affairs. I think this Shore
Lane matter may be a good thing, after all. Dorinda says that Luther
tells her you are becoming very popular in town because of your
independent stand. Everyone recognizes your public spirit.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Not in those words. You know Dorinda. But what amounts to that. I am
sure the Denboro people are very proud of you.”

I thought of my “popularity” and the admiration of my “public spirit”
 as manifested in the attentions of Captain Jed and Eldredge and their
followers, and I turned my head away so that she might not see my face.

“And I am glad you are going to the strawberry festival. I can't
remember when you attended such a function before. Boy--”

“Yes, Mother.”

“There isn't any reason, any special reason, for your going, is there?”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“I mean--well, you are young and I did not know but, perhaps, some one
else was going, some one you were interested in, and--and--”

I laughed aloud. “Mother!” I said, reproachfully.

“Why not? I am very proud of my handsome boy, and I know that--”

“There! there! I haven't noticed that my beauty is so fascinating as
to be dangerous. No, Mother, there is no 'special reason' for my going
to-night. I promised George Taylor, that was all.”

“Well, I am sure you will have a good time. Kiss me, Boy. Good-night.”

I was by no means so sure of the good time. In fact, I loitered on my
way to the village and it was well past eight o'clock when I paid my
fifteen cents admission fee to Elnathan Mullet at the gate of the church
grounds and sauntered up the slope toward the lights and gaiety of the
strawberry festival.

The ladies of the Methodist society, under whose management the affair
was given, were fortunate in their choice of an evening. The early risen
moon shone from a cloudless sky and there was so little breeze that the
Japanese lanterns, hung above the tables, went out only occasionally.
The “beauty and elite of Denboro”--see next week's Cape Cod Item--were
present in force and, mingling with them, or, if not mingling, at least
inspecting them with interest, were some of the early arrivals among the
cottagers from South Denboro and Bayport. I saw Lute, proudly conscious
of his new lavender trousers, in conversation with Matilda Dean, and
I wondered who was the winner in that wordy race. Captain Jedediah
strutted arm in arm with the minister. Thoph Newcomb and Alvin Baker
were there with their wives. Simeon Eldredge had not yet put in an
appearance but I knew that he would as soon as the evening mail was
sorted.

I found Nellie Dean in charge of a table, and George Taylor seated at
that table. I walked over and joined them.

“Good evening, Nellie,” said I. “Well, George, here I am, you see.”

He shook my hand heartily. “I see you are,” he said. “Good boy! How does
it seem to splash into society?”

“I haven't splashed yet. I have only just arrived.”

“Oh, trying the feel of the water, hey? Guess you won't find it very
chilly. As a preparatory tonic I'd recommend strawberries and cream.
Nellie, get Ros a saucer of those genuine home-raised berries, why don't
you?”

Nellie laughed. “Roscoe,” she said, “isn't he dreadful! He knows we
bought these berries in Boston. It's much too early for the native ones.
But they really are very nice, though he does make such fun of them.”

She went into the vestry to get the berries and I sat down at the table
beside Taylor and looked about me.

“Most everybody's here,” he observed. “And they'll be glad to see you,
Ros. Get out and shake hands and be sociable, after you've done your
duty by the fruit. How are things at home?”

“Mother is herself again, I am glad to say. George, I have scarcely
thought of anything except what you told me the other night.”

“Then it's time you did. That's one reason why I wanted you to come
here. You've been thinking too much about yourself.”

“It isn't of myself, but of Mother. If you had dropped a hint when that
Boston reporter came--”

“Now, look here, Ros, would YOU have dropped hints if things had been
the other way around?”

“I don't know.”

“I know you wouldn't. What's the use of giving the Denboro gossip mill
a chance to run over time? Great heavens! it works twelve hours a day as
'tis.”

“It was mighty good of you, just the same.”

“No, it wasn't. The whole affair was your business and nobody else's.”

“Well, as I said before, if ever I have an opportunity to do as much for
you--not that I ever will.”

“How do you know you won't? Anybody's liable to be gossiped about some
time or other.”

“Not you. You are Denboro's shining light. The mothers and fathers here
point you out as an example of what industry and ambition and honest
effort may rise to. I--”

“Shut up!” He said it almost savagely. “There!” he added, quickly,
“let's change the subject. Talk about something worth while. Humph! I
guess they must be opening another crate of those Boston 'homegrowns,'
judgin' by the time it takes Nellie to get your sample.”

“I am in no hurry. How are affairs at the bank?”

“Oh, so, so. Don't know a good man who wants a job, do you? Henry
Small's going to leave the middle of next month.”

“Small, the bookkeeper? Why?”

“Got a better chance up to the city. I don't blame him. Don't tell
anybody yet; it's a secret. Say, Ros, DO you know of a good, sharp,
experienced fellow?”

I smiled. “Is it likely?” I asked. “How large is my acquaintance among
sharp, experienced fellows down here?”

“Not so large as it ought to be, I'll give in to that. But you know
one.”

“Do I, indeed? Who is he?”

“Yourself. You wouldn't take Small's job, would you?”

“I?” I laughed aloud.

“It's no joke. You've had a lot of banking experience. I've heard about
it among my city friends, who don't know I know you. Course I realize
the place is way beneath what you ought to have, but--”

“Oh, don't be sarcastic. No, thank you, George.”

“All right, if you say so. But I meant it. You don't need the salary, I
know. But--Ros, do you mind if I talk plain for a moment?”

I wondered what was coming now. “No,” I answered. “Go ahead and talk.”

“Well then, I tell you, as a friend, that 'twould be a good thing for
you if you did take that job, or some other one. Don't make much matter
what it is, but you ought to do something. You're too clever a fellow to
be hanging around, shooting and fishing. You're wasting your life.”

“That was wasted long ago.”

“No, it wasn't. But it will be if you don't change pretty soon. I tell
you you ought to get interested in something that counts. You might make
a big name for yourself yet.”

“That's enough of that. I have a name already. You know it, and you know
what was made of it.”

“YOU didn't make it that kind of a name, did you? And you're young
enough to make it something altogether different. You ought to. You owe
it to your mother and you owe it to yourself. As it is, if you keep on,
you'll--”

“George, you've said enough. No one but you would have been permitted to
say as much. You don't understand.”

“Maybe not, but, Ros, I don't like to have people around here call
you--”

“I don't care a continental what they call me. I don't want them to know
who I am, but for public opinion generally I care nothing.”

He leaned back in his chair. His face was in shadow and I could not see
it, but his tone was grave enough.

“You think you don't,” he said, slowly, “but there may come a time when
you will. There may come a time when you get so interested in something,
or some person, that the thought of what folks would say if--if anything
went wrong would keep you awake night after night. Oh, I tell you,
Ros--Hello, Nellie! thought you'd gone South to pick those berries
yourself. Two saucers full! Well, I suppose I must eat the other to save
it--unless Ros here wants both.”

I said one would be quite sufficient for the present, and we three
chatted until Mrs. Dean came over and monopolized the chat.

“Don't go, Roscoe,” protested the matron. “The Cap'n's here and he'll
want to talk to you. He's dreadful interested in you just now. Don't
talk about nobody else, scurcely. You set still and I'll go fetch him.”

But I refused to “set.” I knew the cause of Captain Jedediah's interest,
and what he wished to talk about. I rose and announced that I would
stroll about a bit. Taylor spoke to me as I was leaving.

“Ros,” he said, earnestly, “you think of what I told you, will you?”

I saw a group of people hurrying toward the entrance of the grounds
and I followed them, curious as to the cause of the excitement. An
automobile had stopped by the gate. Sim Eldredge came hastening up and
seized me by the arm.

“Gosh! it's Ros,” he exclaimed, in his mysterious whisper. “I hadn't
seen you afore; just got here myself. But I'm glad you ARE here. I'll
see that you and him get a chance to talk private.”

“Who?” I asked, trying to pull my arm free.

“Why, Mr. Colton. Didn't you know? Yes, sir, that's his car. He's come
and so's his daughter and that young Carver feller. I believe they've
come to take in the sociable. There they be! See 'em! See 'em!”

I saw them. Colton and Victor had already alighted and Miss Colton was
descending from the tonneau. There were two other men in the car, beside
Oscar, the chauffeur.

“Who are those other people?” I asked.

“I don't know,” whispered Sim, excitedly. “Stay where you be and I'll
find out. I'll be right back, now. Don't you move.”

I did not move, not because he had ordered me to stay where I was, but
because I was curious. The spot where I stood was in shadow and I knew
they could not see me.

Colton and his daughter were talking with Victor, who remained by the
step of the auto.

“Well, Mabel,” observed “Big Jim,” “here we are, though why I don't
know. I hope you enjoy this thing more than I am likely to.”

“Of course I shall enjoy it, Father. Look at the decorations. Aren't
they perfectly WONDERFUL!”

“Especially the color scheme,” drawled Victor. “Mabel, I call your
attention to the red, blue and purple lanterns. Some class? Yes? Well,
I must go. I'll be back in a very short time. If Parker wasn't starting
for Europe to-morrow I shouldn't think of leaving, but I'm sure you'll
forgive me, under the circumstances.”

“I forgive you, Victor,” replied the girl, carelessly. “But don't be too
long.”

“No, don't,” added her father. “I promised Mrs. Colton that I should not
be away more than an hour. She's very nervous to-night and I may be sent
for any time. So don't keep us waiting.”

“No fear of that. I'll be back long before you are ready to go. I
wouldn't miss this--er--affair myself for something. Ah, our combination
friend, the undertaking postmaster.”

Sim's hat was in his hand and he was greeting Mr. Colton.

“Proud to see you amongst us, sir,” said Sim, with unction. “The
Methodist folks are havin' quite a time to-night, ain't they?”

“How d'ye do, Eldredge,” was the great man's salutation, not at all
effusive. “Where does all this crowd come from? Didn't know there were
so many people in the neighborhood.”

“'Most everybody's out to-night. Church'll make consider'ble money. Good
evenin', Miss Colton. Mr. Carver, pleased to meet you again, sir.”

The young lady merely nodded. Victor, whose foot was on the step of the
car, did not deign to turn.

“Thanks,” he drawled. “I am--er--embalmed, I'm sure. All ready, Phil.
Let her go, Oscar.”

The auto moved off. Mr. Colton gave his arm to his daughter and they
moved through the crowd, Eldredge acting as master of ceremonies.

“It's all right, Elnathan,” ordered Sim, addressing the gate-keeper.
“Don't bother Mr. Colton about the admission now. I'll settle with you,
myself, later. Now, Mr. Colton, you and the lady come right along with
me. Ain't met the minister yet, have you? He said you wan't to home when
he called. And you let me get you some strawberries. They're fust-rate,
if I do say it.”

He led the way toward the tables. I watched the progress from where I
stood. It was interesting to see how the visitors were treated by the
different groups. Some, like Sim, were gushing and obsequious. A few,
Captain Jed among them, walked stubbornly by, either nodding coldly or
paying no attention. Others, like George Taylor and Doctor Quimby, were
neither obsequious nor cold, merely bowing pleasantly and saying, “Good
evening,” as though greeting acquaintances and equals. Yes, there WERE
good people in Denboro, quiet, unassuming, self-respecting citizens.

One of them came up to me and spoke.

“Hello, Ros,” said Captain Elisha Warren, “Sim's havin' the time of his
life, isn't he?”

“He seems to be,” I replied.

“Yes. Well, there's some satisfaction in havin' a thick shell; then
you don't mind bein' stepped on. Yet, I don't know; sometimes I think
fellers of Sim's kind enjoy bein' stepped on, provided the boot that
does it is patent leather.”

“I wonder why they came here,” I mused.

“Who? the Coltons? Why, for the same reason children go to the circus,
I shouldn't wonder--to laugh at the clowns. I laugh myself
sometimes-

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