DINNER at the Mansion House was over. The smells of fried "plaice-fish," fried potatoes, fried onions, fried doughnuts and fried "turnovers" were a trifle less pervasive in the parlor, now that the dining room door was shut. On the porch the aroma had changed to that of strong tobacco smoked in stronger pipes. From the direction of the kitchen came the sound of washing dishes.

Yes, dinner at the Mansion House was over. Mrs. Euphemia Hobbs, hostess of the establishment, declared to Miss Ethelinda Doane, who washed dishes and waited on the table, that she was thankful for it. "I'm always thankful," said Mrs. Hobbs, "when another meal's done with and out of the way." Miss Doane said that she, too, was thankful.

"I try to be thankful for whatever comes along in this world," she added, "but sometimes a person's thankfulness gets an awful jolt. I've always been thankful that I had a pretty name. I think Ethelinda's real sort of cute and pretty, don't you, Mis' Hobbs? Um-hm. Well, t'other day I happened to hear Mr. Clifford talkin' at the table and he said every person's name meant somethin'; 'twas took from some furrin language and had a meanin'. I asked him what Ethelinda meant and he said if I looked where it said 'Names of Women' in the back of the big dictionary I could find out; said the language 'twas took from would be in what he called 'brackets' right alongside of it. So I went and looked in your dictionary in the parlor--I know you wouldn't care, Mis' Hobbs--and, sure enough, I found it. I kind of hoped it might mean 'lovely' or 'beautiful' or 'true,' or somethin' like that; there was a lot of 'em that did. But what d'you suppose it did mean?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," said the landlady, absently. "Look out for that platter, 'Linda; you'll have it onto the floor in a minute."

"No, no, I shan't neither. I'm hangin' onto it just as careful. Well, I guess you don't know what that name meant, Mis' Hobbs! When I see it I pretty nigh give up. It means 'noble snake.' "

"Noble which?"

"Noble snake. My-y soul! And for anybody hatin' snakes the way I do! If I see one a mile off a body could hear me yell to glory. But to be named after one, and a noble one, too. My-y soul! But there 'twas, right in black and white. And the language 'twas took from was the Tee-utt language."

"The what language, for mercy sakes?"

"The Tee-utt language. Any way that's how it was spelt inside them brackets--T-E-U-T. I never heard of it, did you, Mis' Hobbs?"

"No, I'm sartin sure I never did."

"Neither did I. Sounds like some kind of Indian talk to me. But to be called after a noble snake! Noble--that means a critter about nine foot long, I presume likely. Ain't that the worst! I'm goin' to ask Mr. Clifford about that Tee-utt language soon's ever I get a chance. . . . Oh, my land! did that plate break? Why, I put it down just as easy. Must have been awful tender, seems to me. I'm so sorry, but 'twan't my fault, was it, Mis' Hobbs? Findin' out you're named for a snake makes anybody terrible nervous. You don't cal'late Mr. Clifford knew 'Ethelinda' meant 'noble snake,' do you, Mis' Hobbs?"

Lack of breath caused Miss Doane to pause just here, which afforded her employer an opportunity to express her opinion of the plate breaking and of Ethelinda's carelessness in general. Ethelinda replied, of course; if she had failed to reply at any time and to any remark those who knew her well would have been tempted to send for the doctor. Mrs. Hobbs was, herself, by no means taciturn, so the subject was most effectually changed, and neither the "noble snake" nor Mr. Clifford was again mentioned during the dish washing.

Meanwhile, the gentleman responsible for the research in "Tee-utt" nomenclature was standing on the top step of the porch, smoking an after-dinner cigar. Upon one point he was in perfect agreement with the landlady and her helper--he, too, was glad that dinner was over. He had been as glad when breakfast was at an end; he knew he should be equally pleased when supper was finished. The conclusion of a meal at the Mansion House was, to Irving Clifford, a time for mild rejoicing; it was a satisfaction to feel that he would not be called upon to face another for several hours at least.

He stood there upon the porch smoking and thinking. It was a fine October day, clear and cool. The sky was blue, the sea a deeper blue, the fields and hills brown or gray in their autumn dressing. In summer they were green, but now the grass was dead, the leaves of the bayberry and beach-plum bushes fallen, the reeds at the edges of the ponds broken and rusty. Only the clumps of pines, scattered here and there over the knolls behind the houses bordering Trumet's main street, flared green and bright, defying the coming winter. The street itself was almost empty of life. In July and August Trumet was a gay village and at this time of day the sidewalks would have been decorated with groups of summer people, radiant in flannels and sport suits, bound for the post office and the noon mail. Now there was no one, or at the most only an occasional someone. The group of two or three "regular boarders" seated on the Mansion House porch behind Mr. Clifford carefully noted each passer-by. It was not often that they could enjoy the privilege of sitting on the piazza in October. Cape Cod Octobers are usually too chilly for that.

Captain Ezekiel Penniman, retired shipmaster, now selectman and person of consequence, leaned forward in his chair and looked, as he would have said, a point or two up to wind'ard.

"Who's that comin' along?" he demanded, addressing the company in general. "Some of you young folks with deadlights that's fit to see through tell me who that is."

The only young person on the porch was Mr. Clifford.

The others, besides Captain Penniman himself, were old Mr. Laban Bassett, commonly called "Uncle Labe," and Mr. Peleg Bearse, the fish peddler. Their "deadlights" were no more reliable than the captain's.

"Don't ask me, Zeke," said Uncle Labe. "My eyes ain't no good more'n ten foot off nowadays. Ask Peleg, maybe he can tell you."

"Huh!" grunted Mr. Bearse, disgustedly, "don't ask me nothin' just now. I busted my spectacles yesterday and since then I've sold my fish by guess and by godfreys more'n I have by sight. I can tell a plaice-fish from a cod 'cause they ain't the same shape, but when it comes to tellin' a cod from a haddock, there you've got me. All I can see is that somebody's comin' up street--two somebodys, nigh's I can make out. Who be they, I wonder?"

Mr. Clifford, thus addressed, looked in the direction indicated.

"One of them," he said, "is Mr. Griggs--Mr. Balaam Griggs. The other is a stranger to me."

"Eh? A stranger?" Captain Penniman leaned forward; so, too, did "Uncle Labe" and Peleg.

"A stranger, eh?" exclaimed the latter. "I want to know! What sort of a lookin' feller is he, I wonder? Never mind, they'll be abreast here in a minute. Then I can see for myself."

The stranger, on closer inspection, proved to be a little man, dressed in what was obviously a brand-new suit of clothes, topped by a brand-new hat. He walked beside Mr. Griggs, looking up into the latter's face and talking eagerly. Mr. Griggs was long-legged and thin and his companion's gait was almost a trot in the effort to keep up. As the pair came abreast the Mansion House Mr. Griggs was speaking.

"You leave it to me, Mr. Burgess," he was heard to say. "You leave it to me, sir. I take a pride in such things and it won't be no trouble at all for me to do it for you. You just leave it to me and----"

They passed out of hearing. Captain Penniman nodded.

"Ya-as," he drawled, "you leave it to him and you won't have much left yourself, I cal'late. Who in time has Balaam got in tow now?"

Uncle Labe shook his head. "Burgess--Burgess," he repeated. "Where have I heard that name lately? Humph! Burgess?"

"Say!" Mr. Bearse evidently had an idea. "Say," he cried, "I wonder if 'tain't the feller that owns the Badscom place downtown there, the one that lives up to Wapatomac and has had that place willed onto him. Seems to me I heard he was expected down most any day now, and Mirandy Hedge's girl has been in there cleanin' house. I wouldn't wonder if 'twas him, I snum if I would! Mirandy give out that that feller's name was Birdgrass or some such foolishness, but she never gets nothin' straight. Burgess--humph! I'll bet that's who 'tis."

Captain Zeke sniffed. "Well," he observed, "if Bale Griggs has got him in his claws, he won't have nothin' much but his name in a week or so. Of all the contrivin' schemin' old--What are you kickin' me for, Labe? Can't you keep your feet to home?"

"I--I wasn't kickin' you, Zeke," protested Mr. Bassett, hastily. "I was--was just crossin' my knees, that's all."

"Crossin" your knees! Crossin' telegraph poles! What was your knees doin' way over here in the next county? I--Eh? Oh!"

Both Uncle Labe and Mr. Bearse had winked expressively and jerked their heads in the direction of Irving Clifford. Captain Zeke saw a light.

"Um--yes, yes," he said slowly. "It's a nice day, ain't it. Goin' back on the job so soon, are you, Irve? Back to the cold-storage so quick?"

Clifford, who was at the foot of the steps, turned as he answered.

"I'm not going directly back to the storage plant, Captain," he said. "I have an errand over at the machine shop in South Trumet. I had at first intended asking Seth Bailey to take me over in his car, but the fine weather has tempted me and I think I shall walk."

The three "regular boarders" stared at him in amazement.

"Walk?" repeated Captain Penniman.

"Walk!" exclaimed Uncle Labe. "Why, how you talk!"

"Walk!" cried Peleg. "Man alive, don't you know it's all of three mile?"

Clifford laughed.

"You fellows down here might almost as well have no feet," he said. "You never use them to take you anywhere. You ride, if it is only to call on a neighbor."

Captain Zeke shook his head. "Well," he observed, "I cal'late I wouldn't have no feet if I walked six miles on 'em in one afternoon; cal'late I'd wear my legs down to stubs, if I did that. However, don't let my legs interfere with yours. Heave ahead and walk your six mile, if you want to."

The young man laughed again.

"Evidently you don't believe in exercise, Captain," he said.

"Yes, I do--for other folks. Why don't you walk another six mile for me and Labe and Peleg? That kind of exercise might do us good; eh, boys?"

The fish peddler and his companion doubled up in hilarious appreciation, and Irving Clifford waved his hand in farewell and strode away down the path to the gate. Uncle Labe peered after him.

"Humph!" he grunted. "He's goin' to the east'ard, ain't he? How's he cal'latin' to get to South Trumet that way?"

Mr. Bearse answered. "Wa-al," he drawled, "he can get there that way by goin' around the lower road, I presume likely."

"The lower road! Yes, so can a feller get to the North Pole by goin' south, I cal'late, but he'd have to travel clear around the world to do it. Why, the lower road's another three-quarters of a mile, good, out of his way."

Captain Zeke grinned. "Maybe so," he observed, "but if he went straight, same as you and I'd go, Labe, Balaam Griggs' house would be three-quarters of a mile out of that way, wouldn't it?"

Peleg chuckled and looked wise. Uncle Labe rubbed his chin.

"I see," he said. "Yes, yes, I--see. Mary Barstow, eh?"

"Sartin sure. Can't you remember the time, Uncle Labe, when it took more'n three-quarters of a mile of walkin' to keep you from your girl? I can, if you can't."

"I can remember that all right, Zeke Penniman, old as I be. But how do you know there's anythin' in all this talk? Why should a smart, likely, promisin' young engineer feller like Irve Clifford be hangin' around Balaam Griggs' stepdarter? 'Tain't for money; Mary, nor nobody else, 'll ever get a cent of that, long's Balaam lives. For gettin' cash and hangin' onto it he beats anybody ever I see."

The captain nodded.

"I wouldn't trust Bale Griggs' spirit on the golden streets up aloft," he observed; "not if the pavement was anyways loose, I wouldn't. But Irve Clifford ain't after no Griggs money. If he's after anything of Balaam's, it's the stepdaughter. Mary Barstow's pretty and she's a mighty nice, smart, able girl. If Irve gets her for a wife, he'll get a good one. I don't know's he wants her, or she him, but there's been consider'ble town talk lately."

"One thing makes me think there may be somethin' in it," put in Bearse, "is the way Balaam acts. He's as cranky as all get-out. All you've got to do is heave out a hint about Irvin' Clifford takin' consider'ble many walks down the lower road lately and away goes Balaam up in the air, hollerin' out that it's all a passel of lies. What makes him so anxious to call it a lie if it ain't the truth? Most of his own truth is lies, I know that."

Mr. Bassett borrowed a match from Captain Zeke, relit his pipe and said: "You can't tell much by that, Peleg. Balaam acts the same way whenever anybody gets beauin' around Mary. You'd think he'd want to get her married and off his hands, she bein' a stepdarter and with no money fur's anybody knows; but he don't act as if he did. Just mention Mary Barstow's name along with some feller's and Balaam gets sorer'n a stubbed toe. I can't understand it, and neither can a whole pile of folks. But I'll tell him this for his own good--he won't find any better young chap than Irvin' Clifford. He's one chance in a thousand, that's what he is."

At that moment Mr. Clifford, quite unconscious that he and his most personal feelings and aspirations were subjects of discussion, was turning from the main road into the lower road. The corner of the main and lower roads is Trumet's business center. Snow's "Dry Goods, Notions and General Store" is there, and Lathrop's "Drugs, Toilet Articles, Ice Cream, Soda and Cigars," and Wixon's "Boots, Shoes, Rubbers, Corn, Hay and Feed." The post office used to be there before the change of administration switched it from Mr. Hezekiah Wixon's lingering grasp and bestowed it upon Philander Cahoon a half mile to the "west'ard."

In summer the corner is a busy place, but in October it, like the rest of the town, is quiet and almost deserted. Irving Clifford saw no one as he turned into the lower road, but at least four pairs of eyes saw him, eyes peering from the windows of the various stores, and four tongues made sarcastic observations concerning his probable destination. It may be true that Love is blind; it seems to be equally true that all the rest of creation has its eyes wide open to watch the sightless god upon his way.

The lower road, at first bordered by the usual story-and-a-half Cape Cod houses, with thick red chimneys and green blinds, curves away to the south and southwest until, after about a mile of curving, it rejoins the main road again at Eldridge's Corner at the western end of the village. For the most part its way lies over the hills and along the bluffs bordering the bay, and land on the bay front, once worthless except for pasture, is now valuable as the site of summer homes.

Irving Clifford strode briskly along the lower road until he reached the foot of the slight eminence known locally as "Knowles' Hill." At the crest of this hill on the landward side stood a good-sized white house, surrounded by a picket fence, and with two big silver-leaf trees in its front yard. A dingy sign attached to the picket fence read: "Balaam H. Griggs. Real Estate, Insurance, Money Loaned on Mortgages, etc., etc. Genuine Antiques Bought and Sold." At the bottom of this sign a pasteboard placard was nailed, upon which was lettered in black crayon the words: "FRONT DOOR LOCKED. Come Round Back."

It might have been noticed--in fact, it was noticed by Miss Sarepta Hatch, nearest neighbor on the right, and Mrs. Elvira Ginn, nearest neighbor on the left--that, as Mr. Clifford approached the foot of Knowles' Hill, his hitherto brisk stride became a trifle slower. It slowed still more as he climbed the hill until, when he reached the center of the sidewalk before the house with the white picket fence, it had become very slow indeed. Also it might have been--and was--noticed that the young man's glance seemed to rest wistfully, almost hopefully, upon the side door of the white house. And then that door opened and a young woman came out.

She did not appear to be aware of Mr. Clifford's proximity; in fact she was almost at the gate in the picket fence when she raised her eyes and saw him. And she was, plainly, very much surprised to see him. And it was equally plain that he was very much surprised to see her.

"Why, Miss Barstow!" he exclaimed. "Good afternoon!"

Miss Barstow was just a little confused, but she smiled--an operation distinctly not unpleasant to witness--and held out her hand.

"Why, good afternoon, Mr. Clifford," she said. "You did decide to do it, after all, then?"

"Yes," he said, closing it after she had come out. "I decided to walk. It was such a beautiful day I couldn't resist the temptation. I came around this was because--er--because it made the walk a little longer, you see. And you--you were going for a walk, too?"

They fell into step and, quite oblivious of the fact that a window pane in Miss Sarepta Hatch's residence and one in the front hall of the house occupied by Mrs. Elvira Ginn were flattening the noses of eager watchers, walked onward together. Miss Barstow's eyes were brown and their lashes were long and brown, and the cool breeze from the bay fluttered a strand of her brown hair so that the October sunlight shining through it made it look like spun silk, or threads of gold, or something else equally shining and fascinating and pretty. All of which Irving Clifford may or may not have noticed.

"Yes," she said, answering his question, "I couldn't resist the day, either. I had that errand up at the dressmaker's and, although Mr. Griggs told me I had better harness the horse, I decided to walk. You remember I told you I thought I might."

"Oh, yes, so you did. I remember you said something about it."

"Yes, I did. And you spoke of walking all the way to South Trumet. But of course I didn't think you meant it."

Now that very morning, after breakfast, at the post office, these two young people had met by chance, and there Miss Barstow had spoken of her errand to the dressmaker's and of her intention of walking instead of riding, and that she should probably start for the walk about half-past one that afternoon. And Mr. Clifford had suddenly discovered that it was a beautiful day for walking and that he might walk to South Trumet that same afternoon. And, although neither of them mentioned it, both were aware that Miss Carrie Cahoon, the dressmaker, lived on the South Trumet road about half a mile from the village. And now, when all this conversation had, according to the admissions of both sides, been, if not forgotten, at least not taken seriously, they had met almost at the hour named, half-past one, and were walking together. Amazing coincidence.

They talked of the weather, of course, and of other equally safe and sane topics. Miss Barstow asked how the work at the new cold-storage plant was progressing. She supposed they would be installing the engines pretty soon. Mr. Clifford said that only portions of the engines had arrived as yet, and that the installation would not begin for at least a fortnight.

"How long will it take?" asked the young lady.

"I don't know," was the answer. "I presume it will be necessary for me to be here in Trumet for nine or ten months more, perhaps. Ten months should finish the plant and give me time enough to test it, I should say."

"Oh, and then--where will you go?"

"I don't know. Wherever the firm sends me, I suppose. I'm not anxious to go anywhere. If the railroad people lost the engines in transit and it took a year to find them, I should bear up under it."

"Really! Why? Don't you like your work, Mr. Clifford?"

"Like it? I'm crazy about it. I wouldn't do anything else for any amount of money. I didn't mean what I said exactly, Miss Barstow. Of course, I shouldn't want the engines to be lost and I do mean to get my job here finished on time, but----"

"But what?"

"I'm not very anxious to leave Trumet, that's all."

This remark seemed to put a stop to conversation for a moment. When Miss Barstow next spoke it was concerning a different subject. They had reached the next hill on the lower road. It was a higher hill than "Knowles'," and from its top there was an expansive view of bay and shore, stretching for miles in either direction. Upon the water side of the road, standing in a good-sized plot of ground, was an old-fashioned, rambling house, much out of repair. It had been in its day a very roomy, comfortable house, and the possibilities for comfort were in and about it even yet; but the whitewash was peeling from the shingles, the shingles themselves, some of them, were dropping off, here and there a blind hung on one hinge, and the dead grass and weeds in the yard were a foot high. The house looked as if it had been shut up for years, as, in fact, it had. But now a door and several windows were open and smoke was rising from the kitchen chimney.

"It will seem good to see that house open," said Mary Barstow. "It has been closed ever since I came here to Trumet to live. When I was a little girl I used to be frightened to go by it at night, it looked so deserted and spooky. But as I grew older I came to like it, rather. It seems so--so--what shall I say?--homey, or as if it ought to be made a home again. I like the way it is spread out, long and low, you know; and the way all the ells and extensions and barns and henhouses cuddle up to it. I am ever so glad it is going to be opened and lived in. I only hope the new owner won't improve it too much, not enough to spoil it, anyway."

"Who is the new owner?" asked Clifford.

"His name is Burgess; and his Christian name is as queer as--well, almost as queer as my stepfather's. It is 'Obadiah'--Obadiah Burgess. Haven't you heard of his falling heir to the old Badscom place and coming here to live?"

Irving nodded. "Yes," he said, "I have. I heard something about it, although I paid little attention. But I think I saw Mr. Burgess. A little chap, isn't he; with a sort of round, red, moony face and grayish hair?"

"That is Mr. Burgess. Did you meet him? He came only yesterday."

"No, I didn't meet him. I saw him on the street just now. At least Mr. Peleg Bearse said it was he. He was with Mr. Griggs--your father."

Again there was a momentary silence. It seemed to Clifford as if his companion looked troubled; but she said: "Yes, I believe Mr. Griggs is attending to some business matters for him. Isn't this a wonderful afternoon? See how clear everything is. See that schooner's sails, so clean-cut against the sky, and yet her hull is below the horizon."

But Irving Clifford did not mean to be sidetracked by the clearness of the atmosphere or the beauty of the view. The dressmaker's house, Miss Barstow's destination, was not so far ahead--they had passed the corner and were now on the main road--and there was something he wished to say before they reached there. So he summoned his courage and began:

"Miss Barstow," he said, "I hope you'll forgive me for saying this, but it has troubled me a little, and I determined to ask you about it. It may be my fancy, but it has seemed to me of late that your father doesn't--doesn't--well, as if he had a sort of prejudice against me. Almost as if he disliked me. Have you noticed it?"

For just a moment she hesitated. Then she said: "I am not sure that I know what you mean, Mr. Clifford. I didn't think you and my--father were well acquainted."

"Why, we're not, you know, not very well acquainted. I--well, to be frank, he doesn't seem to care for my acquaintance. On the last two or three occasions when we have met he has scarcely spoken to me. I couldn't imagine how I had offended him. I can't yet. Can you, Miss Barstow?"

Again she was silent for a moment; then she said:

"Mr. Griggs is somewhat peculiar, as perhaps you have noticed--or heard."

He had heard at least that. In fact, of all the stories of Balaam Griggs, his characteristics, manners and methods he had heard since he came to Trumet, not one was to Balaam's credit. And he knew she must, to some extent, be aware of this. Yet he tried to make his answer as diplomatic as possible.

"I have heard," he said, "that he was--er--eccentric."

"Yes, he is. He has few friends; says he doesn't care for them."

"Humph! that's odd; I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why? Do you wish to become a friend of his?"

This was a direct question, certainly. Irving Clifford was surprised and rather embarrassed. But he would not help smiling.

"Well," he answered, "since you ask me so very plainly, I don't know that I do, particularly. If Mr. Griggs wishes to dodge my acquaintance he has that privilege, I suppose. But I do value your friendship, Miss Barstow, and because I do and hope that it may continue I shall be sorry if your father's eccentricity takes the form of dislike to me."

They had reached the whitewashed fence, the gate of which supported the sign: "Miss Caroline Cahoon, Modiste and Dressmaker. Plain and Fancy Sewing Done Here or Out by the Day." Mary paused, her hand on the gate. She seemed to be considering, to be making up her mind. When she spoke it was evident that that mind was made up.

"Mr. Clifford," she said, quietly, "you know, of course, that Mr. Griggs is not my own father, my real father."

"Yes; yes, I knew that he was your stepfather. I had been told so."

"He is. My own father died when I was a little girl. My mother married Mr. Griggs while I was away at school, and I remained at that school until just before her death, four years ago. During her last illness I came here to her home--Mr. Griggs' home--and I have been here ever since. My mother asked me to stay here with him, for a time at least, and I have done as she asked.

"I am telling you this," she added, "because I want to make plain to--to all my friends that my stepfather's personal prejudices do not influence me in any way, either in my feelings or my acts. Mother asked me to stay here with him and make him a home as long as I felt it right to do so. That I have done and am doing, but my friendships are my own. Good afternoon, Mr. Clifford. I have enjoyed the walk ever so much."

She entered the dressmaker's yard. Irving Clifford resumed his walk, his head high and his spirits equally so. What did he care for the eccentricities or prejudices of Balaam Griggs? If he had met the dealer in real estate, insurance and mortgages just then he would have felt like snapping his fingers in the latter's face.

So he walked on, increasing his pace and whistling cheerfully. As he left Trumet behind him the houses were more widely scattered and there were stretches of woods, pines and scrub oaks. The road became more winding and crooked and the hills and hollows more frequent. In summer, particularly on Saturday or Sunday, there would have been a procession of automobiles on that road; now, in October, there were very few.

He had covered perhaps two of the three miles separating South Trumet from its parent town when he heard the raucous squawk of a motor horn. The sound seemed to come from beyond the summit of the hill on the road before him. The hill was rather high and long, for a Cape Cod specimen, and the road, curving gently upward to its top, disappeared behind a clump of sturdy old pines, their foliage feathery and green against the afternoon sky. At the foot of the slope, beside and to the left of the road and almost opposite where Clifford was walking at that moment, was a hollow and a little pond, the latter perhaps fifty yards in width. Between the road and the pond was a stretch of rickety rail fence.

The squawking of the motor horn was so loud and insistent that Clifford looked up the slope with some interest, wondering what sort of vehicle might be attached to that horn and why its progress was announced with such preliminary trumpetings. He expected to see at least a seven-passenger limousine shoot from behind the clump of pines and descend the hill at a speed of seventy miles an hour.

But the car which did appear was not a limousine. It was a runabout containing a single passenger. The passenger, who was also the driver, was a man, and he was humped over the steering wheel, his elbows well out and his hat on the back of his head. Clifford had little time to observe what the man looked like; his attention was centered on the car itself. The latter was small and "tinny," also it glittered in the sunshine as only a very new car can glitter. It turned the corner by the pines to the accompaniment of brazen squawkings and came down the hill, gathering speed as it came. It edged over toward the right-hand side of the road until the watcher at the foot of the hill feared he might be crowded off the highway altogether. Then with a violent jerk it shot diagonally across to the left, where in turn it was yanked from the very edge of destruction and sent to the right again.

Clifford, standing in the middle of the road below, was very anxious to get out of the way of this erratic equipage, but there was some difficulty in knowing which way to jump. If he went to the left, the car was just as likely to go there too, and the right was equally dangerous. However, a sudden swoop of the approaching motor to the right decided him, and to the left he sprang, shouting a warning as he did so.

The shout reached the ears of the driver, apparently, for he looked up from the macadam directly at the end of the radiator, the spot upon which his gaze had hitherto been fixed as if glued, and saw the fellow human in his path. Then he, too, shouted, or roared, or bellowed, and, twisting his body to one side, turned the steering wheel with it. The runabout swerved sharply to the left, Clifford leaping out of its way just in time, crossed the road, smashed headlong through the rickety rail fence and splashed hub deep into the little pond, where it stopped short.

Irving, as soon as his bewildered senses were able to grasp the situation at all, jumped over the splintered ruins of the fence and ran to the rescue. The auto, surrounded by agitated rings of mud and water, seemed to be safe enough. At any rate, it was standing on its four wheels. As for its driver, he, too, appeared to be safe and sound. Clifford, who unheedingly had run ankle deep into the mud and water himself, voiced his anxiety in a hail:

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

The man in the auto turned a red and somewhat dazed face in his direction. It was a big face, for he was a big man, and there were strands of iron-gray hair tumbled across the forehead, and a gray-sprinkled, pointed chin beard and mustache. It was a strong face, one which looked as if it had faced many climates, many weathers and many different kinds of human beings. Clifford, of course, noted all this later; just then he noticed very little except that the man himself appeared to be uninjured.

"Eh?" gasped the stranger in the auto.

"I say, are you hurt?" repeated Irving.

"Eh? Hurt? No, I guess I ain't, but I ain't sartin. I wouldn't swear to nothin' definite just this minute. You're the feller that was there in the road off my bows, wan't you? Are you hurt?"

"Not a bit. I'm sorry I startled you. I yelled and tried to get out of your way, but----"

"That's all right; that's all right." He looked Mr. Clifford over and a smile twitched the corner of his lip. "As for gettin' out of my way," he added, "your intentions was all right, son, but your judgment was bad. You'd ought to have stayed right in the middle of the channel. I've hit 'most everywhere since I left Province-town in this dratted thing, but I ain't hit the middle of the road yet. Where am I, anyhow?"

He peered over the side of the car. Then he shook his head.

"Water, ain't it?" he demanded. "Blessed if it ain't water! Tut! tut! Son, is there any other pond or water hole within two mile of here?"

Clifford laughed; he could not help it. "So far as I know this is the only one," he said.

"I bet you! And I got into it! If there's any water, salt or fresh, on top of this earth anywhere you can 'most generally cal'late on my gettin' in it--or on it. 'Twas some prophet in our family that named me Noah. . . . Well, son," he added, after another look over the side of the auto, "what do you think? Is the Ark stranded for keeps here on Ararat; or can I kedge her off?"

THE term "kedge her off" did not convey a great deal of meaning to Irving Clifford's mind, but he had spent sufficient time in Captain Zeke Penniman's society to realize that nautical phraseology contained many terms non-understandable to a landsman. And it was, of course, plain that the man in the runabout was, or had been, a sailor. "Sea captain, active or retired," was written all over him. So Mr. Clifford took a chance.

"I think we can get the car out," he said. "We must be prompt, that's all, before it settles into the mud. You sit where you are, sir, and I'll wade in and see how much damage is done."

He stepped back to dry land and bent to the laces of his dripping shoes. The man in the car roared a protest.

"You shan't do nothin' of the kind," he declared. "You stay ashore there and keep dry. You've had enough trouble on account of me, as 'tis. I pretty nigh run over you; 'tain't likely I'm goin' to drown you, is it? You stay right there, I tell you, and keep your feet dry."

Clifford laughingly shook his head. "I couldn't keep them dry if I wanted to," he replied. "My shoes and stockings are soaked through already. You sit there and I'll--Oh, great Scott! what did you do that for?"

The question was uttered in a tone of protest and amazement. The man had quietly opened the car door, stepped out, and was now standing in the pond, the muddy water reaching his knees.

"What did you do that for?" repeated Clifford.

"Well, you said we'd have to be prompt, or she'd settle. This was the promptest way to be prompt I could think of. She wouldn't have stopped settlin' any quicker with my two hundred and fifty pounds roostin' on deck. Besides, I wan't any good there; I may possibly be some here."

"But why in the world didn't you take off your shoes and stockings?"

"Son, when you get to my age and tonnage you'll realize that, when it comes to makin' a choice between gettin' wet and takin' off your shoes and socks in a two by four space like the cockpit of that automobile, you'll get 'em wet every time. There! now we're both in the briny deep, as the feller said. What do you think of her? Know anything about that kind of craft, do you?"

Clifford had waded in and was standing beside him. "Yes," he answered. "A little. But the first thing is to see if we can push it back out of this mud hole. If we can't we shall have to hunt up some one with a horse; and there isn't a house, as far as I know, for a mile either way."

"To say nothin' of a barn, eh? I cal'late we can shove her, if she ain't too deep in. Don't weigh much more'n a termatter can, she don't. That's what I told the feller I bought her of: 'If she springs a leak' I says, 'I can put her in my pocket and take her down to the tinsmith's to be soldered.' There! now I'll shove one stern wheel and you the other. Got everything fixed, have you? Say when you're mad! Now! Heave and she goes!"

Clifford having adjusted the clutch as best he could, they "heaved" together, and the light little car pulled out of the mud and bumped and wallowed and splashed to the shore. They ran it back until the forward wheels were clear of the water. Then they stopped for breath.

"Whew!" panted the big man, rubbing his coat sleeve across his forehead. "Say, I'm glad the tinsmith ain't hollerin' for her now. Perhaps he is, though; him or the undertaker. Land knows how her engines are after that souse. Better take off the hatches and have a look, hadn't we? Not that I'd know any more after I had looked; but you said you would know, eh, Mister?"

"Yes. I am an engineer. Looking after engines of various sorts is my business."

"You don't say! Well, well! Every man to his job, as the tipsy feller said to the snake charmer. So you're an engineer, eh? Well, son, I have showed a little mite of judgment in this fool business, after all, ain't I? I knew who not to run over. How does she look? Any chance short of the scrap heap?"

The young man had removed the hood and was inspecting the engine. His examination was brief but thorough.

"She is not badly hurt," he said, after two or three minutes of testing and peering. "That is, she is not injured seriously. If you hadn't gone into that pond quite so far she wouldn't have been hurt at all."

"Sho, sho! And I was thinkin' 'twas lucky I hadn't gone in all under. She is hurt some, I judge. What's the damage?"

"Well, that cold water has cracked one of your cylinders."

"The devil!"

"Oh, that isn't such a dreadful thing."

"Ain't it? I didn't know. I just said 'the devil' on the chance. Then 'tain't very bad, eh?"

"It's bad enough. With a big car it might be very bad; but with this little one, of this particular make, you have only to wire the Boston agents, and new parts will be here in a day or so."

"Humph! A day or so! What'll I be doin' while I'm waitin'; settin' here on the edge of this pond whistlin' for hornpouts to swim in for supper?"

"Ha, ha! Not unless you want to. I think I can get your car going so that it will limp on three cylinders as far as South Trumet. There's a good garage there where you can leave it and it will be well looked after. I'll go with you, if you wish; I was bound there, anyway. Unless, of course, my company will inconvenience you."

"Humph! Yes, 'twill inconvenience me about as much as a square meal would inconvenience a starvin' man. I don't know how I'm goin' to thank you for all this, Mr.--Mr.----"

"Clifford is my name, Irving Clifford."

"Mine's Newcomb--Noah Newcomb. Well, Mr. Clifford, I won't waste time tellin' you I'm pleased to meet you, because I hope you've seen enough of me by this time to give me credit for havin' a teaspoonful of common sense. In spite of the way I handled that automobile just now, I give you my word that there's times when I'm as rational as other folks. I'm mightily obliged to you, Mr. Clifford, I am so. Now what's the first thing you want me to do? I warn you right now you'll find me about as handy at this job as a clam is at climbin' a tree."

Clifford, who was finding his new acquaintance rather amusing, replied that there was nothing for him to do at the moment. "Just sit down and watch me, Mr. Newcomb," he said. "Or should I say 'Captain Newcomb'?"

The big man grinned. "Smell the tar on me strong as all that, can you?" he inquired. "Yes, you can call me 'Cap'n,' if you want to. Most folks do, I notice. I ain't done much seafarin' for quite a spell, but for pretty nigh twenty years at a stretch I got my livin' on salt water. Last part of it I commanded one of the Clay Line boats, runnin' to Porto Rico."

Clifford was interested at once. "Porto Rico?" he repeated. "I know Porto Rico pretty well, myself. I was at San Juan for nearly two years installing the engines and setting up the plant of a big sugar company."

"You don't say! Why, I know San Juan same as I know Portland, Maine, and Portland's where I've been livin' for the past twelve year or more, ever since I gave up steamboatin'. So you've been to Porto Rico, eh? Well, well! I want to know!"

There was little doubt that he did want to know, also that he intended to find out. While the young man busied himself with the engine of the automobile, Captain Newcomb, hands in pockets and apparently quite oblivious of the fact that his garments from the knees down were soaked through, walked up and down asking questions. Having learned that Irving Clifford was a mechanical engineer, that his home was in Ohio, that he had been educated at Cornell, and that his reason for being on Cape Cod was the installing of the mechanical equipment at the new fish freezing and storing plant at Trumet, the captain proceeded to impart a little information about himself.

Irving learned that his companion was a Cape Codder by birth, having been born in that very town, Trumet. That he left school and went to sea when he was fourteen. That his sister, whose name, it appeared, was Dorcas, and who married a man named Cornelius Dillingham, had lived at Ostable until her husband's death, which occurred some time in the early nineties.

"I used to come down and visit 'em every once in a great while in the old days," explained Captain Noah. "Used to call Cape Cod my home then. 'Twas as much my home as any place. Fellers that go sailorin' and steamboatin' don't have any home, rightly speakin', and I was in the Pacific trade then, mate on a tramp freighter. No, I never went square-riggin', that was afore my time, but I've schoonered and steamboated from here to Glory and back. Well, Dorcas had a lot of trouble here on the Cape; her baby died and then Cornelius got drowned fishin' on the shoals down by Orham. So Dorcas begged me to take her away somewhere. I was with the Clay Line folks then, in active service, so I took her to Boston and she lived there a spell. Then they made me port commander of their line of steamers runnin' from Portland to the West Indies, and my sister and I moved to Portland and we lived there ever since."

"Is your sister there now?" asked Clifford absently. He had heard very little of his new acquaintance's chatter; the engine was occupying most of his attention.

"She's dead. Died last spring; pneumonia 'twas that took her finally, but she'd been ailin' a long spell. After she died I didn't seem to care to hang around there much longer, so I settled up my affairs and got out. I'd laid by a little bit, had some lucky investments and one thing a'nother, and I cal'late I've got enough to last me through. I've got to put in one more winter at Portland--I promised the Clay Line folks I'd stay with 'em while they broke in a new man--but after that--well, after that your Uncle Noah's goin' to cruise on his own hook."

"Where?"

"Eh?"

"Where are you planning to cruise, Captain?"

"I don't know. Anywhere I take a notion, I guess; so long as it don't cost too much."

"You want to look out for the fences and ponds."

"Eh? Ho, ho! you're right, son, so I do. Well, I presume likely you're wonderin' what I am doin' down in these latitudes in a craft I don't know any more about than I do that one; eh?"

"Well, I--I confess I did wonder a little. This is a brand-new car, isn't it?"

"It was yesterday noon, when I took command of it. My buyin' that auto is quite a yarn. Show's that you can't judge much by the looks of a feller's outside. Anybody to look at me would say I was fairly strong and able, wouldn't they?"

"They certainly would."

"Yup. Well, they'd make a mistake. I'm feeble under the hat and the right kind of man can toll me along with soft soap until I do most anything. Oh, it's so, I've just proved it. Four days ago I hadn't any more idea of buyin' an automobile than I had of puttin' peppermint and molasses on my head and sellin' it for a cough drop. I was up in Boston and I met a feller I used to know, a feller that used to live in Portland. I asked him where he was livin' now and he told me down to Provincetown here, on the Cape. Well, of course, anything about the Cape interests me--I was a boy here and I always did like it better than anywhere else on earth--and we talked and talked a long spell. He was goin' back the next mornin' on the boat and I'm blessed if, the first thing I knew, he hadn't coaxed me into promisin' to go along with him, just for the trip. I didn't have anything particular to do, you understand, and the Old Harry finds some mischief still for lazy folks to run afoul of, as the Good Book says.

"So down to Provincetown I went, just to look around. Stopped at this feller's house--his name was Ryder, by the way--over night. Next day he took me down to his place of business, and it turned out he was in the automobile trade. I rode around town some with him and then he says, 'Noah,' he says, 'you ought to have one of these things.' 'Yes,' I says, 'I know. And I ought to have a sealskin sack and a diamond breastpin, but I ain't got either of 'em.' 'They don't cost much of anything,' says he. 'A car like this now, why, they almost give it away.' 'If they did give it away,' I told him, ' 'twouldn't help me any; I couldn't pilot it.' 'Yes, yes, you could,' he says; 'of course you could. It's as simple as A B C. Why, just you look here.' I looked and--Ho, ho! Well, what's the use of pickin' the funeral all to pieces? That was the first day; the next day I bought the car."

"Well, I think that was pretty good judgment, Captain Newcomb. I'm sure you'll get a lot of fun out of it."

"Eh? Land, yes! I've got a shipload of fun out of it already. The same kind of fun the boy had that thumped the hornets' nest to see if 'twas holler. I cal'late he got stung, and I know I did. And yet, by time, I did learn to run that auto! I run it all around Provincetown this very mornin'."

"Well, Captain, if you can do that you should be able to run it anywhere. To run a car through those narrow streets is quite a feat."

"Yes, but I run it all right. Only, son--and here's where the difference comes in--that Ryder man was right at my elbow all the time. 'Twas the difference between goin' into a strange harbor with a pilot and goin' in without one. This noon, when I left Provincetown, I had a chip on each shoulder. I was perfectly sartin I could navigate that automobile to China, if 'twas necessary. Well, ho, ho! I made a try at it. If that pond had been deep enough to reach clear through, I'd have fetched up in Hong Kong, I shouldn't wonder."

"What was the matter? What set you to going wrong?"

"Everything, son; everything and every livin' critter I met on the road. The further along I got the wider I turned out to pass. When I was runnin' through Provincetown yesterday I wouldn't have given a cow more than six inches clearance room. This afternoon I was liable to give a cat half a mile. I did think all the nerves I had had been washed out of me by Pacific Ocean typhoons, but I guess I've grown a new set. When I got to navigatin' this last string of hills and hollers I knew my finish was just ahead somewheres. I had so many different things to think of, that was the trouble. Ho, ho! I had to think of what to do with my hands, and with my feet, and with my eyes, and about the brake and the clutch and the whistle and--and--land knows what else. And then, every time she'd strike a steep place, I'd get to thinkin' about my past life, because the way I looked at it I'd soon be landed where I'd have to give an account of it. Ho, ho! . . . Good godfreys mighty! What's she doin' that for?"

Clifford had at last reached the point where he was ready to attempt starting the engine. He had been "cranking" for a minute or more. Now his efforts were rewarded by a series of gasping barks and explosions.

"Fsst! hoo-hoo! Fsst! hoo-hoo!"

"Got the phthysic, ain't it?" queried the car's owner, anxiously. "Sounds like somethin' catchin'. Liable to do that long, think?"

"Until we get to the garage, I'm afraid. Jump in, Captain, and we'll see how she goes."

She went, but that was all that might be truthfully said concerning her progress. She crept barking and spitting up the hills and spitting and barking down the slopes. Clifford had taken the steering wheel and Captain Newcomb sat beside him on the seat. After a few minutes the latter spoke.

"Would it be doin' anything unsafe or sacrilegious," he asked, "to let you and me change places? Don't think I'm altogether loony," he added, apologetically. "The only thing is I--I hate to give up. I started in to learn this car and I do hate to have the thing lick me. I'm goin' to run her afore I get through or die a-tryin'. Sounds foolish, don't it, for a grown up man to be so sot and childish, but I can't help it, it's the way I'm made. Will it be all right for me to take the wheel now?"

Irving laughingly assured him that it would be all right, and the change was made. From that moment until they reached the door of the South Trumet garage conversation was dispensed with. Captain Noah's energies were otherwise employed.

The garage man received the little car cheerfully and philosophically, as garage men usually welcome the crippled fish which come to their net.

"Well, 'tain't so bad as it might be," was his optimistic observation, after inspection of the damage. "Nothin's so bad but what it might be wuss. We mustn't forget that; eh, Mister?"

Captain Noah regarded him with eager interest.

"Thank you, Commodore, thank you," he said solemnly. "I'm much obliged to you for remindin' me. 'Nothin's so bad but what it might be worse.' That's a wonderful comfort, that is. That, and 'Birds of a feather gather no moss,' and 'It's an ill wind that blows nobody--blows nobody's whiskers,' or whatever 'tis, that's the kind of talk that reconciles us to everything, Commodore; you're dead right. Thanks. I'll do as much for you some day. Now about how soon might I reasonably expect to have this craft back again?"

The proprietor of the garage stared at his customer as if he had strong doubts of the latter's sanity. The captain, however, was so mild and bland that the bewildered business man decided to chance a reply.

"If we have luck," he said, "them new parts ought to be down here tomorrow night. Then you can have her, maybe, two afternoons after that."

"Um-m. Yes, yes. Well, I tell you, Commodore, you just help that luck along all you can, will you? Remember, 'A burnt child dreads the--er--pain-killer.' I'll be here sharp day after day after tomorrow afternoon. Well, son," turning to Clifford, "what do you say? Shall we be cruisin' along?"

Irving explained that his errand in South Trumet had been to that very machine shop and garage. "It will delay me only a minute, however, Captain Newcomb," he said. The captain said he would wait and, taking his handbag from beneath the seat of the runabout, strolled outside, where, at the corner, Clifford found him soon afterward. The big man was chuckling quietly to himself.

"I cal'late," he observed, with a backward jerk of his head, "that feller in there thinks I'm all ready for the asylum, don't he?"

His companion laughed.

"Well," he replied, "he did ask me how long you had been this way."

"Ho, ho! I bet you! Well, son, I don't know why 'tis, but proverbs and sayin's and such always kind of stir me up the wrong way. I ask that chap in there how bad the auto is hurt and he looks wise as a cross between King Solomon and a cage full of owls, and tells me not to forget that nothin's so bad but what it might be worse! Muttonhead! However, I gave him one or two proverbs of my own, didn't I? Ho, ho! Well, if he thinks I'm crazy now he wants to look out for me when I come back. If that car ain't done on time I'll be violent . . . and in the meantime, son, is there a hotel in this place?"

Clifford shook his head. "No," he said, "there isn't. But there is one, such as it is, at Trumet, and that is only three miles away."

"Um. Such as it is, eh? You know somethin' about that hotel, I take it."

"I ought to. I put up there myself."

"So? Well, you look pretty toler'ble husky. I cal'late I can stand it for a couple of days, anyhow. Suppose likely they'll have room for me?"

"I'm pretty sure they will."

"Good enough. Let's heave ahead for Trumet. 'Twill seem like real old times, stoppin' in Trumet will."

The young engineer had used so much time in adjusting the auto after its bath in the pond and in getting it to the garage that he felt obliged to give up his contemplated walk home. Moreover, his new friend was not at all in favor of walking. "Iron's cheaper'n leather these hard times," was the way he put it. "No use wearin' out our own shoes when we can coax a horse to wear out his for us."

They were not obliged to "coax" a horse, for the owner of the garage agreed to drive them in his own car to Trumet for two dollars. As they entered the village Captain Noah's interest grew more and more keen. The town hall was new to him, so was the grammar school, but the Congregationalist meeting-house received the greeting of an old friend. The Mansion House was new, of course, having been built within the past ten years. He was introduced to Mrs. Hobbs and shown to his room by Ethelinda. Afterward he sat between Mr. Clifford and Captain Ezekiel Penniman at the supper table. When the meal was over he confided to the former that he had "struck another old acquaintance."

"Captain Penniman?" asked Clifford.

"No, no; never met him afore. It's that apple pie I'm talkin' about. If I ain't awful mistaken I had a slice off that same apple pie the night afore I left my granddad's house in this town and run away to sea. 'Twas one of the things made me run. Course it may not be the same pie," he added, "but if 'tain't then the children's children take after the old folks amazin'. No, I'll gamble it's the same one; the crust is a little mite tougher, but age would account for that. I'm tougher'n I was, myself."

He asked Irving what the "main excitement of the evenin'" might be about town.

"Don't want to risk anything too wild-eyed and divilish," he explained, "but I should like to do somethin' to make me forget that pie. Is there anything to go to? Any 'time' at the town hall or anything?"

"No, Captain, I'm afraid not. There are moving pictures here twice a week now, but this is not one of the nights. The mail gets in about eight o'clock and almost every one goes to the post office. If your system craves excitement, I imagine that is where you are most likely to find it. It's not so fevered as to be dangerous."

"Well, that's a comfort. I remember 'twan't what you'd call delirious in the old days. My, my! how long ago it seems since I lived here. I cal'late I will go to the post office. I might meet somebody there I remember, though that ain't hardly likely. Won't come along, will you?"

But the engineer had work to do that evening. He therefore excused himself and went to his room. Captain Newcomb lit a cigar and strolled slowly toward the post office, staring about him as he walked and trying to pick out places or buildings which he remembered. But it was too dark to see plainly, and his attempts at seeing only caused him to walk into posts or off the edge of the sidewalk. In fact, he almost collided with a pair of pedestrians just ahead of him, a couple too deeply absorbed in their own conversation to notice his approach. They were both men, and all the captain noticed concerning them, except their imminent proximity, was that one was tall and the other short. He pulled up just in time to avoid bumping into the taller one, and stepped off the sidewalk to pass. As he did so he heard the other, the short man, say:

"Well, I don't care, you know. I--I--I don't care much. A dollar or so more or less d-d-don't make much difference. If you say it's all r-r-right, I'd just as soon go ahead and b-b-buy it."

That was all Captain Noah heard. The tall man, suddenly aware of the stranger at his elbow, drew aside and pushed his companion further toward the fence at the inner edge of the walk. The captain moved on, but, as he moved, the scrap of conversation which had reached his ears kept ringing in them like an echo from the past. Not the subject matter, not what had been said, but the voice which said it. That voice, its high pitch and the funny little stutter, seemed oddly familiar. When had he heard that voice, or one very much like it, before? Sometime, somewhere, a voice like that had been familiar to him; somewhere he had known someone who squeaked and stuttered in just that way. Someone he had once known, in the village of Trumet, of course, it must be, but who? And why should the voice seem so very familiar? He felt as if he must have known the speaker very well indeed.

NOT until he reached the lowest step of the post office platform did the solution of the puzzle come to him, and then he smiled disgustedly. The solution was not a solution at all. He remembered now who squeaked and stuttered in just that way, but the person who did so had never lived in Trumet, nor, so far as he knew, had ever been within a hundred miles of the place. The similarity of voices was a coincidence, that was all.

However, it was a satisfaction to have run down and located the memory, the fancied echo of which had so tantalized him, and Captain Noah entered the post office with the feeling of contentment possessed by one who has guessed a riddle. He glanced about at the faces of the crowd, but, if there were any there whom he had once known, the years had changed them beyond his recognition. And no one appeared to recognize him.

The mail was "in," but it was not yet sorted. Interest seemed to center about a counter at the rear of the office where the evening newspapers had just been put on sale. The captain bought a Boston Herald and, with it in his hand, retired to a corner to read. There was a chair in that corner and, for a wonder, it was unoccupied. He sat down, his bulky form, squeezed between the corner of the shelf, which was offered the public as a substitute for a writing desk, and a peach crate, which did duty as a waste basket. There he unfolded his newspaper and essayed to read.

By and by the raising of the postmaster's little window made evident the fact that the mail was sorted. The crowd pushed forward, some to get in line at the window, others to unlock private letter boxes. Captain Noah, who, naturally, expected no letters, remained where he was. His toes were trodden upon rather often, and his nose had more than one narrow escape as a hurried discarder of circular or paper wrapper took a flying shot at the waste basket. But the captain read on. The editorial he was reading flayed the Democratic party in a thoroughly satisfactory way, and he wished to follow the process to its tormenting finish.

But the cuticle had not been entirely removed when his reading was interrupted. Just before him and not much higher than his head, as he sat in the chair, he heard again the squeaky voice which he had heard on his walk to the office.

"All right, Mr. G-G-Griggs," it stammered. "I'll wait right here. You get your mail, if you w-want to. I ain't exp-p-pectin" none."

The captain looked up. As he did so the man who had just spoken looked down. He had a round, cherubic little face--he was a little man--with a tuft of gray beard on the chin and a clean-shaven upper lip. His eyes were a light, watery blue, and as he stared down into the captain's face they opened wide and wider. Then his mouth opened also.

"Wh-wh-wh--" he panted, like a toy engine getting up steam; and then exploded with a "Why! Cap'n Noah Newcomb!"

Captain Noah threw down his paper and rose to his feet. He towered above the little man like a floating derrick above a tug boat. His big hand closed over the other's small one and swallowed it up.

"I declare to man!" he cried, in huge astonishment. "Obadiah Burgess! Then 'twas you I heard when I was comin' along down. What in the world are you doin' here in Trumet?"

Mr. Burgess did not seem to grasp, even if he heard, the question. He was staring up into the captain's face with an expression of huge astonishment coupled with delighted reverence.

"Cap'n Noah Newcomb!" he repeated. "Cap'n Noah! Well, I snum! And I don't know's I ever expected to see you again. I'm awful glad, I am so!"

"Much obliged, Obe. I'm glad, too. I don't know's I never expected to see you again, but I sartinly never expected to see you here. When I heard that voice out yonder just now, thinks I: 'That sounds natural, that voice does.' And then afterwards I remembered 'twas your voice it sounded like. But here in Trumet! You don't live here, do you?"

"No, sir, I don't. That is, I do. Anyhow, I ain't; but I mean I'm g-g-goin' to."

Captain Noah shook his head. "You don't and you do and you ain't but you're goin' to. Little mite foggy that is, ain't it, Obe? Cal'late I'll have to have a chart if I'm goin' to navigate through that. Do you mean you haven't been livin' here, but you're goin' to now?"

"Th-th-that's it, sir. You know about my gettin' the place and the money, don't you? About Aunt Sarah's willin' 'em to me, sir?"

"Never mind the 'sir,' Obadiah. We ain't on board the old Flyaway now. Goodness gracious, how long ago that seems--and is! So somebody's willed you a place and money, eh?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, Cap'n. I thought likely you'd heard of it. 'Twas put in the newspapers."

The captain repressed a smile. Mr. Burgess' pride in the fact that the news of his good fortune had been "put in the newspapers" was so very evident.

"I must have missed the paper that day, Obe," he said. "But tell me about it. How much was it? Who was your Aunt Sarah? How did you come to be here in Trumet? Is the place you're talkin' about here?"

"Yes, sir--yes, Cap'n, I mean."

"Call me Noah. Never mind the handles."

"All r-r-right, sir--Cap'n--Noah, I mean. Yes, the place is here. You see, Aunt Sarah, she----"

"Wait a minute, Obe. Heave to. This ain't a very good place for us to talk, is it? Too much competition. Come on round to my room at the hotel. We can talk there in comfort. Come ahead."

But Mr. Burgess hung back.

"I can't, Cap'n Noah," he said. "I forgot. Mr. Griggs is here w-with me. He's round here somewheres. Oh, here he is! Mr. Griggs!"

The captain turned and looked over his shoulder. A tall, thin man was standing in the corner by the chair he had just vacated, reading a letter. He was a long-legged, stoop-shouldered individual, whose sharp-featured face was sparsely decorated with a scattering pair of sidewhiskers, and whose long nose supported a pair of spectacles worn not more than half an inch from the tip. The expression on the sharp-featured face was not at the moment a pleasant one. Something in the letter seemed to annoy its reader. As Captain Newcomb looked at him he tore the letter into strips and dashed the pieces savagely in the direction of the waste basket.

"Mr. Griggs!" called Mr. Burgess once more.

The tall man turned, looked over the spectacles, and, seeing who had called, nodded and smiled.

"I'm a-comin', Mr. Burgess," he said. "Shan't keep you waitin' another minute. Had a little mail to look over, that's all."

"Mr. Griggs," said Mr. Burgess, excitedly, "I want to make you known to Cap'n Noah Newcomb, of--of--Where are you livin' now, Cap'n?"

"Portland was my last home port, Obadiah."

"Yes, yes. Portland, Maine. I've been there. Cap'n Newcomb used to be my skipper when I use to go sea-cookin'. I went many as seven v'yages with him, didn't I, Cap'n? And I cooked to s-s-suit you, if I do say it; eh, Cap'n Noah?"

"You sartinly did, Obe," agreed the captain, cheerfully. "And this is Mr. Griggs, I take it."

"Yes, sir; yes, Noah, I mean. Mr. Ba-Ba-Bub-Bub-Bub----"

"Balaam," put in Mr. Griggs himself. "Balaam Griggs, my name is. It's a kind of hard name to say. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cap'n Newcomb. Any friend of Mr. Burgess' is a friend of mine, right off."

"That's good." Captain Noah and Mr. Griggs shook hands. "And you're another old chum of Obadiah's, I judge, Mr. Griggs."

Mr. Griggs seemed a little disconcerted, but he rallied promptly. "No, not that--not exactly an old one. Hey, Mr. Burgess? He! He! But I hope him and I are goin' to be chums, as you call it. If we ain't 'twon't be my fault."

"Mr. Griggs has been awful generous and obligin' since I got here," put in Obadiah. "Yes, even afore I come. Why, I d-d-don't know how I'd got along with all there was to bu-bu-buy and hire around that new house of mine if it hadn't been for him. No, sir-ee, I don't!"

Captain Noah gave Mr. Griggs an appraising glance. He decided that the thin man's looks must belie him. There were, certainly, no exterior indications of either the obliging nature or the generosity.

"You in business here, Mr. Griggs?" he asked.

Balaam nodded and fumbled in his vest pocket, producing a battered memorandum book, from between the pages of which he took a printed card.

"Real Estate and Insurance, etcetery and so on," he said, handing the captain the card. "Wasn't thinkin' of buyin' and settlin' amongst us, was you, Cap'n Newcomb? You might do worse. Trumet's a growin' town."

The captain shook his head. "No," he said, "not this minute. Just now I'm mighty interested to find out all about Obe here and his good luck. I judge likely there's quite a yarn and I want to hear it. Can't you come round to the hotel now, Obadiah?"

Obadiah hesitated, Mr. Griggs looked doubtful. "Course I wouldn't interfere with your plans for nothin', Mr. Burgess," he said; "but if you was cal'latin' to look over that bedroom set, tonight would be an awful good time to do it. I told John we'd most likely be down this evenin', so he'll probably wait in for us. However, don't let nothin' I do put you out. No, no."

Mr. Burgess looked troubled. "I'd like awful well to come round and see you, Cap'n Noah," he said. "You and me have got a lot t-t-to t-t-talk over, all these years. But, you see, Mr. Griggs here is helpin' me buy some furniture for the house, and--and we've got an appointment, kind of. How long you goin' to s-stay, Cap'n?"

"Couple of days, I guess. That's all right, Obe, come and see me tomorrow. No, hold on! I'll come and call on you. Give me a chance to see this property of yours as well as yourself. On the lower road, you say? All right, I'll find it. Be down pretty soon after breakfast. Good night, Obe. Good night, Mr.--Mr.--Briggs--no, Griggs."

He glanced at the Griggs business card. "Balaam," he read. "Say, that's a good old Scriptur' name, ain't it? We're a kind of Scriptural bunch, come to think of it. Obadiah--and Noah--and Balaam! Ho, ho, ho!"

His laugh caused the postmaster to look out of his little window.

"Obadiah and Noah and Balaam," repeated the captain. "That's Old Testament for you! Ho, ho! You'd have to hunt some ways to get a fourth name to match up with them; eh? Ho, ho! Well, good night, good night. See you tomorrow, Obe. You, too, maybe, Mr. Griggs. Good night."

After they had gone Captain Noah turned back to the corner, picked up the Herald from the top of the waste basket where he had thrown it when he rose to greet Mr. Burgess, crumpled it up, stuffed it into his pocket and walked back to the hotel.

In his room he took off his coat, vest and shoes, lit a fresh cigar and settled back in a rocking chair to finish the editorial. As he unfolded the Herald a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He stooped and picked it up.

It was an oblong strip of cheap note paper, evidently torn, from the bottom of a letter. There was writing upon it. Scarcely realizing what he did the captain read these words:

sending you every cent ju
omptly as ever I can. For
d's sake remember how hard it
n't put Joash, poor boy, in states prison

Captain Noah turned the bit of paper over. The other side was blank. He wondered where in the world it had come from. Then he remembered that his newspaper had lain across the top of the post office waste-paper basket and, doubtless, someone had torn up the letter of which this was a part and tossed the fragments, as he or she supposed, into the basket, but really on the paper. When he picked up his Herald he picked up the fragment with it.

He was about to throw it down again when the name "Joash" caught his eye. He laughed aloud. His remark concerning Old Testament names had been to the effect that one would have to hunt some to find a fourth name to compare with "Obadiah" and "Noah" and "Balaam." Now, without hunting at all, here was a still more odd name brought to his attention within the half hour.

"Joash!" He repeated it aloud. Then he laughed uproariously and, going over to the hook upon which he had hung his coat, took his pocketbook from the inside pocket and put the bit of note paper inside. The name "tickled" him immensely. He had never heard it before. He knew where, in the Bible, to look for "Noah" and for "Balaam"; he would not have dispaired of finding "Obadiah." But where to find "Joash" he had not the slightest idea. But, as this was New England, and Cape Cod in particular, he would have been willing to bet that "Joash" was a Scriptural name. He meant to "stump" the minister with it, after his return to Portland. Whatever else was written upon that bit of paper he had forgotten already, but that name he did not intend to forget.

"Joash! Ho, ho!"

So he put the piece of paper in his pocketbook as a reminder. And, therefore, having shifted responsibility from his memory to his pocket, he, naturally, proceeded to forget all about both paper and name.

CAPTAIN NOAH had hoped to meet his new acquaintance, Irving Clifford, at the breakfast table and ask a few questions concerning Balaam Griggs. But when he entered the dining room the next morning he found that Mr. Clifford had already breakfasted and gone. Mr. Laban Bassett explained that the young man had a habit of leaving the table earlier than the rest of the boarders.

"This mornin' he didn't eat scarcely no breakfast at all," declared Uncle Labe. "Hardly ever has but one cup of coffee, but this mornin' he didn't drink more'n half a cup. A body'd think 'twan't good, the way he went off and left it."

Captain Noah tasted the slate-colored beverage in his own cup. "A feller must be crazy that goes off and leaves coffee like that," he observed, hastily putting the cup down again.

Uncle Labe nodded. "That's what I tell him," he affirmed. "Especially this mornin'. Why, today's Wednesday, and Mis' Hobbs makes it fresh every Wednesday and Saturday. Don't catch me leavin' none of mine settin' round."

The captain rose. "That's right," he said. "We can't be too careful; some child or innocent person might get hold of it. Well, so long."

He walked out of the dining room, leaving the puzzled Mr. Bassett to ask Ethelinda, when that young lady appeared to clear the table, who that "big, hulkin' critter--that Newcomb one--" was, anyhow.

"I dunno," replied Ethelinda, cheerfully. "Mr. Clifford fetched him here last night, and he's got the room Mr. Moses Tidditt died in. That's all I know about him."

Uncle Labe looked doubtful. "Well," he said, "maybe he ain't touched in the head, but he talks mighty queer for a sane person. Asked Cap'n Zeke how long he'd been boardin' here, and, when Zeke told him three years, he wanted to know if he was cal'latin' to get anything off for good conduct. I can't make no sense out of that; can you, 'Linda?"

"No, I'm sartin sure I can't, Mr. Bassett. He talks the same way to everybody, though. I think he's loony myself, but I suppose 'tain't none of my business, long's he pays his board."

The captain, whistling blithely if not tunefully, walked along the main road to the corner, where he turned into the lower road, just as Clifford had done the previous afternoon. He looked about him with interest as he walked, for the morning was a fine one and, in spite of the Hobbs coffee, he was in good spirits. He found himself rather enjoying his enforced stay in the village of his boyhood. That village had changed greatly, it is true, but its location had not changed; the sea and the air and the sky had not changed, and more and more of the old places became familiar to him as his memory brought them forward through the years. Along that lower road his bare feet had stubbed many and many a time on the way to the bay and the "swimming place." In that house there--it had no dormer windows then and the porch was new--had lived the girl who was his "first choice" at parties. The gray, tumble-down abandoned shanty back in the field yonder had been the home of old Captain Joshua Phinney, who, when himself a twelve-year-old, had been cabin boy on a ship boarded by pirates. That barn over there was new, but on the very spot where it stood, behind the clump of willows that used to be there, he and Abe Cole, the minister's son, had fought over a stolen watermelon. And he had blackened Abe's eye. He wondered where Abe was now; wondered if he was living; if he felt as kindly toward his old enemy, Noah Newcomb, as that one time enemy now felt toward him.

The view of the bay from the slope of Knowles' Hill was distinctly satisfying. It was much as he remembered it. The summer places along the shores and on the knolls were new, of course, and the boats at anchor were, for the most part, of the motor instead of the sail varieties. But, generally speaking, Trumet Bay looked as it used to look, as he felt it ought to look.

It must be somewhere along there that Obadiah Burgess' property, that of which he was in search, was located. He decided that he had better stop at some house on the way and ask particulars concerning that location. Then, as he reached the crest of the hill, he saw the name "Balaam Griggs" on the sign topping the white picket fence, and decided to ask Balaam himself.

Following instructions given by the placard at the bottom of the sign he did not knock at the locked front door, but went "round back" as directed. There were several doors there, but the farthest had chalked upon its upper panels the words "Genuine Antiques Here," so Captain Noah, although he had no desire to buy any antiques, thought it possible that Mr. Griggs might be with his stock and rapped on that panel.

The person who answered the knock was decidedly not an antique, genuine or otherwise. On the contrary she was a very attractive young woman, with a dust cloth in her hand and a sweeping cap upon her brown hair. In answer to the captain's question she said, in a voice as pleasant as her appearance:

"No, Mr. Griggs is not in just now. He has gone over to the village, I believe. Is there anything I can do for you? I am his daughter."

Captain Noah asked for and received directions concerning the location of Mr. Burgess' legacy, the "Badscom place."

"I can point it out to you from the other window, the one at the back here," said the young woman. "Won't you step in?"

The captain stepped in and followed his guide through a tangled maze of scarred bureaus and seatless chairs and crippled tables to a window which commanded a view of the bay and the further windings of the lower road.

"That is the Badscom place," said the young woman, pointing. "The old, low, whitewashed house at the top of the hill."

"Thank you, thank you very much, Miss Griggs," said the captain. Then, as he picked his way through the leggy tangle of chairs and tables, he added, "My! you've got a lot of old things here, ain't you! Sell consider'ble, I presume likely, in the course of a year; eh?"

He was sorry the moment after he said it, realizing that he had himself opened the way to a dissertation on "antiques" and a probable attempt to display choice pieces. But his forebodings were groundless. The young woman did not appear even interested.

"Mr. Griggs sells a good deal," she answered.

"Mostly to the summer folks, I suppose?"

"I presume so. I know very little about it."

She was obviously so anxious to avoid the topic, and her attitude was so decidedly unlike that which one would have expected a daughter's attitude toward her father's business to be, that Captain Noah was puzzled and curious. He tried again.

"That's a fine-lookin' old--old--er--bureau," he observed, pointing to a battered and blackened relic before him. "How much is that worth now?"

She shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "You will have to see Mr. Griggs about that."

"Yes, yes, of course. But I don't know when I've seen a bureau like that. Kind of a unusual--er--specimen, ain't it?"

She looked at the "specimen" and then at him.

"It would be--if it was a bureau," she answered, "but I'm afraid it's a sideboard."

Her eyes twinkled. The captain put back his head and laughed heartily.

"Kind of gettin' out of soundin's that time, wan't I?" he observed. "Well, it don't make much difference, long's you can't tell me what it's worth."

They had reached the door by this time.

"I can't," she said, her hand on the latch. "But if you can come back in an hour or two, I am sure Mr. Griggs will be glad to tell you--what it sells for."

She closed the door. Captain Noah walked out of the yard, a broad grin on his face. Balaam Griggs' daughter was strikingly unlike her father, so it seemed to him, unlike him in every way. The long-legged dealer in real estate and "antiques" had not impressed him over favorably at their meeting the night before. But to the daughter, in spite of her deficiency or indifference as a saleswoman, he had taken a fancy at first sight. He had his own opinion of the "antique" business, as too often conducted, and he believed this young woman's opinion was much like his. The slight hesitation between the "you" and the "what" in her last sentence had not escaped his notice. He was still chuckling over it when he entered the gate of the "Badscom place" and found its new owner awaiting him on the threshold.

That Obadiah was glad to see him there was no doubt; also there was no doubt of the little man's tremendous pride in his new possessions. He refused to sit down or to tell the story of his good fortune until he had shown his former skipper over the house, from its queer circular, cemented pit of a cellar to the long, dark attic with the rows of old chests and trunks under the eaves. The captain liked the old house exceedingly. The bedrooms, with their sloping ceilings, so convenient for head-bumping; the parlor, with its quaint wall paper, the "spatter painted" floor of the dining room--all these reminded him of the house where he had lived as a boy. And the view from the windows overlooking the bay was really exceptionally fine.

"You've got a tip-top place here, Obe," he said, heartily. "You'll be as snug and comf 'table here as a moth in a flannel shirt. All you need is a piazza out back here to pace the quarter-deck on, and a whale-walk and a spyglass on the roof, and I don't see but you're fixed for life."

Mr. Burgess' cherubic face beamed.

"That's what I say," he declared. "That's what I tell Mr. Griggs. 'There may be b-b-better places on top of the airth,' says I. 'Them Rockyfellers you read about, and the Old Doctor Bellows' Bitters man that built the castle over t-t-to Wapatomac, may have more f-f-fancy houses and grounds, but I wouldn't swop with 'em. No sir-ee,' says I, 'I wouldn't, not if they come beggin' me to on their b-b-bended knees.'"

"That's the way to talk, Obe. I'll warn any millionaire that asks me 'tain't any use wearin' out the knees of his trousers on your account. I don't wonder you're tickled. This is better'n the galley of the old Flyaway, I will give in. But I want to hear all about how you got it. Can't we come to anchor somewheres now, and talk?"

They "came to anchor" in a pair of rocking-chairs in the sitting room. Captain Newcomb reached into his pocket for his pipe, but his host prevented his filling it.

"When you come to my house, C-C-Cap'n Noah," he said, proudly, "you have to smoke m-m-my cigars."

He produced a box of cigars, large, fat cigars, gaudily banded and with the likeness of a robust young woman patriotically clad in the Stars and Stripes on the inside of the cover. The captain took one of the cigars and eyed it respectfully.

"I didn't know you smoked cigars, Obadiah," he said. "You didn't used to when you sailed with me."

"C-couldn't afford to," was the prompt reply. "Now I can. I'm worth t-t-twelve thousand dollars and this house and land. That's better'n bein' cook on a three-masted schooner, even on one of your schooners, Cap'n Noah. Ain't it, now? He, he! Light up and I'll tell you all about Aunt Sarah's willin' it onto me."

Captain Noah lit up, as ordered, and the fortunate legatee proceeded to tell his story.

For seven voyages Obadiah had, as he told Balaam Griggs at the post office, sailed as cook and steward on the three-masted schooner Flyaway under Captain Noah Newcomb. During that time he had learned to almost worship his big skipper, certainly to reverence and respect him beyond all other men. And the captain, for his part, liked the little man, although he, of course, realized the very obvious fact that his cook was far from being a Solomon.

"Obe's head rattles a little mite," he used to say, "and the rattle gets into his talk, as maybe you've noticed. He ain't anybody's fool exactly, but it ain't so very hard to fool him. His best gifts are cookin' and stutterin'; I'd back him to cook and stutter with anybody. And another thing, he's clear grit, as nobody knows better'n me. If it hadn't been for Obe Burgess I wouldn't be here now."

Which was a reference to the time when, in a Central American port, Captain Noah was seized with yellow fever and, when his mates and crew having run away, he was nursed back to health by loyal Obadiah, who could not be coaxed to leave him.

After Captain Newcomb gave up command of sailing vessels and had entered the employ of the Clay Line, he and his former cook had drifted apart. Obadiah had cooked on a number of coasters and fishermen, had worked in a restaurant on Atlantic Avenue in Boston, had cooked for two winters in a Maine lumber camp, and then, at his Aunt Sarah Badscom's solicitation, had gone to live with her at her house in a Boston suburb, where he took care of the lawn in the summer and the furnace in the winter and acted as a sort of general housekeeper for the old lady, who was his mother's half-sister.

"Then," explained Obadiah, "Aunt Sarah she went to work and c-c-caught pneumony and up and died. Course she'd been tellin' me she was goin' to p-p-pup-provide for me all right, but I never thought nothin' of it. I knew she was well off, but I cal'lated her Cousin Nathan Daniels, that lives d-d-down to Augusty, Maine, would get everything. Well, he did get the heft of it, but Aunt Sarah she willed me this old house, that belonged to B-B-Bethuel Badscom, her husband, and his dad afore him, and she left me twelve thousand along with it. Well, sir! don't talk! you never see such an upset critter in your born days as I was when that lawyer told me. I recollect it was a consider'ble spell afore I'd believe he hadn't made a mistake and that 'twan't twelve dollars instead of t-t-twelve thousand. But, by mighty, 'twas so, 'twas so, Cap'n Noah! And here I be, with a house of my own and rich b-b-besides. Here, have another cigar, won't ye? That one's gone out, ain't it?"

His guest looked at the stump of the cigar between his fingers. He had not been smoking it for some time.

"No, no more, Obe, thank you," he said, hastily.

"Better have another, hadn't you? Take another, take a couple. I can afford 'em. I ain't sea-cookin' any more these days. Ho, ho! Smoke right up, Cap'n. I like to see you. Good cigars, ain't they? The 'Liberty Maid,' that's what they call 'em. Balaam Griggs says there ain't no better five-cent cigar made. He buys 'em for me. Ever smoke a 'Liberty Maid' afore, Cap'n?"

"No."

"Sure? Balaam says they're awful popular; maybe you've forgot."

The captain shook his head. "No," he said, emphatically, "if I'd smoked one afore I shouldn't have forgot it. So this Griggs man buys your cigars for you, does he, Obe?"

"Land sakes, yes! He knows how, you see; I never had no experience buyin' cigars. Nor not much else neither. Never had much of n-n-nothin' to buy with. But Mr. Griggs he's helped me out somethin' wonderful. I don't know what I'd done if it hadn't been for him. He's been a real friend, he has."

"So? Well, real friends are scarce. You want to hang on to 'em--after you're good and sure that they are real. Known him a long while, have you?"

"No, only a little spell. That's what makes his kindness so wonderful, you understand. He see in the p-p-pup-paper about Aunt Sarah willin' me the house and the money and all and he wrote me a letter. Said he was down here in T-T-Trumet, right on the ground, as you might say, and if there was anything he could do to help me here--as a neighbor, you understand--he'd be glad to do it. I wrote him I was c-c-comin' down to look her over and he met me at the depot. I d-don't know what he ain't done for me. Hired a woman to clean house here and b-bought dishes for me and f-f-furniture and----"

"Wasn't the house furnished?"

"Only part. Hadn't anybody lived in it for years and years. There was lots and lots of stuff needed. Balaam he bought most of it for me."

"Where'd he get it?"

"Oh, I don't know. Some he had himself, part of it was. You know he sells antiques and such to the summer folks. Some of his best t-t-tables and bureaus and things that he was holdin' for high p-p-prices he let me have at cost."

"Did, eh? How do you know 'twas cost?"

"He told me so, himself. That come straight enough, didn't it? And what he didn't have himself he went out and hunted up for me. Last night, now, after I met you at the p-p-post office, Cap'n, him and me went up to John Bangs' and bought a bedroom set for forty-two dollars that Mr. Griggs says couldn't be duplicated for less'n a hundred and eighteen. Solid black walnut, 'tis, same as Aunt Sarah had in her spare room, and the only way you'd know 'twan't brand-new is that one of the cut-out bunches of grapes on the bow end of the bedstead is nicked s-s-some and there's a leetle mite of a crack in the m-m-marble top of the commode. Balaam Griggs says that ain't nothin'; he says he can show me gravestones right here in the Trumet cemetery that are cracked more'n that commode, and in the b-b-best lots, too."

Captain Newcomb laughed aloud. "You couldn't ask anything better'n that, Obadiah," he said. "Where is that set? Has it come down yet?"

"No, but I expect it 'most any time. Balaam's gone up with his team to get it. He helped me out there, too. He says 'twould cost me two dollars to hire a horse and truck wagon at the livery stable and he'll take his horse and borrow a wagon and 'twon't cost me but a dollar and a half. That's the kind of friend to have, ain't it, Cap'n Noah? I tell you I'm thankful I run afoul of him the way I did. I only wisht you knew him better."

"Humph! I'm beginnin' to wish I did, myself. I stopped at his house just now to ask the way here. That daughter of his is a mighty pretty and nice-appearin' girl."

"She ain't his real daughter. She's the daughter of his second wife; her name's Mary Barstow. I'm afraid she's a kind of trial to him."

"So? She don't look it. I could find a schooner load of men in an hour that would be glad to take the trial off his hands, I shouldn't wonder. What's the matter with her?"

"Oh, nothin' special, I cal'late, only she's kind of spiled and sot in her ways, I judge. Mr. Griggs don't want young fellers hangin' around her yet awhile. She's too young for that, he thinks."

"He does, eh? I don't believe he'd want to leave that question to a referee. She's twenty-one, ain't she?"

"Just about, I cal'late. That young cold-storage engineer, Clifford his name is, would like to keep company with her now, I cal'late if her pa would let him."

"So? Irving Clifford, the young chap that has rooms at the Mansion House? I've met him."

"That's the one. Mr. Balaam he says he's afraid that young man ain't much account."

"Humph; I want to know! I liked what I'd seen of him first-rate. Your friend Balaam must be particular. Well, Obe, tell me a little more about yourself. Made any plans about what you're goin' to do down here, have you?"

Obadiah crossed his knees. "Well," he said, with a self-satisfied smirk, "I don't know's I'm goin' to do anything 'special. I cal'late I'm as well f-f-fixed as ever I want to be; enough sight more'n I ever expected to be, I know that. Nice house and land, p-p-plenty of money, and my health. What more do I want?"

"Yes, I know. You've got enough to keep you--if you keep it. Who's goin' to take care of your house for you?"

"Cal'latin" to do it myself. May have a woman come in once a week or so to do the scrubbin' up. Mr. Griggs he thinks that would be a good idea. He cal'lates he can coax this same woman, this Hedge one, to do it for a spell."

"Um-hm, I see. He'll do the hirin' as well as the coaxin', I presume likely, won't he?"

"Yes. He saves me a lot of trouble. I don't know how I'll ever pay him back."

"I wouldn't worry about that--much. Is this twelve thousand of yours pretty well invested, Obadiah?"

"Six per cent. Seven hundred and twenty a year I get out of it. Gosh t'mighty! I've worked many's the year for enough sight less'n that. And now I just set down and they come and hand it t-t-to me, as you might say."

"Yes. Well, you take my advice and let 'em keep on handin' it. Don't get ambitious and help yourself to more out of the principal. And don't let anybody talk you into doin' it, either."

"Oh, I shan't. I wouldn't touch that principal for nothin'--that is, except to buy a little furniture for the house, you know; I had t-t-to do that, of course. No, I'm goin' to be savin' as ever I was, Cap'n Noah; don't you worry about me. But s-s-s-some day I'm goin' to travel. A sea-cook don't get no chance t-t-to see nothin' of the world except the wet places in it, and I mean to go everywhere--Niagary and M-M-Mum-Mammoth Cave and White Mountains and Syracuse, New York."

"Syracuse? What in the nation do you want to go to Syracuse for?"

"Cause I've heard so much about it; what an elegant p-p-place 'twas and all. After I left you, Cap'n Noah, I sailed along of a second mate that hailed from Syracuse and he was always talkin' about what a fust-class t-t-town 'twas. Always goin' b-b-back there end of every cruise, he was. I guess likely he would only he spent all his money for rum and p-p-pup-police fines and never had enough left to pay fare. He--why, you ain't goin', be you, Cap'n? Don't go. I was kind of hopin' you'd give up the hotel and come down and visit long with me for a spell."

"I'd like to, Obe, but I can't just now. I may have to go over to South Trumet this afternoon and see how the Commodore's gettin' on with that automobile of mine. But I'll see you again afore I go. Yes, I promise that. . . . Hello! here comes your self-sacrificin' friend with the new second-hand bedroom set. Is that the horse he rented to you for a dollar and a half? Why didn't you pay him a dollar more and buy the critter?"

"Eh? B-b-buy him? Wh-what kind of talk's that? You can't buy a horse for t-t-two dollars and a half? N-n-not unless it's a dead one."

"Can't you? Well, maybe you're right, Obe. And that one ain't much more'n half dead, is he? Well, so long. Hello, Mr. Griggs! Good mornin'!"

The Griggs welcome was effusive. Balaam had had the opportunity to talk with Mr. Burgess concerning the latter's nautical friend, and Obadiah had spoken largely of the friend's wisdom and ability and wealth and influential connections. The wealth was largely imaginary, but this Mr. Griggs did not know.

"How do you do, Cap'n Newcomb, sir?" he cried, his tone and handshake exuding cordiality. "How do you do, sir? Been lookin' over Mr. Burgess' property, have you? Some property, I call it, sir--some property."

"Yes, seems to be; some property and the rest sand. Good day, Mr. Griggs. So long, Obe; see you later."

On the way out of the yard he paused for a moment to inspect the "solid walnut bedroom set" which Obadiah had been able to purchase, through the help of his agent, at such a bargain. Whatever he thought of the bargain, he said nothing. Mr. Burgess, himself, came running from the house.

"Gosh!" he panted, "I 'most forgot. Have another 'Liberty Maid' to smoke on your way along. Light right up. I b-b-brought the matches."

Captain Noah appeared to hesitate momentarily. Then he took the proffered cigar, bit off the end, lighted the other end, and with a "Thanks, Obe," strode up the road, puffing like a tugboat. The puffing continued until he was out of sight from the house. Then he tossed the "Liberty Maid" into a ditch, made a face, and walked on. It was evident, from his preoccupied manner, that he was thinking deeply and that his thoughts troubled him a bit.

He did not, of course, go to South Trumet and the garage that afternoon, but that evening he did telephone to his proverb-quoting acquaintance, the "Commodore," and learned with satisfaction that the needed "parts" had arrived on the night train. The car would be ready two days later, as promised.

HE spent the next day and a half in wandering about Trumet. At Irving Clifford's urgent invitation he accompanied the latter to the scene of his labors, the half-completed cold-storage warehouse. Clifford took him over the big building, explained where the engines were to be placed, how the ammonia pipes were set and arranged, and described quite thoroughly the equipment and the process used in freezing fish. The captain was much interested.

"Humph!" he grunted, musingly. "Just freeze 'em and keep 'em forever and ever, amen; eh?"

"Pretty nearly that, Captain."

"Yes, I presume likely now if I should drift into one of these rooms after you got her started and laid down and went to sleep I'd freeze up same as a herrin', eh?"

"Much the same, I imagine."

"Sho! And, if nobody disturbed me for a hundred year or so, my great-grandchildren, if I had any, could step in any time and see what the old man looked like. That's a queer thing to think about, ain't it?"

"Ha, ha! Yes, it certainly is."

"Um-hm. Say, son, I believe I've met and talked with folks that have had somethin' like that happen to 'em. They must have been froze for a couple of generations and only just woke up. That would explain why they're walkin' around here in nineteen hundred and so on and thinkin' and reasonin' back in eighteen hundred and forty. I've always wondered why it was, and now I know, they've been in cold-storage. It's a great comfort to strike on a satisfyin' explanation, ain't it?"

Clifford, much amused, said it certainly was.

"I bet you! I've been to more'n one church in my time and had to listen to a cold-storage sermon."

He and Clifford spent the evenings together. The engineer enjoyed his new friend's society and wished he were going to stay longer. Congenial male friends the young man had found rather scarce in Trumet and, although he had known Noah Newcomb so short a time, he liked him. There was a marked difference in their ages, Clifford not yet thirty and the captain just past the half-century mark, but so far as spirit was concerned one was not more youthful than the other. And if there were any physical deterioration in the big frame of the older man, no evidences were visible. They had occasion to row across the bay on the morning of the third day and Captain Noah insisted on handling the oars. There was a strong head tide, but when they reached the wharf at the other side the captain's breathing was as full and regular as when they started.

He asked a good many questions concerning people and village affairs, but he asked none concerning Balaam Griggs or his stepdaughter. None of Clifford, that is, but at the Mansion House Captain Zeke Penniman and Uncle Labe Bassett were systematically "pumped," although they themselves were quite unconscious of the process. One item picked up from Mr. Bearse, the fish peddler, was also of interest. Captain Noah had led the conversation to the subject of "antiques." Peleg waxed sarcastic and profane.

"I ain't got no patience with the whole d----n foolishness!" he declared. "If I had my way I'd have the law onto it; I'd put a stop to it some way. The way them summer folks spend money on--on old busted crockery and chairs with the shakin' palsy is sinful--yes, sir, sinful! Why, I had a old blue platter that my wife used to keep soap fat in out in the woodshed. Bale Griggs he see it one day and he says, 'That's a good-sized platter, ain't it,' he says. 'I been wantin' a platter like that to feed my hens on.' 'To feed your hens on!' I sung out. 'Do you feed your hens on Chiny dishes, for the Lord sakes?' 'I don't mean my hens, my big hens,' says he. 'I mean my little chickens; I've got slathers of little chickens this spring. Want to sell that old platter, do you?' 'I don't know's I do,' says I. 'It's kind of handy to have round. What'll you give for it?' 'Oh,' he says, 'I don't know's I ain't crazy to give anything for the old thing, but maybe I'd give twenty cents or a quarter, maybe.' Well, we haggled around some and finally I let it go for forty cents, figgered I was in about thirty-eight and a half cents at that. And a month later, by godfreys! just one month later, blessed if he didn't sell that same platter to a Chicago loon that was stoppin' down at the big hotel, for twelve dollars. Twelve--dollars! My godfreys! Wan't that a crime? Wouldn't you think he'd have been ashamed? Eh, Cap'n Newcomb, now wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"So would I. And what makes me so mad is that I knew that Chicago man just as well as he did and, more'n likely, I could have sold the platter for twelve dollars to that same feller--if I'd only known he or anybody else would have paid it. But Balaam Griggs knew all right. You bet he knew!

"He's always snoopin' round buyin' things to sell again," went on the irate Peleg. "Why, I see John Bangs day afore yesterday and he told me he was cal'latin' to sell Balaam a black walnut bedroom set he had up garret. Said Bale had offered him twelve-fifty for it, but he was holdin' out for fifteen. Yesterday mornin' I see Balaam drivin' down along with a bedstead and a bureau and commode in his cart, so I cal'late him and John made a dicker. I'll bet you Griggs sticks some poor trustin' idiot twenty dollars or more for that same set."

Captain Noah rubbed his chin.

"I shouldn't wonder," he said, slowly. "I shouldn't wonder a bit--and then some."

But neither of this nor of other information gathered from the regular boarders at the Mansion House did the captain speak during his next call upon Mr. Burgess. It was a short call; he had received word from the garage that his car was ready, and that afternoon he was to start--to start, he emphasized the word strongly when stating his intention to Clifford--for Boston in it. And in accordance with his promise, he came once more before leaving to the old house on the hill.

Obadiah and he shook hands and said good-by at the gate.

"Well, Cap'n Noah," said the little man, "I'm awful glad I had the chance to see you this much, but I'm awful sorry you can't stay longer. If you'd only stay and make a little visit along with me I'd be tickled. But I've asked you and asked you and you keep on sayin' you won't."

The captain shook his head. "You're wrong, Obadiah," he answered; "I keep on sayin' I can't--not this time. But I tell you, some of these days I'm comin' back to Trumet again, and when I do maybe I'll make that little visit you've said so much about."

"Well, I hope you will, but I don't know. A busy man as you are ain't likely to find much in Trumet to interest him."

"Oh, I don't know. I can see one or two things developin' here now that are liable to be pretty interestin' afore they finish. I cal'late you'll see me, Obe; sooner'n you expect, maybe. And now let me tell you this: There's my address on that card I gave you. A letter or a telegram or anything sent to me there will reach me sooner or later. If ever you need me, Obe--that is to say, if you're in trouble or in a tight place and don't know how to get out, if you want help or advice or anything--why, don't you hesitate to send for me. Don't you hesitate a minute. If I'm on top of this earth anywheres I'll come."

The ex-cook looked up into his former skipper's face with the old expression of doglike regard and reverence.

"That's awful kind of you, Cap'n," he said; "it is so. I thank you a thousand times. But 'tain't likely I shall need any of them things. Looks to me as if I wan't liable to get into any trouble; way I figger I'm out of it for k-k-keeps and 'twill be smooth sailin' for me to the end of the v'yage."

"I know, but you can't always tell, Obe. Sometimes there are rocks and shoals that ain't down on the chart. Remember now, if you want me just give me a hail. Promise."

"Land yes, I'll promise, Cap'n Noah. You're just as good-hearted as you used to be, ain't you. I never could see why you was so good to a little no-account sort of critter like me. I can't see it n-n-now, either."

"Can't you, Obe? Well, maybe you've forgot the time when that same little no-account stuck by me when every other hand afloat or ashore skipped out and left me to fight Yellow Jack alone. I say maybe you've forgotten it, but I ain't--and I ain't likely to. Well, so long, Obe. Good luck and a fair wind. So long."

That afternoon Irving Clifford robbed the cold-storage company of time sufficient to accompany the captain to South Trumet and to ride back as far as the Mansion House in the little car. During the three-mile ride he had given the owner of that car all the advice in his power, advice concerning driving, steering, stopping and even slight repairing. At the walk in front of the hotel he alighted, rather reluctantly it must be confessed.

"I must leave you, Captain Newcomb," he said, "and, to be honest, I hate to do it. I hate to see you start for Boston."

The captain chuckled.

"I know you do," he said. "I can see it in your face. Well, now, I'm goin' to tell you this, son: I'm not only goin' to start for Boston in this craft, but I'm goin' to get there in her--some time or other. She and I may go in swimmin' together two or three times more, if there's ponds enough handy, but never mind, when we get to Portland I'll be boss of the ship. I've handled a ten thousand ton steamboat in my day, and no tin dingey on wheels is goin' to beat me, if I know it. And all this doesn't mean that I ain't more obliged to you than I can tell, Mr. Clifford. I am, and I hope you know it. I'm sorry I can't stop and have you give me more lessons in pilotin', but I can't, haven't the time. Don't you worry about me, though. I'll drop you a line from whatever port I make tonight and so on as I navigate up the coast."

Clifford smiled. "I'm not greatly worried about your safety," he said. "I'm pretty sure you'll get through without trouble. But I do hate to have you leave Trumet. My offer to give you lessons in driving wasn't entirely unselfish, you see. I have enjoyed your society very much and I wanted more of it, that was all. I hate to lose you, Captain."

Captain Noah was plainly much pleased. He leaned from the car and shook the young man's hand.

"Well, now, I'm much obliged to you," he declared, heartily. "And it's the same here and many of 'em. But you ain't got rid of me yet. It's about a hundred to one shot that some of these days you'll see me comin' down here again. Well, it's time to cast off, I cal'late. All ashore that's goin' ashore! So long, son."

The little car buzzed down the main road. It disappeared, taking a wide sweep around the bend. Clifford, watching it, wondered if he should ever see it or its driver again. He hoped so, certainly. He had meant what he said--he hated to lose Captain Noah Newcomb.

THE following day he received a post card from a town midway between Trumet and Boston. The little car and its driver had reached that point the previous night without, so Captain Noah wrote, "running on the rocks or sinking any of the channel traffic." The captain hoped and expected to make the city before another nightfall. That he had done so, a second post card proved. There came a third, this time from Portland. "Safe, sound and considerable astonished on account of it," wrote Noah. Clifford wrote a note in reply. That ended the correspondence. No more letters came from the Maine metropolis, and in Trumet the engineer's time was, between work and purely personal interests, fully occupied. He did not forget his salty pupil in the art of auto piloting; he thought of him occasionally and wondered where he might be, even resolved to write and find out, but being very busy at the storage plant and somewhat worried by the personal interest just mentioned, his resolutions never became performances. And the winter passed, spring came and went, and summer was at hand.

It was a beautiful June forenoon when the little car once more appeared on Trumet's main street. And, as on the occasions of its former appearances, Captain Noah Newcomb was at the helm. But now he did not crouch over the wheel, his hands bent in a petrified clutch at its circumference and his eyes glaring at the road just ahead. Indeed, no. The captain leaned back against the upholstery and his clutch upon the wheel was light but confident. He did not glare at the road; he smoked a cigar and looked easily about him. And in the wake left in the dust by the tires of that little car there was not to be discerned one nervous "jiggle." It was plain that Captain Noah had become, as he had sworn to become, "boss of the ship."

He sailed down the main road at a twenty mile an hour clip, and as he passed the platform of the Mansion House he looked hopefully up at it. But the only person visible was Ethelinda, who was dusting the piazza. chairs. Her glance was fixed upon the manly beauty of Izzy Thacher, the grocer's boy, who was delivering a basket at Mrs. Copeland's across the street, and she had eyes for no one else. However, the captain paused long enough to hail.

"Hello! Hi!" he shouted. "Is Mr. Clifford on board, do you know, sis?"

Ethelinda heard him, but it suited her to pretend that she did not. The grocer's boy was looking on and Ethelinda felt that she had a dignity to maintain. She went on with her dusting.

"Hi!" shouted the captain again. "Hi, you--er--what's your name--Shindy? Windy? Oh, Lindy; that's it. Say, Lindy, do you know whether Mr. Clifford's inside there or not?"

'Linda, nose in air and conscious that Izzy across the road was grinning broadly, condescended to reply.

"Was you speakin' to me?" she drawled, crushingly.

Captain Noah looked at her with eager interest. "Yes, I was," he said. "You guessed it the very first time. My, but you're a smart girl! Now see if you can guess what I asked you."

Izzy burst into a delighted "Haw, haw!" Ethelinda flounced into the hotel to inform Mrs. Hobbs that that crazy man that was here last fall had come back again and was ravin' worse than ever. The captain, quite unperturbed, turned to Mr. Thacher and asked the latter if he knew where Mr. Clifford might be found.

"Down to the cold-storage, I cal'late," replied Izzy. "He was a spell ago, anyhow, 'cause I see him."

So to the cold-storage plant went the little car, piloted by Captain Newcomb. The plant, now almost ready to open for business, was situated on a point at the mouth of Trumet Bay on the southern shore. Several workmen were busy on the roof of the engine-house extension searching for a leak which had developed during the winter's storm-beating. The captain pulled up in front of the building and alighted.

"Mr. Clifford around?" he asked, hailing the workmen on the roof.

"Don't know," was the careless answer. "Ain't seen him lately. Maybe he's inside somewheres."

The captain entered the engine room. The engines were in place now and the room seemed ready for occupancy. Even the big fire hose connected with the pressure tank hung coiled on the wall. There was no sign of Clifford, however, and Captain Noah, after a look around, emerged from the building to find another visitor standing by his automobile and regarding it with an expression of amused condescension.

This visitor was evidently not a Trumet "native." In fact, he looked as much out of place down there on the beach amid the bundles of seaweed rolled in by the winter tides, the clam shells and the defunct "horsefoot" crabs, to say nothing of the shavings and chips and builders' debris, as an orchid might have looked in a potato patch. He was a rather undersized, slim person, with a closely trimmed, waxed mustache, a fancy waistcoat, spats and a bamboo walking-stick. He was smoking a cigarette in a meerschaum holder. As Captain Noah approached he languidly lifted one gaitered foot to the hub of the auto's wheel and tapped the radiator with his cane.

"Who owns this--er--Panhard?" he asked, addressing the workmen on the roof. "Clifford hasn't been going in for jewelry, has he?"

One of the workmen replied. It was the same fellow who had answered the captain's inquiry, and now, as he spoke, he was unaware that the captain himself was standing in the doorway beneath him. "No, 'tain't Clifford's," he said. "Belongs to a feller that came here lookin' for him. Some flivver, ain't it, Mr. Wentworth? Got her dolled up regardless, ain't he?"

The slim gentleman deigned to smile. "Rather," he admitted, and tapped the radiator again.

Now the glistening varnish on that car was the pride of its owner's heart. During the trying period of his initiation into the science of driving it had received some severe scratches and humps, but these scars had all been covered, the nickel was polished each morning and no mud was permitted to cake upon the wheels. Various improvements the captain had added during the winter--electric lights, a self-starter and a clock were some of these. And now to see this lofty stranger carelessly thumping upon the hood, upon the polished shirt-front, so to speak, of his pet was a little too much. Captain Noah uttered a mild protest.

"Excuse me, Mister," he said, coming forward, "but perhaps you wouldn't mind hittin' not quite so hard. That paint on there's kind of fresh--I had her revarnished a little spell ago--and so I--Well, you see, I'm kind of fussy. Excuse me, won't you?"

The stranger turned and looked him over. So far as consideration for the captain's feelings went he might have been inspecting a wooden image.

"You see," went on the latter, "I--I--er--well, perhaps you'll think I'm too particular about that car, but 'er----"

The slim person interrupted. "Where's Clifford?" he demanded, addressing the workmen on the roof.

"I don't know, Mr. Wentworth. Ain't he inside? I thought he was. He," pointing to Noah, "was in there just now lookin' for him. Did you find him, Mister?"

"No, didn't seem to be there. Hi! Whose dog's this?"

A brindle bull terrier had suddenly made his appearance and was sniffing hungrily at the captain's ankles.

"Hi! get out!" commanded Noah, uneasily. "Say, whose dog is this, anyhow?"

The person addressed as Mr. Wentworth smiled slightly. The captain's uneasiness appeared to amuse him.

"He's mine, I believe," he drawled.

"He is, eh? Well, does he bite?"

"Sometimes."

"I want to know! Well, do you cal'late he'll bite me?"

"I hope not, but you can't always tell. Sometimes he isn't very particular."

A smothered giggle came from the roof. Captain Noah, glancing up, saw that the workmen had stopped hammering and were enjoying the tableau below.

"Call the critter off," he commanded, sharply. Mr. Wentworth languidly snapped his fingers.

"Here, Sport!" he said. The dog left off sniffing at the captain's ankles and trotted to his master, wagging an abbreviated tail. Noah smiled, apologetically. "Always makes me nervous to have a strange dog smellin' around my legs," he observed. " 'Tain't likely he meant anything, you know, but--er--What kind of a dog is he? What you might call a watchdog, eh?"

Mr. Wentworth smiled again. His was a queer smile, a lazy smile, a sort of tired smile, which lifted one corner of his mouth but did not disturb the rest of his countenance. The countenance as a whole looked tired also; it was pouched a bit under the eyes and lined from the nostril to the corner of the jaw; a sophisticated, weary sort of face, one which looked as if it might have seen a great deal of life--some kinds of life.

"Why, yes," drawled Mr. Wentworth, "I presume you might call him that--if you cared to. He's a pretty good watcher, at that. If I told him to watch anything I rather think he'd watch it."

"You don't say!"

"Yes, I do. For instance." He strolled over and rapped the step of the automobile with his cane.

"Guard, Sport," he said. Sport trotted over to the car and sat down by the step.

"Guard," said Mr. Wentworth again. Then he turned on his heel and walked to the corner of the building, where, pausing for an instant, he looked up at the group on the roof and dropped his left eyelid significantly. Then, whistling a popular melody and cutting the tops of the beachgrass clumps with his cane, he turned the corner and disappeared.

Captain Noah did not see the wink at the corner; in fact, he did not notice the disappearance. The promptness with which the dog had obeyed pleased him and he was regarding the animal with a growing respect.

"Sho!" he exclaimed. "Takes orders like a second mate, don't he? I declare, he's more of a dog than I thought he was. Had him quite a spell, have you, Mister?" Then, hearing no reply, he turned. "Why, where's he gone to?" he demanded.

The talkative workman answered. "Gone to hunt up Mr. Clifford, I guess likely," he said.

"Sho! Why, I told him Mr. Clifford wasn't there."

He ran over to the corner and called: "Hi, Mr.--What's-your-name--Mr. Wentworth!" But Mr. Wentworth was out of sight and, apparently, out of hearing. So he returned to the front again.

"Say," he said, addressing the group on the roof, "I can't wait any longer. If Mr. Clifford comes back afore dinner time tell him Cap'n Newcomb, Cap'n Noah Newcomb, was here and will see him at the hotel. Get the name straight, now--Noah Newcomb. He'll remember, I cal'late. I--Here, you dog, get out of my way, will you?"

But the dog seemed to have no idea whatever of getting out of his way. As the captain approached the car the animal stood in front of him. The captain stepped to one side and the dog stepped likewise. Captain Noah raised his foot to put it upon the auto's step. The dog raised his head and opened his mouth, displaying a beautiful set of teeth.

"Why, what ails the critter?" demanded Noah. "Hey, you, Sport! Clear out, will you?"

Sport's answer was a further display of teeth. From behind the teeth came a menacing rumble, like the sound of moving something heavy in a cellar.

"Well, I swan to man!" exclaimed the captain. "I do believe he ain't goin' to let me get in my own car. Here, Mr.----"

He had turned and had raised his voice, intending to summon the dog's owner. But just then another giggle came from the roof. And that giggle brought enlightenment to his mind. Wentworth had ordered the dog to "guard" the car.

After giving that order he had walked away. The dog was guarding the car. The group of workmen on the roof had stopped working and were watching. Nine chances out of ten Wentworth also was watching somewhere. The joke was on him, Noah Newcomb, and they were watching to see the fun.

Captain Noah looked at Sport and rubbed his chin. Sport showed his teeth and growled. Another giggle sounded above.

For perhaps a minute the captain stood there seeking ways and means. He could go into the building, find Wentworth and make the latter call off his dog--that he could do, of course; and, also, he inwardly vowed, that he would not do. Slowly he rubbed his chin.

Then, suddenly turning, he walked to the open door of the engine room and entered. When he came out he was holding the nozzle of the fire hose in his hands and the hose itself was unwinding from the reel as he walked. He walked on until the hose was unwound its entire length. Then he laid the nozzle upon the ground and turned again toward the door of the engine house. The group on the roof had watched this performance with astonished interest.

"Hi!" cried one, the one who had done all the talking. "Hi, Mister, what are you goin' to do with that hose?"

Captain Noah, who was humming a hymn, looked up.

"I was just noticin' how dusty my auto'd got this mornin," he cried. "Cal'late I'll wash off a little of it; 'twon't do any harm."

He walked into the engine house, humming, "Land ahead, its fruits are wavin'."

A moment later the water spurted from the nozzle of the hose, tearing a hole in the sand and sending the pebbles flying. The captain reappeared. Stooping, he picked up the nozzle; the force of water was so great that he was obliged to hold on with all his strength.

" 'Drop the anchor, furl the sail,'" hummed Captain Noah. He turned the stream of water in the direction of his car. It struck the road just behind the rear wheels. The flying mud and spray spattered about Sport's clipped ears. The dog closed his mouth and swallowed uneasily; nevertheless, he still maintained his position.

" 'Drop the anchor, furl the sail,'" sang the captain. The stream of water from the hose moved close to the rear tires.

Then a window on the second story of the cold-storage building was thrown up and a voice called:

"Here! What are you doing?"

Captain Noah did not appear to hear. He sang on: " 'We are safe within the vail.'"

"Here! D----nation! What are you doing? Don't turn that hose on my dog. You'll kill him."

The captain turned his head. "Eh?" he queried. "Who's that? Oh, it's you, Mr. What's-your-name. Yes, yes. Been lookin' over the plant, have you? Interestin' kind of place, ain't it?"

Mr. Wentworth's usually placid countenance was now anything but that.

"What the devil are you doing?" he demanded. "Do you want to kill my dog?"

"Kill your dog? What dog?"