Something over a fortnight went by and the three captains had received no answers from the advertisement in the Nuptial Chime. The suspense affected each of them in a different manner. Captain Jerry was nervous and apprehensive. He said nothing, and asked no questions, but it was noticeable that he was the first to greet the carrier of the “mail box” when that individual came down the road, and, as the days passed and nothing more important than the Cape Cod Item and a patent-medicine circular came to hand, a look that a suspicious person might have deemed expressive of hope began to appear in his face.

Captain Perez, on the contrary, grew more and more disgusted with the delay. He spent a good deal of time wondering why there were no replies, and he even went so far as to suggest writing to the editor of the Chime. He was disposed to lay the blame upon Captain Eri's advertisement, and hinted that the latter was not “catchy” enough.

Captain Eri, alone of the trio, got any amusement out of the situation. He pretended to see in Captain Jerry an impatient bridegroom and administered comfort in large doses by suggesting that, in all probability, there had been so many replies that it had been found necessary to charter a freight-car to bring them down.

“Cheer up, Jerry!” he said. “It's tough on you, I know, but think of all them poor sufferin' females that's settin' up nights and worryin' for fear they won't be picked out. Why, say, when you make your ch'ice you'll have to let the rest know right off; 'twould be cruelty to animals not to. You ought to put 'em out of their misery quick's possible.”

Captain Jerry's laugh was almost dismal.

The first batch of answers from the Chime came by an evening mail. Captain Eri happened to beat the post-office that night and brought them home himself. They filled three of his pockets to overflowing, and he dumped them by handfuls on the dining table, under the nose of the pallid Jerry.

“What did I tell you, Jerry?” he crowed. “I knew they was on the way. What have you got to say about my advertisement now, Perez?”

There were twenty-six letters altogether. It was surprising how many women were willing, even anxious, to ally themselves with “an ex-seafaring man of steady habbits.” But most of the applicants were of unsatisfactory types. As Captain Perez expressed it, “There's too many of them everlastin' 'blondes' and things.”

There was one note, however, that even Captain Eri was disposed to consider seriously. It was postmarked Nantucket, was written on half a sheet of blue-lined paper, and read as follows:

“MR. SKIPPER:

“Sir: I saw your advertisements in the paper and think perhaps you might suit me. Please answer these questions by return mail. What is your religious belief? Do you drink liquor? Are you a profane man? If you want to, you might send me your real name and a photograph. If I think you will suit maybe we might sign articles.

“Yours truly,

“MARTHA B. SNOW. “NANTUCKET, MASS.”

“What I like about that is the shipshape way she puts it,” commented Captain Perez. “She don't say that she 'jest adores the ocean.'”

“She's mighty handy about takin' hold and bossin' things; there ain't no doubt of that,” said Captain Eri. “Notice it's us that's got to suit her, not her us. I kind of like that 'signin' articles,' too. You bet she's been brought up in a seagoin' family.”

“I used to know a Jubal Snow that hailed from Nantucket,” suggested Perez; “maybe she's some of his folks.”

“'Tain't likely,” sniffed Captain Jerry. “There's more Snows in Nantucket than you can shake a stick at. You can't heave a rock without hittin' one.”

“I b'lieve she's jest the kind we want,” said Captain Perez with conviction.

“What do you say, Jerry?” asked Captain Eri. “You're goin' to be the lucky man, you know.”

“Oh, I don't know. What's the use of hurryin'? More 'n likely the next lot of letters 'll have somethin' better yit.”

“Now, that's jest like you, Jerry Burgess!” exclaimed Perez disgustedly. “Want to put off and put off and put off. And the house gittin' more like the fo'castle on a cattleboat every day.”

“I don't b'lieve myself you'd do much better, Jerry,” said Captain Eri seriously. “I like that letter somehow. Seems to me it's worth a try.”

“Oh, all right! Have it your own way. Of course, I ain't got nothin' to say. I'm only the divilish fool that's got to git married and keep boarders; that's all I am!”

“Be careful! She asked if you was a profane man.”

“Aw, shut up! You fellers are enough to make a minister swear. I don't care what you do. Go ahead and write to her if you want to, only I give you fair warnin', I ain't goin' to have her if she don't suit. I ain't goin' to marry no scarecrow.”

Between them, and with much diplomacy, they soothed the indignant candidate for matrimony until he agreed to sign his name to a letter to the Nantucket lady. Then Captain Perez said:

“But, I say, Jerry; she wants your picture. Have you got one to send her?”

“I've got that daguerreotype I had took when I was married afore.”

He rummaged it out of his chest and displayed it rather proudly. It showed him as a short, sandy-haired youth, whose sunburned face beamed from the depths of an enormous choker, and whose head was crowned with a tall, flat-brimmed silk hat of a forgotten style.

“I s'pose that might do,” said Cap'n Perez hesitatingly.

“Do! 'Twill HAVE to do, seein' it's all he's got,” said Captain Eri. “Good land!” he chuckled; “look at that hat! Say, Jerry, she'll think you done your seafarin' in Noah's ark.”

But Captain Jerry was oblivious to sarcasm just then. He was gazing at the daguerreotype in a sentimental sort of way, blowing the dust from the glass, and tilting it up and down so as to bring it to the most effective light.

“I swan!” he mused, “I don't know when I've looked at that afore. I remember when I bought that hat, jest as well. Took care of it and brushed it—my! my! I don't know but it's somewheres around now. I thought I was jest about the ticket then, and—and I wa'n't BAD lookin', that's a fact!”

This last with a burst of enthusiasm.

“Ho, ho! Perez,” roared Captain Eri; “Jerry's fallin' in love with his own picture. Awful thing for one so young, ain't it?”

“I ain't such a turrible sight older 'n you be, Eri Hedge,” sputtered the prospective bridegroom with righteous indignation. Then he added in a rather crestfallen tone, “But I am a heap older 'n I was when I had that daguerreotype took. See here; if I send that Nantucket woman this picture won't she notice the difference when she sees me?”

“What if she does?” broke in Captain Perez. “You can tell her how 'twas. Talk her over. A feller that's been married, like you, ought to be able to talk ANY woman over.”

Captain Jerry didn't appear sanguine concerning his ability to “talk her over,” but his fellow-conspirators made light of his feeble objections, and the daguerreotype, carefully wrapped, was mailed the next morning, accompanied by a brief biographical sketch of the original and his avowed adherence to the Baptist creed and the Good Templar's abstinence.

“I hope she'll hurry up and answer,” said the impatient Captain Perez. “I want to get this thing settled one way or another. Don't you, Jerry?”

“Yes,” was the hesitating reply. “One way or another.”

Captain Eri had seen John Baxter several times since the evening of the “Come-Outers'” meeting. The old man was calmer apparently, and was disposed to take the billiard-saloon matter less seriously, particularly as it was reported that the town selectmen were to hold a special meeting to consider the question of allowing Mr. Saunders to continue in business. The last-named gentleman had given what he was pleased to call a “blow-out” to his regular patrons in celebration of the granting of the license, and “Squealer” Wixon and one or two more spent a dreary day and night in the town lock-up in consequence. Baxter told the Captain that he had not yet made up his mind concerning the proposed Boston trip, but he thought “more 'n likely” he should go.

Captain Eri was obliged to be content with this assurance, but he determined to keep a close watch on his friend just the same.

He had met Ralph Hazeltine once or twice since the latter's arrival in Orham, and, in response to questions as to how he was getting on at the station, the new electrician invariably responded, “First-rate.” Gossip, however, in the person of Miss Busteed, reported that the operators were doing their best to keep Mr. Hazeltine's lot from being altogether a bed of roses, and there were dark hints of something more to come.

On the morning following the receipt of the letter from the Nantucket lady, Captain Eri was busy at his fish shanty, putting his lines in order and sewing a patch on the mainsail of his catboat. These necessary repairs had prevented his taking the usual trip to the fishing grounds. Looking up from his work, he saw, through the open door, Ralph Hazeltine just stepping out of the cable-station skiff. He tucked his sail needle into the canvas and hailed the young man with a shouted “Good-morning!”

“How do you do, Cap'n Hedge?” said Hazeltine, walking toward the shanty. “Good weather, isn't it?”

“Tip-top. Long 's the wind stays westerly and there ain't no Sunday-school picnics on, we don't squabble with the weather folks. The only thing that 'll fetch a squall with a westerly wind is a Sunday-school picnic. That 'll do it, sure as death. Busy over across?”

“Pretty busy just now. The cable parted day before yesterday, and I've been getting things ready for the repair ship. She was due this morning, and we're likely to hear from her at any time.”

“You don't say! Cable broke, hey? Now it's a queer thing, but I've never been inside that station since 'twas built. Too handy, I guess. I've got a second cousin up in Charlestown, lived there all his life, and he's never been up in Bunker Hill monument yit. Fust time I landed in Boston I dug for that monument, and I can tell you how many steps there is in it to this day. If that cable station was fifty mile off I'd have been through it two weeks after it started up, but bein' jest over there, I ain't ever done it. Queer, ain't it?”

“Perhaps you'd like to go over with me. I'm going up to the post-office, and when I come back I should be glad of your company.”

“Well, now, that's kind of you. I cal'late I will. You might sing out as you go past. I've got a ha'f-hour job on this sail and then it's my watch below.”

The cable station at Orham is a low whitewashed building with many windows. The vegetation about it is limited exclusively to “beach grass” and an occasional wild-plum bush. The nearest building which may be reached without a boat is the life-saving station, two miles below. The outer beach changes its shape every winter. The gales tear great holes in its sides, and then, as if in recompense, throw up new shoals and build new promontories. From the cable-station doorway in fair weather may be counted the sails of over one hundred vessels going and coming between Boston and New York. They come and go, and, alas! sometimes stop by the way. Then the life-saving crews are busy and the Boston newspapers report another wreck. All up and down the outer beach are the sun-whitened bones of schooners and ships; and all about them, and partially covering them, is sand, sand, sand, as white and much coarser than granulated sugar.

Hazeltine's post-office trip and other errands had taken much more time than he anticipated, and more than two hours had gone by before he called for Captain Eri. During the row to the beach the electrician explained to the Captain the processes by which a break in the cable is located and repaired.

“You see,” he said, “as soon as the line breaks we set about finding where it is broken. To do this we use an instrument called the Wheatstone bridge. In this case the break is about six hundred miles from the American shore. The next thing is to get at the company's repair ship. She lies, usually, at Halifax when she isn't busy, and that is where she was this time. We wired her and she left for the spot immediately. It was up to me to get ready the testing apparatus—we generally set up special instruments for testing. Judging by the distance, the ship should have been over the break early this morning. She will grapple for the broken cable ends, and as soon as she catches our end she'll send us a message. It's simple enough.”

“Like takin' wormwood tea—easy enough if you've been brought up that way. I think I'd make more money catchin' codfish, myself,” commented the Captain dryly.

Ralph laughed. “Well, it really is a very simple matter,” he said. “The only thing we have to be sure of is that our end of the line is ready by the time the ship reaches the break. If the weather is bad the ship can't work, and so, when she does work, she works quick. I had my instruments in condition yesterday, so we're all right this time.”

They landed at the little wharf and plodded through the heavy sand.

“Dismal-looking place, isn't it?” said Hazeltine, as he opened the back door of the station.

“Well, I don't know; it has its good p'ints,” replied his companion. “Your neighbors' hens don't scratch up your garden, for one thing. What do you do in here?”

“This is the room where we receive and send. This is the receiver.”

The captain noticed with interest the recorder, with its two brass supports and the little glass tube, half filled with ink, that, when the cable was working, wrote the messages upon the paper tape traveling beneath it.

“Pretty nigh as finicky as a watch, ain't it?” he observed.

“Fully as delicate in its way. Do you see this little screw on the centerpiece? Turn that a little, one way or the other, and the operator on the other side might send until doomsday, we wouldn't know it. I'll show you the living rooms and the laboratory now.”

Just then the door at the other end of the room opened, and a man, whom Captain Eri recognized as one of the operators, came in. He started when he saw Hazeltine and turned to go out again. Ralph spoke to him:

“Peters,” he said, “where is Mr. Langley?”

“Don't know,” answered the fellow gruffly.

“Wait a minute. Tell me where Mr. Langley is.”

“I don't know where he is. He went over to the village a while ago.”

“Where are the rest of the men?”

“Don't know.”

The impudence and thinly veiled hostility in the man's tone were unmistakable. Hazeltine hesitated, seemed about to speak, and then silently led the way to the hall.

“I'll show you the laboratory later on,” he said. “We'll go up to the testing room now.” Then he added, apparently as much to himself as to his visitor, “I told those fellows that I wouldn't be back until noon.”

There was a door at the top of the stairs. Ralph opened this quietly. As they passed through, Captain Eri noticed that Peters had followed them into the hall and stood there, looking up.

The upper hall had a straw matting on the floor. There was another door at the end of the passage, and this was ajar. Toward it the electrician walked rapidly. From the room behind the door came a shout of laughter; then someone said:

“Better give it another turn, hadn't I, to make sure? If two turns fixes it so we don't hear for a couple of hours, another one ought to shut it up for a week. That's arithmetic, ain't it?”

The laugh that followed this was cut short by Hazeltine's throwing the door wide open.

Captain Eri, close at the electrician's heels, saw a long room, empty save for a few chairs and a table in the center. Upon this table stood the testing instruments, exactly like those in the receiving room downstairs. Three men lounged in the chairs, and standing beside the table, with his fingers upon the regulating screw at the centerpiece of the recorder, was another, a big fellow, with a round, smooth-shaven face.

The men in the chairs sprang to their feet as Hazeltine came in. The face of the individual by the table turned white and his fingers fell from the regulating screw, as though the latter were red hot. The Captain recognized the men; they were day operators whom he had met in the village many times. Incidentally, they were avowed friends of the former electrician, Parker. The name of the taller one was McLoughlin.

No one spoke. Ralph strode quickly to the table, pushed McLoughlin to one side and stooped over the instruments. When he straightened up, Captain Eri noticed that his face also was white, but evidently not from fear. He turned sharply and looked at the four operators, who were doing their best to appear at ease and not succeeding. The electrician looked them over, one by one. Then he gave a short laugh.

“You damned sneaks!” he said, and turned again to the testing apparatus.

He began slowly to turn the regulating screw on the recorder. He had given it but a few revolutions when the point of the little glass siphon, that had been tracing a straight black line on the sliding tape, moved up and down in curving zigzags. Hazeltine turned to the operator.

“Palmer,” he said curtly, “answer that call.”

The man addressed seated himself at the table, turned a switch, and clicked off a message. After a moment the line on the moving tape zigzagged again. Ralph glanced at the zigzags and bit his lip.

“Apologize to them,” he said to Palmer. “Tell them we regret exceedingly that the ship should have been kept waiting. Tell them our recorder was out of adjustment.”

The operator cabled the message. The three men at the end of the room glanced at each other; this evidently was not what they expected.

Steps sounded on the stairs and Peters hurriedly entered.

“The old man's comin',” he said.

Mr. Langley, the superintendent of the station, had been in the company's employ for years. He had been in charge of the Cape Cod station since it was built, and he liked the job. He knew cable work, too, from A to Z, and, though he was a strict disciplinarian, would forgive a man's getting drunk occasionally, sooner than condone carelessness. He was eccentric, but even those who did not like him acknowledged that he was “square.”

He came into the room, tossed a cigar stump out of the window, and nodded to Captain Eri.

“How are you, Captain Hedge?” he said. Then, stepping to the table, he picked up the tape.

“Everything all right, Mr. Hazeltine?” he asked. “Hello! What does this mean? They say they have been calling for two hours without getting an answer. How do you explain that?”

It was very quiet in the room when the electrician answered.

“The recorder here was out of adjustment, sir,” he said simply.

“Out of adjustment! I thought you told me everything was in perfect order before you left this morning.”

“I thought so, sir, but I find the screw was too loose. That would account for the call not reaching us.”

“Too loose! Humph!” The superintendent looked steadfastly at Hazeltine, then at the operators, and then at the electrician once more.

“Mr. Hazeltine,” he said at length, “I will hear what explanations you may have to make in my office later on. I will attend to the testing myself. That will do.”

Captain Eri silently followed his young friend to the back door of the station. Hazeltine had seen fit to make no comment on the scene just described, and the captain did not feel like offering any. They were standing on the steps when the big operator, McLoughlin, came out of the building behind them.

“Well,” he said gruffly to the electrician. “Shall I quit now or wait until Saturday?”

“What?”

“Shall I git out now or wait till Saturday night? I suppose you'll have me fired.”

Then Hazeltine's pent-up rage boiled over.

“If you mean that I'll tell Mr. Langley of your cowardly trick and have you discharged—No! I don't pay my debts that way. But I'll tell you this,—you and your sneaking friends. If you try another game like that,—yes, or if you so much as speak to me, other than on business while I'm here, I WILL fire you—out of the window. Clear out!”

“Mr. Hazeltine,” said Captain Eri a few moments later, “I hope you don't mind my sayin' that I like you fust-rate. Me and Perez and Jerry ain't the biggest bugs in town, but we like to have our friends come and see us. I wish you'd drop in once 'n a while.”

“I certainly will,” said the young man, and the two shook hands. That vigorous handshake was enough of itself to convince Ralph Hazeltine that he had made, at any rate, one friend in Orham.

And we may as well add here that he had made two. For that evening Jack McLoughlin said to his fellow conspirators:

“He said he'd fire me out of the window,—ME, mind you! And, by thunder! I believe he'd have DONE it too. Boys, there ain't any more 'con' games played on that kid while I'm around—Parker or no Parker. He's white, that's what HE is!”