That enterprising business man, Mr. “Web” Saunders, opened the door of his renovated billiard room a little later than usual the next morning. It was common report about the village that Mr. Saunders occasionally sampled the contents of some of the “original packages” which, bearing the name and address of a Boston wholesale liquor dealer, came to him by express at irregular intervals. It was also reported, probably by unreliable total abstainers, that during these “sampling” seasons his temper was not of the best. Perhaps Mrs. Saunders might have said something concerning this report if she had been so disposed, but unless a discolored eye might be taken as evidence, she never offered any. The injury to her eye she explained by saying that something “flew up and hit her.” This was no doubt true.

But, gossip aside, Mr. Saunders did not seem in good humor on this particular morning. A yellow cur, of nondescript breed, taken since the fire, in payment of a debt from “Squealer” Wixon, who had described it as a “fust-class watchdog,” rose from its bed behind the cigar counter, yawned, stretched, and came slinking over to greet its master. “Web” forcibly hoisted it out of the door on the toe of his boot. Its yelp of pained surprise seemed to afford the business man considerable relief, for he moved more briskly afterward, and proceeded to sweep the floor with some degree of speed.

The forenoon trade at the billiard room was never very lively, and this forenoon was no exception. “Bluey” Batcheldor drifted in, stepped into the little room the door of which was lettered “Ice Cream Parlor,” and busied himself with a glass and bottle for a few moments. Then he helped himself to a cigar from the showcase, and told his friend to “chalk it up.” This Mr. Saunders didn't seem to care to do, and there was a lively argument. At length “Bluey's” promise to “square up in a day or so” was accepted, under protest, and the customer departed.

At half-past eleven the man of business was dozing in a chair by the stove, and the “watchdog,” having found it chilly outside and venturing in, was dozing near him. The bell attached to the door rang vigorously, and both dog and man awoke with a start. The visitor was Captain Eri.

Now, the Captain was perhaps the last person whom the proprietor of the billiard room expected to see, but a stranger never would have guessed it. In fact, the stranger might reasonably have supposed that the visitor was Mr. Saunders' dearest friend, and that his call was a pleasure long looked forward to.

“Why, Cap'n!” exclaimed “Web,” “how are you? Put her there! I'm glad to see you lookin' so well. I said to 'Squealer' the other day, s'I, 'Squealer, I never see a man hold his age like Cap'n Hedge. I'll be blessed if he looks a day over forty,' I says. Take off your coat, won't you?”

Somehow or other, the Captain must have lost sight of “Web's” extended hand. Certainly, the hand was large enough to be seen, but he did not take it. He did, however, accept the invitation to remove his coat, and, slipping out of the faded brown pea jacket, threw it on a settee at the side of the room. His face was stern and his manner quiet, and in spite Of Mr. Saunders' flattering reference to his youthful appearance, this morning he looked at least more than a day past forty.

But, if Captain Eri was more than usually quiet and reserved, “Web” was unchanged, and, if he noticed that the handshake was declined, said nothing about it. His smile was sweetness itself, as he observed, “Well, Cap'n, mighty mod'rate weather we're having for this time of year, ain't it? What's new down your way? That's right, have a chair.”

The Captain had no doubt anticipated this cordial invitation, for he seated himself before it was given, and, crossing his legs, extended his dripping rubber boots toward the fire. The rain was still falling, and it beat against the windows of the saloon in gusts.

“Web,” said Captain Eri, “set down a minute. I want to talk to you.”

“Why, sure!” exclaimed the genial man of business, pulling up another chair. “Have a cigar, won't you? You don't come to see me very often, and I feel's though we ought to celebrate. Ha! ha! ha!”

“No, I guess not, thank you,” was the answer. “I'll smoke my pipe, if it's all the same to you.”

Mr. Saunders didn't mind in the least, but thought he would have a cigar himself. So he lit one and smoked in silence as the Captain filled his pipe. “Web” knew that this was something more than an ordinary social visit. Captain Eri's calls at the billiard room were few and far between. The Captain, for his part, knew what his companion was thinking, and the pair watched each other through the smoke.

The pipe drew well, and the Captain sent a blue cloud whirling toward the ceiling. Then he asked suddenly, “Web, how much money has Elsie Preston paid you altogether?”

Mr. Saunders started the least bit, and his small eyes narrowed a trifle. But the innocent surprise in his reply was a treat to hear.

“Elsie? Paid ME?” he asked.

“Yes. How much has she paid you?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. She's been payin' you money reg'lar for more 'n a month. I want to know how much it is.”

“Now, Cap'n Hedge, I don't know what you're talkin' about. Nobody's paid me a cent except them that's owed me. Who did you say? Elsie Preston? That's the school-teacher, ain't it?”

“Web, you're a liar, and always was, but you needn't lie to me this mornin', 'cause it won't be healthy; I don't feel like hearin' it. You understand that, do you?”

Mr. Saunders thought it time to bluster a little. He rose to his feet threateningly.

“Cap'n Hedge,” he said, “no man 'll call me a liar.”

“There's a precious few that calls you anything else.”

“You're an old man, or I'd—”

“Never you mind how old I am. A minute ago you said I didn't look more 'n forty; maybe I don't feel any older, either.”

“If that Preston girl has told you any—”

“She hasn't told me anything. She doesn't know that I know anything. But I do know. I was in the entry upstairs at the schoolhouse for about ten minutes last night.”

Mr. Saunders' start was perceptible this time. He stood for a moment without speaking. Then he jerked the chair around, threw himself into it, and said cautiously, “Well, what of it?”

“I come up from the house to git Elsie home 'cause 'twas rainin'. I was told you was with her, and I thought there was somethin' crooked goin' on; fact is, I had a suspicion what 'twas. So when I got up to the door I didn't go in right away; I jest stood outside.”

“Listenin', hey! Spyin'!”

“Yup. I don't think much of folks that listens, gin'rally speakin', but there's times when I b'lieve in it. When I'm foolin' with a snake I'd jest as soon hit him from behind as in front. I didn't hear much, but I heard enough to let me know that you'd been takin' money from that girl right along. And I think I know why.”

“You do, hey?”

“Yup.”

Then Mr. Saunders asked the question that a bigger rascal than he had asked some years before. He leaned back in his chair, took a pull at his cigar, and said sneeringly, “Well, what are you goin' to do 'bout it?”

“I'm goin' to stop it, and I'm goin' to make you give the money back. How much has she paid you?”

“None of your d—n bus'ness.”

The Captain rose to his feet. Mr. Saunders sprang up, also, and reached for the coal shovel, evidently expecting trouble. But if he feared a physical assault, his fear was groundless. Captain Eri merely took up his coat.

“Maybe it ain't none of my bus'ness,” he said. “I ain't a s'lectman nor sheriff. But there's such things in town, and p'raps they'll be int'rested. Seems to me that I've heard that blackmailin' has got folks into State's prison afore now.”

“Is that so? Never heard that folks that set fire to other people's prop'ty got there, did you? Yes, and folks that helps 'em gits there, too, sometimes. Who was it hid a coat a spell ago?”

It was Captain Eri's turn to start. He hesitated a moment, tossed the pea jacket back on the settee and sat down once more. Mr. Saunders watched him, grinning triumphantly.

“Well?” he said with a sneer.

“A coat, you say?”

“Yes, a coat. Maybe you know who hid it; I can guess, myself. That coat was burned some. How do you s'pose it got burned? And say! who used to wear a big white hat round these diggin's? Ah, ha! Who did?”

There was no doubt about the Captain's start this time. He wheeled sharply in his chair, and looked at the speaker.

“Humph!” he exclaimed. “You found that hat, did you?”

“That's what I done! And where do you think I found it? Why, right at the back of my shed where the fire started. And there'd been a pile of shavin's there, too, and there'd been kerosene on 'em. Who smashed the bottle over in the field, hey?”

Captain Eri seemed to be thinking. “Web” evidently set his own interpretation on this silence, for he went on, raising his voice as he did so.

“Did you think I was fool enough not to know who set that fire? I knew the night she burned, and when I met Dr. Palmer jest comin' from your house, and he told me how old Baxter was took sick goin' to the fire—oh, yes, GOIN'—I went up on that hill right off, and I hunted and I found things, and what I found I kept. And what I found when I pulled that burned shed to pieces I kept, too. And I've got 'em yit!”

“You have, hey? Dear! dear!”

“You bet I have! And somebody's goin' to pay for 'em. Goin' to pay, pay, PAY! Is that plain?”

The Captain made no answer. He thrust his hands into his pockets and looked at the stove dolefully, so it seemed to the man of business.

“Fust off I thought I'd have the old cuss jailed,” continued Mr. Saunders. “Then, thinks I, 'No, that won't pay me for my buildin' and my bus'ness hurt and all that.' So I waited for Baxter to git well, meanin' to make him pay or go to the jug. But he stayed sick a-purpose, I b'lieve, the mean, white-headed, psalm-singin'—”

Captain Eri moved uneasily and broke in, “You got your insurance money, didn't you?”

“Yes, I did, but whose fault is that? 'Twa'n't his, nor any other darned 'Come-Outer's.' It don't pay me for my trouble, nor it don't make me square with the gang. I gen'rally git even sometime or 'nother, and I'll git square now. When that girl come here, swellin' 'round and puttin' on airs, I see my chance, and told her to pay up or her granddad would be shoved into Ostable jail. That give her the jumps, I tell you!”

“You wrote her a letter, didn't you?”

“You bet I did! She come 'round to see me in a hurry. Said she didn't have no money. I told her her granddad did, an she could git that or go to work and earn some. I guess she thought she'd ruther work. Oh, I've got her and her prayin', house-burnin' granddad where I want 'em, and I've got you, too, Eri Hedge, stickin' your oar in. Talk to me 'bout blackmail! For two cents I'd jail the old man and you, too!”

This was the real Mr. Saunders. He usually kept this side of his nature for home use; his wife was well acquainted with it.

Captain Eri was evidently frightened. His manner had become almost apologetic.

“Well,” he said, “I wouldn't do that if I was you, Web. I heard you tell Elsie last night she wa'n't payin' you enough, and I thought—”

“I know what you thought. You thought you could scare me. You didn't know I had the coat and hat, did you? Well, what I said I stand by. The girl AIN'T payin' me enough. Fourteen dollars a week she gits, and she's only been givin' up ten. I want more. I want—”

But here Captain Eri interrupted him.

“I guess that 'll do,” he said calmly. “You've told me what I wanted to know. Ten dollars a week sence the middle of November. 'Bout seventy dollars, rough figgerin'. Now, then, hand it over.”

“What?”

“Hand over that seventy dollars.”

“Hand over hell! What are you talkin' 'bout?”

The Captain rose and, leaning over, shook his forefinger in Mr. Saunders' flabby red face.

“You low-lived, thievin' rascal,” he said, “I'm givin' you a chance you don't deserve. Either you'll pay me that money you've stole from that girl or I'll walk out of that door, and when I come in again the sheriff 'll be with me. Now, which 'll it be? Think quick.”

Web's triumphant expression was gone, and rage and malice had taken its place. He saw, now, that the Captain had tricked him into telling more than he ought. But he burst out again, tripping over words in his excitement.

“Think!” he yelled. “I don't need to think. Bring in your sheriff. I'll march down to your house and I'll show him the man that set fire to my buildin'. What 'll you and that snivelin' granddaughter of his do then? You make off to think a turrible lot of the old prayer-machine 'cause he's your chum. How'd you like to see him took up for a firebug, hey?”

“I ain't afraid of that.”

“You ain't? You AIN'T! Why not?”

“'Cause he's gone where you can't git at him. He died jest afore I left the house.”

Mr. Saunders' brandished fist fell heavily on the arm of his chair. His face turned white in patches, and then flamed red again.

“Died!” he gasped.

“Died.”

“You—you're a liar!”

“No, I ain't. John Baxter's dead. He was a chum of mine—you're right there—and if I'd known a sneak like you was after him I'd have been here long afore this. Why, you—”

The Captain's voice shook, but he restrained himself and went on.

“Now, you see where you stand, don't you? Long's John lived you had the proof to convict him; I'll own up to that much. I hid the coat; I smashed the bottle. The hat I didn't know 'bout. I might have told you at fust that all that didn't amount to anything, but I thought I'd wait and let you tell me what more I wanted to know. John Baxter's gone, poor feller, and all your proof ain't worth a cent. Not one red cent. Understand?”

It was quite evident that Mr. Saunders did understand, for his countenance showed it. But the bluster was not out of him yet.

“All right,” he said. “Anyhow, the girl's left, and if she don't pay I'll show her granddad up for what he was. And I'll show you up, too. Yes, I will!” he shouted, as this possibility began to dawn on him. “I'll let folks know how you hid that coat and—and all the rest of it.”

“No, you won't.”

“Why won't I?”

“'Cause you won't dare to. You've been hittin' at a sick man through a girl; neither of 'em could hit back. But now you're doin' bus'ness with me, and I ain't sick. If you open your mouth to anybody,—if you let a soul know who set that fire,—I'll walk straight to Jedge Baker, and I'll tell him the whole story. I'll tell him what I did and why I did it. And THEN I'll tell him what you did—how you bullied money out of that girl that hadn't no more to do with the fire than a baby. If it comes to facin' a jury I'll take my chances, but how 'bout you? You, runnin' a town nuisance that the s'lectmen are talkin' of stoppin' already; sellin' rum by the drink when your license says it shan't be sold 'cept by the bottle. Where'll YOUR character land you on a charge of blackmail?

“And another thing. The folks in this town knew John Baxter afore he was like what he's been lately. A good many of 'em swore by him—yes, sir, by mighty, some of 'em loved him! This is a law-abidin' town, but s'pose—jest s'pose I should go to some of the fellers that used to sail with him, and tell 'em what you've been up to. Think you'd stay here long? I think you'd move out—on a rail.”

Captain Eri paused and sat on the arm of his chair, grimly watching his opponent, whose turn for thinking had come. The face of the billiard magnate was an interesting study in expression during the Captain's speech. From excited triumph it had fallen to fear and dejection; and now, out of the wreck, was appearing once more the oily smile, the sugared sweetness of the every-day Mr. Saunders.

“Now, Cap'n Hedge,” purred the reconstructed one, “you and me has always been good friends. We hadn't ought to fight like this. I don't think either of us wants to go to court. Let's see if we can't fix the thing up some way.”

“We'll fix it up when you pay me the seventy dollars.”

“Now, Cap'n Hedge, 'tain't likely I've got seventy dollars in my pocket. Seems to me you're pretty hard on a poor feller that's jest been burnt out. I think we'd ought to—”

“How much HAVE you got?”

After a good deal of talk and protestation Mr. Saunders acknowledged being the possessor of twenty-six dollars, divided between the cash drawer and his pocket. This he reluctantly handed to the Captain.

Then the Captain demanded pen, ink, and paper; and when they were brought he laboriously wrote out a screed to the effect that Webster Saunders had received of Elsie Preston forty-four dollars, which sum he promised to pay on demand.

“There,” he said, pushing the writing materials across the table. “Sign that.”

At first Mr. Saunders positively refused to sign. Then he intimated that he had rather wait and think it over a little while. Finally he affixed his signature and spitefully threw the pen across the room.

Captain Eri folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he rose and put on his pea jacket.

“Now, there's jest one thing more,” he said. “Trot out that coat and hat.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trot out that coat and hat of John's. I want 'em.”

“I shan't do it.”

“All right, then. It's all off. I'll step over and see the Jedge. You'll hear from him and me later.”

“Hold on a minute, Cap'n. You're in such a everlastin' hurry. I don't care anything 'bout the old duds, but I don't know's I know where they are. Seems to me they're up to the house somewheres. I'll give 'em to you to-morrer.”

“You'll give 'em to me right now. I'll tend shop while you go after 'em.”

For a moment it looked as though the man of business would rebel outright. But the Captain was so calm, and evidently so determined to do exactly what he promised, that “Web” gave up in despair. Muttering that maybe they were “'round the place, after all,” he went into the back room and reappeared with the burned coat and the scorched white felt hat. Slamming them down on the counter, he said sulkily, “There they be. Any more of my prop'ty you'd like to have?”

Captain Eri didn't answer. Coolly tearing off several sheets of wrapping paper from the roll at the back of the counter, he made a bundle of the hat and coat, and tucked it under his arm. Then he put on his own hat and started for the door.

“Good-mornin',” he said.

The temper of the exasperated Mr. Saunders flared up in a final outburst.

“You think you're almighty smart, don't you?” he growled between his teeth. “I'll square up with you by and by.”

The Captain turned sharply, his hand on the latch.

“I wish you'd try,” he said. “I jest wish to God you'd try. I've held in more 'n I thought I could when I come up here, but if you want to start a reel fust-class rumpus, one that 'll land you where you b'long and rid this town of you for keeps, jest try some of your tricks on me. And if I hear of one word that you've said 'bout this whole bus'ness, I'll know it's time to start in. Now, you can keep still or fight, jest as you please. I tell you honest, I 'most wish you'd fight.”

The door slammed. Mr. Saunders opened it again and gazed vindictively after the bulky figure splashing through the slush. The dog came sneaking up and rubbed his nose against his master's hand; it was an impolitic move on his part.

“Git out!” roared Web, delighted at the opportunity. “You good-for-nothin' pup! How's that set?”

“That” was a kick that doubled the cur up against the settee. As it scrambled to its feet, Mr. Saunders kicked it again. And then the “watchdog” exhibited the first evidence of spirit that it had ever been known to show. With a snarl, as the man turned away, it settled its teeth into the calf of his leg, and then shot out of the door and, with its tail between its legs, went down the road like a yellow cannon ball.