“Mornin', Georgianna,” said Captain Cy to his housekeeper as the latter unlocked the back door of the Whittaker house next morning. “I'm a little ahead of you this time.”

Miss Taylor, being Bayport born and bred, was an early riser. She lodged with her sister, in Bassett's Hollow, a good half mile from the Cy Whittaker place, but she was always on hand at the latter establishment by six each morning, except Sundays. Now she glanced quickly at the clock. The time was ten minutes to six.

“Land sakes!” she exclaimed. “I should say you was! What in the world got you up so early? Ain't sick, are you?”

“No,” replied the captain wearily. “I ain't sick. I didn't sleep very well last night, that's all.”

Georgianna looked sharply at him. His face was haggard and his eyes had dark circles under them.

“Humph!” she grunted. “No, I guess you didn't. Looks to me as if you'd been up all night.” Then she added an anxious query: “'Tain't Bos'n—she ain't sick, I hope?”

“No. She's all right. I say, Georgianna, you put on an extry plate this mornin'. Got company for breakfast.”

The housekeeper was surprised.

“For breakfast?” she repeated. “Land of goodness! who's comin' for breakfast? I never heard of company droppin' in for breakfast. That's one meal folks generally get to home. Who is it? Mr. Tidditt? Has Ketury turned him out door because he's too bad an example for her husband?”

“No, 'tain't Ase. It's a—a friend of mine. Well, not exactly a friend, maybe, but an acquaintance from out of town. He came last evenin'. He's up in the spare bedroom.”

“Well, I never! Come unexpected, didn't he? I wish I'd known he was comin'. That spare room bed ain't been aired I don't know when.”

“I guess he can stand it. I cal'late he's slept in consider'ble worse—Hum! Yes, he did come kind of sudden.”

“What's his name?”

“What difference does that make? I don't know's his name makes any odds about gettin' his breakfast for him.”

Georgianna was hurt. Her easy-going employer had never used this tone before when addressing her.

“Oh!” she sniffed. “Is THAT the way you feel? All right! I can mind my own business, thank you. I only asked because it's convenient sometimes to know whether to call a person Bill Smith or Sol Jones. But I don't care if it's Nebuchadnezzar. I know when to keep my tongue still, I guess.”

She flounced over to the range. Captain Cy looked ashamed of himself.

“I'm kind of out of sorts to-day,” he said. “Got some headache. Why, his name is—is—yes, 'tis Smith, come to think of it—John Smith. Funny you should guess right, wan't it?”

“Humph!” was the ungracious answer. “Names don't interest me, I tell you.”

The captain was in the dining room when Bos'n appeared.

“Good morning, Uncle Cyrus,” she said. “You've been waiting, haven't you? Am I late? I didn't mean to be.”

“No, no! you ain't late. Early, if anything. Breakfast ain't quite ready yet. Come here and set in my lap. I want to talk to you.”

He took her on his knee. She looked up into his face.

“What's the matter, Uncle Cy?” she asked. “What makes you so sober?”

“Sober? If you ain't the oldest young one for eight years I ever saw! Why, I ain't sober. No, no! Say, Bos'n, do you like your school as well as ever?”

“Yes, sir. I like it better all the time.”

“Do, hey? And that teacher woman—go on likin' her?”

The child nodded emphatically. “Yes, sir,” she said. “And I haven't been kept after since that once.”

“Sho! sho! Course you ain't'! So you think Bayport's as nice as Concord, do you?”

“Oh! lots nicer! If mamma was only here I'd never want to be anywhere else. And not then, maybe, unless you was there, too.”

“Hum! Want to know! Say, Bos'n, how would you feel if you had to go somewheres else?”

“To live? Have we got to? I'd feel dreadful, of course. But if you've got to go, Uncle Cyrus, why—”

“Me? No; I ain't got to go anywheres. But 'twas you I was thinkin' of. Wouldn't want to leave the old man, hey?”

“To leave YOU! Oh, Uncle Cyrus!”

She was staring at him now and her chin was trembling.

“Uncle,” she demanded, “you ain't going to send me away? Haven't I been a good girl?”

The captain's lips shut tight. He waited a moment before replying. “'Deed you've been a good girl!” he said brusquely. “I never saw a better one. No, I ain't goin' to SEND you away. Don't you worry about that.”

“But Alicia Atkins said one time you told somebody you was going to send me out West, after a while. I didn't believe it, then, she's so mean, but she said you said—”

“SAID!” Captain Cy groaned. “The Lord knows what I ain't said! I've been a fool, dearie, and it's a judgment on me, I guess.”

“But ain't you goin' to keep me? I—I—”

She sobbed. The captain stroked her hair.

“Keep you?” he muttered. “Yes, by the big dipper! I'm goin' to keep you, if I can—if I can.”

“Hello!” said a voice. The pair looked up. The man who had arrived on the previous night stood in the sitting-room doorway. How long he had been standing there the captain did not know. What he did know was that Mr. John Smith by daylight was not more prepossessing than the same individual viewed by the aid of a lamp.

Emily saw the stranger and slid from Captain Cy's knees. The captain rose.

“Bos'n,” he said, “this is Mr.—er—Smith, who's goin' to make us a little visit. I want you to shake hands with him.”

The girl dutifully approached Mr. Smith and extended her hand. He took it and held it in his own.

“Is this the—” he began.

Captain Cy bowed assent.

“Yes,” he said, his eyes fixed on the visitor's face. “Yes. Don't forget what you said last night.”

Smith shook his head.

“No,” he replied. “I ain't the kind that forgets, unless it pays pretty well. There's some things I've remembered for quite a few years.”

He looked the child over from head to foot and his brows drew together in an ugly frown.

“So this is her, hey?” he muttered musingly. “Humph! Well, I don't know as I'd have guessed it. Favors the other side of the house more—the respectable side, I should say. Still, there's a little brand of the lost sheep, hey? Enough to prove property, huh? Mark of the beast, I s'pose the psalm-singin' relations would call it. D—n em! I—”

“Steady!” broke in the captain. Mr. Smith started, seemed to remember where he was, and his manner changed.

“Come and see me, honey,” he coaxed, drawing the girl toward him by the hand he was holding. “Ain't you got a nice kiss for me this fine mornin'? Don't be scared. I won't bite.”

Bos'n looked shrinkingly at Mr. Smith's unshaven cheeks and then at Captain Cy. The latter's face was absolutely devoid of expression. He merely nodded.

So Emily kissed one of the bristling cheeks. The kiss was returned full upon the mouth. She wiped her lips and darted away to her chair by the table.

“What's your hurry?” inquired the visitor. “Don't I do it right? Been some time since I kissed a girl—a little one, anyhow,” he added, winking at his host. “Never mind, we'll know each other better by and by.”

He looked on in wondering disgust as Bos'n said her “grace.”

“What in blazes!” he burst out when the little blessing was finished. “Who put her up to that? A left-over from the psalm-singers, is it?”

“I don't know,” answered the captain, speaking with deliberation. “I do know that I like to have her do it and that she shall do it as long's she's at this table.”

“Oh! she shall, hey? Well, I reckon—”

“She shall—AS LONG AS SHE'S AT THIS TABLE. Is that real plain and understandable, or shall I write it down?”

There was an icy clearness in the captain's tone which seemed to freeze further conversation on the part of Mr. Smith. He merely grunted and ate his breakfast in silence. He ate a great deal and ate it rapidly.

Bos'n departed for school when the meal was over. Captain Cy helped her on with her coat and hood. Then, as he always did of late, he kissed her good-by.

“Hi!” called Mr. Smith from the sitting room. “Ain't I in on that? If there's any kisses goin' I want to take a hand before the deal's over.”

“Must I?” whispered Bos'n pleadingly. “Must I, Uncle Cy? I don't want to. I don't like him.”

“Come on!” called Mr. Smith. “I'm gettin' over my bashfulness fast. Hurry up!”

“Must I kiss him, Uncle Cyrus?” whispered Bos'n. “MUST I?”

“No!” snapped the captain sharply. “Trot right along now, dearie. Be a good girl. Good-by.”

He entered the sitting room. His guest had found the Sunday box and was lighting one of his host's cigars.

“Well,” he inquired easily, “what's next on the bill? Anything goin' on in this forsaken hole?”

“There's a barber shop down the road. You might go there first, I should say. Not that you need it, but just as a novelty like.”

“Humph! I don't know. What's the matter with your razor?”

“Nothin'. At least I ain't found anything wrong with it yet.”

“Oh! Say, look here! you're a queer guy, you are. I ain't got you right in my mind yet. One minute butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, and the next you're fresh as a new egg. What IS your little game, anyway? You've got one, so don't tell me you ain't.”

Captain Cy was plainly embarrassed. He gazed at the “Shore to Shore” picture on the wall as he answered.

“No game about it,” he said. “Last night you and I agreed that nothin' was to be said for a few days. You was to stay here and I'd try to make you comfort'ble, that's all. Then we'd see about that other matter, settle on a fair price, and—”

“Yes, I know. That's all right. But you're too willin'. There's something else. Say!” The ugly scowl was in evidence again. “Say, look here, you! you ain't got somethin' up your sleeve, have you? There ain't somethin' more that I don't know about, is there? No more secrets than that—”

“No! You hear me? No! You'll get your rights, and maybe a little more than your rights, if you're decent. And it'll pay you to be decent.”

“Humph!” Mr. Smith seemed to be thinking. Then he added, looking up keenly under his brows: “How about the—the incumbrance on the property? Of course, when I go I'll have to take that with me, and—”

Captain Cy interrupted.

“There! there!” he exclaimed, and there was a shake in his voice, “there! there! Don't let's talk about such things now. I—I—Let's wait a spell. We'll have some more plans to make, maybe. If you want to use my razor it's right in that drawer. Just help yourself.”

The visitor laughed aloud. He nodded as if satisfied. “Ho! ho!” he chuckled. “I see! Humph! yes—I see. The fools ain't all dead, and there's none to beat an old one. Well! well! All right, pard! I guess you and me'll get along fine. I've changed my mind; I WILL go to the barber shop, after all. Only I'm a little shy of dust just at present. So, to oblige a friend, maybe you'll hand over, huh?”

The captain reached into his pocket, extracted a two-dollar bill, and passed it to the speaker. Mr. Smith smiled and shook his head.

“You can't come in on that, pard,” he said. “The limit's five.”

Captain Cy took back the bill and exchanged it for one with a V in each corner. The visitor took it and turned toward the door.

“Ta! ta!” he said, taking his hat from the peg in the dining room. “I'm off for the clippers. When I come back I'll be the sweetest little Willie in the diggin's. So long.”

Bos'n and the captain sat down to the dinner at noon alone. Mr. Smith had not returned from his trip to the barber's. He came in, however, just before the meal was over, still in an unshorn condition, somewhat flushed and very loquacious.

“Say!” he exclaimed genially. “That Simpson's the right sort, ain't he? Him and me took a shine to each other from the go-off. He's been West himself and he's got some width to him. He's no psalm singer.”

“Humph!” commented the captain, with delicate sarcasm. “He don't seem to be much of a barber, either. What's the matter? Gone out of business, has he? Or was you so wild or woolly he got discouraged before he begun?”

“Great snakes!” exclaimed the visitor. “I forgot all about the clippers! Well, that's one on me, pard! I'll make a new try soon's grub's over. Don't be so tight-fisted with the steak; this is a plate I'm passin', not a contribution box.”

He winked at Bos'n and would have chucked her under the chin if she had not dodged. She seemed to have taken a great aversion to Mr. Smith and was plainly afraid of him.

“Is he going to stay very long, Uncle Cyrus?” she whispered, when it was school time once more. “Do you think he's nice?”

Captain Cy did not answer. When she had gone and the guest had risen from the table and put on his hat, the captain said warningly:

“There's one little bit of advice I want to give you, Mister Man: A bargain's a bargain, but it takes two to keep it. Don't let your love for Tad Simpson lead you into talkin' too much. Talk's cheap, they say, but too much of it might be mighty dear for you. Understand?”

Smith patted him on the back. “Lord love you, pard!” he chuckled, “I'm no spring chicken. I'm as hard to open as a safe, I am. It takes a can opener to get anything out of me.”

“Yes; well, you can get inside some folks easier with a corkscrew. I've been told that Tad's a kind of a medium sometimes. If he raises any spirits in that back room of his, I'd leave 'em alone, if I was you. So long as you're decent, I'll put up with—”

But Mr. Smith was on his way to the gate, whistling as if he hadn't a care in the world. Captain Cy watched him go down the road, and then, with the drawn, weary look on his face which had been there since the day before, he entered the sitting room and threw himself into a chair.

Miss Phoebe Dawes, the school teacher, worked late that evening. There were examination papers to be gone over, and experience had demonstrated that the only place where she could be free from interruptions was the schoolroom itself. At the perfect boarding house the shrill tones of Keturah's voice and those of Miss Phinney and Mrs. Tripp penetrated through shut doors. It is hard to figure percentages when the most intimate details of Bayport's family life are being recited and gloated over on the other side of a thin partition. And when Matilda undertook to defend the Come-Outer faith against the assaults of the majority, the verbal riot was, as Mr. Tidditt described it, “like feedin' time in a parrot shop.”

So Miss Phoebe came to the boarding house for supper and then returned to the schoolroom, where, with a lighted bracket lamp beside her on the desk, she labored until nine o'clock. Then she put on her coat and hat, extinguished the light, locked the door, and started on her lonely walk home.

“The main road” in our village is dark after nine o clock. There is a street light—a kerosene lamp—on a post in front of the Methodist meeting house, but the sexton forgets it, generally speaking, or, at any rate, neglects to fill it except at rare intervals. Simmons's front windows are ablaze, of course, and so are the dingy panes of Simpson's barber shop. But these two centers of sociability are both at the depot road corner, and when they are passed the only sources of illumination are the scattered gleams from the back windows of dwellings. As most of us retire by half-past eight, the glow along the main road is not dazzling, to say the very least.

Miss Dawes was not afraid of the dark. She had been her own escort for a good many years. She walked briskly on, heard the laughter and loud voices in the barber shop die away behind her, passed the schoolhouse pond, now bleak and chill with the raw November wind blowing across it, and began to climb the slope of Whittaker's Hill. And here the wind, rushing in unimpeded over the flooded salt meadows from the tumbled bay outside, wound her skirts about her and made climbing difficult and breath-taking.

She was, perhaps, half way up the long slope, when she heard, in the intervals between the gusts, footsteps behind her. She knew most of the village people by this time and the thought of company was not unpleasant. So she paused and pantingly waited for whoever was coming. She could not see more than a few yards, but the footsteps sounded nearer and nearer, and, a moment later, a man's voice began singing “Annie Rooney,” a melody then past its prime in the cities, but popularized in Bayport by some departed batch of summer boarders.

She did not recognize the voice and she did not particularly approve of singing in the streets, especially such loud singing. So she decided not to wait longer, and was turning to continue her climb, when the person behind stopped his vocalizing and called.

“Hi!” he shouted. “Hello, ahead there! Who is it? Hold on a minute, pard! I'm comin'.”

She disobeyed the order to “hold on,” and began to hurry. The hurry was of no avail, however, for the follower broke into a run and soon was by her side. He was a stranger to her.

“Whee! Wow!” he panted. “This is no race track, pard. Pull up, and let's take it easy. My off leg's got a kink in it, and I don't run so easy as I used to. Great snakes; what's your rush? Ain't you fond of company? Hello! I believe it's a woman!”

She did not answer. His manner and the smell of liquor about him were decidedly unpleasant. The idea that he might be a tramp occurred to her. Tramps are our bugaboos here in Bayport.

“A woman!” exclaimed the man hilariously. “Well, say! I didn't believe there was one loose in this tail-end of nowhere. Girlie, I'm glad to see you. Not that I can see you much, but never mind. All cats are gray in the dark, hey? You can't see me, neither, so we'll take each other on trust. 'She's my sweetheart, I'm her beau.' Say, Maud, may I see you home?”

She was frightened now. The Whittaker place on the hilltop was the nearest house, and that was some distance off.

“What's the matter, Carrie?” inquired the man. “Don't be scared. I wouldn't hurt you. I'm just lonesome, that's all, and I need society. Don't rush, you'll ruin your complexion. Here! come under my wing and let's toddle along together. How's mamma?”

He seized her arm and pulled her back beside him. She tried to free herself, but could not. Her unwelcome escort held her fast and she was obliged to move as slowly as he did. It was very dark.

“Say, what IS your name?” coaxed the man. “Is is Maud, hey? Or Julia? I always liked Julia. Don't be peevish. Tell us, that's a good girl.”

She gave a quick jerk and managed to pull her arm from his grasp, giving him a violent push as she did so. He, being unsteady on his feet, tumbled down the low bank which edged the sidewalk. Then she ran on up the hill as fast as she could. She heard him swear as he fell.

She had nearly reached the end of the Whittaker fence when he caught her. He was laughing, and that alarmed her almost as much as if he had been angry.

“Naughty! naughty!” he chuckled, holding her fast. “Tryin' to sneak, was you? Not much! Not this time! Did you ever play forfeits when you was little? Well, this is a forfeit game and you're It. You must bow to the prettiest, kneel to the wittiest, and kiss the one you love best. And I'll let you off on the first two. Come now! Pay up!”

Then she screamed. And her scream was answered at once. A gate swung back with a bang and she heard some one running along the walk toward her.

“O Cap'n Whittaker!” she called. “Come! Come quick, please!”

How she knew that the person running toward her was Captain Cy has not been satisfactorily explained even yet. She cannot explain it and neither can the captain. And equally astonishing was the latter's answer. He certainly had not heard her voice often enough to recognize it under such circumstances.

“All right, teacher!” he shouted. “I'm comin'! Let go of that woman, you—Oh, it's you, is it?”

He had seized Mr. Smith by the coat collar and jerked him away from his victim. Miss Dawes took refuge behind the captain's bulky form. The two men looked at each other. Smith was recovering his breath.

“It's you, is it?” repeated Captain Cy. Then, turning to Miss Phoebe, he asked: “Did he hurt you?”

“No! Not yet. But he frightened me dreadfully. Who is he? Do you know him?”

Her persecutor answered the question.

“You bet your life he knows me!” he snarled. “He knows me mighty well! Pard, you keep your nose out of this, d'you see! You mind your own business. I wan't goin' to hurt her any.”

The captain paid no attention to him.

“Yup, I know him,” he said grimly. Then he added, pointing toward the lighted window of the house ahead: “You—Smith, you go in there and stay there! Trot! Don't make me speak twice.”

But Mr. Smith was too far gone with anger and the “spirits” raised by Tad Simpson to heed the menace in the words.

“Smith, hey?” he sneered. “Oh, yes, SMITH! Well, Smith ain't goin', d'you see! He's goin' to do what he pleases. I reckon I'm on top of the roost here! I know what's what! You can't talk to me. I've got rights, I have, and—”

“Blast your rights!”

“What? WHAT? Blast my rights, hey? Oh, yes! Think because you've got money you can cheat me out of 'em, do you? Well, you can't! And how about the other part of those rights? S'pose I walk right into that house and—”

“Stop it! Shut up! You'd better not—”

“And into that bedroom and just say: 'Emmie, here's your—'”

He didn't finish the sentence. Captain Cy's big fist struck him fairly between the eyes, and the back of his head struck the walk with a “smack!” Then, through the fireworks which were illuminating his muddled brain, he heard the captain's voice.

“You low - down, good - for - nothin' scamp!” growled Captain Cy. “All this day I've been hatin' myself for the way I've acted to you. I've hated myself and been tryin' to spunk up courage to say 'It's all off!' But I was too much of a coward, I guess. And now the Lord A'mighty has MADE me say it. You want your rights, do you? So? Then get 'em if you can. It's you and me for it, and we'll see who's the best man. Teacher, if you're ready I'll walk home with you now.”

Mr. Smith was not entirely cowed.

“You go!” he yelled. “Go ahead! And I'll go to a lawyer's to-morrow. But to-night, and inside of five minutes, I'll walk into that house of yours and get my—”

The captain dropped Miss Dawes's arm and strode back to where his antagonist was sitting in the dust of the walk. Stooping down, he shook a big forefinger in the man's face.

“You've been out West, they tell me,” he whispered sternly. “Yes! Well, out West they take the law into their own hands, sometimes, I hear. I've been in South America, and they do it there, too. Just so sure as you go into my house to-night and touch—well, you know what I mean—just so sure I'll kill you like a dog, if I have to chase you to Jericho. Now you can believe that or not. If I was you I'd believe it.”

Taking the frightened schoolmistress by the arm once more he walked away. Mr. Smith said nothing till they had gone some distance. Then he called after them.

“You wait till to-morrow!” he shouted. “You just wait and see what'll happen to-morrow!”

Captain Cy was silent all the way to the gate of the perfect boarding house. Miss Dawes was silent likewise, but she thought a great deal. At the gate she said:

“Captain Whittaker, I'm EVER so much obliged to you. I can't thank you enough.”

“Don't try, then. That's what you said to me about the cow.”

“But I'm almost sorry you were the one to come. I'm afraid that man will get you into trouble. Has he—can he—What did he mean about to-morrow? Who IS he?”

The captain pushed his cap back from his forehead.

“Teacher,” he said, “there's a proverb, ain't there, about lettin' to-morrow take care of itself? As for trouble—well, I did think I'd had trouble enough in my life to last me through, but I cal'late I've got another guess. Anyhow, don't you fret. I did just the right thing, and I'm glad I did it. If it was only me I wouldn't fret, either. But there's—” He stopped, groaned, and pulled the cap forward again. “Good night,” he added, and turned to go.

Miss Dawes leaned forward and detained him.

“Just a minute, Cap'n Whittaker,” she said. “I was a little prejudiced against you when I came here. I was told that you got me the teacher's position, and there was more than a hint that you did it for selfish reasons of your own. When you called that afternoon at the school I was—”

“Don't say a word! I was the biggest fool in town that time, and I've been ashamed to look in the glass ever since. I ain't always such an idiot.”

“But I've had to judge people for myself in my lifetime,” continued the schoolmistress, “and I've made up my mind that I was mistaken about you. I should like to apologize. Will you shake hands?”

She extended her hand. Captain Cy hesitated.

“Hadn't you better wait a spell?” he asked. “You've heard that swab call me partner. Hadn't—”

“No; I don't know what your trouble is, of course, and I certainly shan't mention it to anyone. But whatever it is I'm sure you are right and it's not your fault. Now will you shake hands?”

The captain did not answer. He merely took the proffered hand, shook it heartily, and strode off into the dark.