December was nearly over. Christmas had come. Bos'n had hung up her stocking by the base-burner stove, and found it warty and dropsical the next morning, with a generous overflow of gifts piled on the floor beneath it. The Board of Strategy sent presents; so did Miss Dawes and Georgianna. As for Captain Cy he spent many evening hours, after the rest of his household was in bed, poring over catalogues of toys and books, and the orders he sent to the big shops in Boston were lengthy and costly. The little girl's eyes opened wide when she saw the stocking and the treasures heaped on the floor. She sat in her “nighty” amidst the wonders, books, and playthings in a circle about her, and the biggest doll of all hugged close in her arms. Captain Cy, who had arisen at half past five in order to be with her on the great occasion, was at least as happy as she.

“Like 'em, do you?” he asked, smiling.

“like 'em! O Uncle Cy! What makes everybody so good to me?”

“I don't know. Strange thing, ain't it—considerin' what a hard little ticket you are.”

Bos'n laughed. She understood her “Uncle Cy,” and didn't mind being called a “hard ticket” by him.

“I—I—didn't believe anybody COULD have such a nice Christmas. I never saw so many nice things.”

“Humph! What do you like best?”

The answer was a question, and was characteristic.

“Which did you give me?” asked Bos'n.

The captain would have dodged, but she wouldn't let him. So one by one the presents he had given were indicated and put by themselves. The remainder were but few, but she insisted that the givers of these should be named. When the sorting was over she sat silently hugging her doll and, apparently, thinking.

“Well?” inquired the amused captain. “Made up your mind yet? Which do you like best?”

The child nodded.

“Why, these, of course,” she declared with emphasis, pointing with her dollie's slippered foot at Captain Cy's pile.

“So? Do, hey? Didn't know I could pick so well. All right; the first prize is mine. Who takes the second?”

This time Bos'n deliberated before answering. At last, however, she bent forward and touched the teacher's gifts.

“These,” she said. “I like these next best.”

Captain Cy was surprised.

“Sho!” he exclaimed. “You don't say!”

“Yes. I think I like teacher next to you. I like Georgianna and Mr. Tidditt and Mr. Bangs, of course, but I like her a little better. Don't you, uncle Cyrus?”

The captain changed the subject. He asked her what she should name her doll.

The Board of Strategy came in during the forenoon, and the presents had to be shown to them. While the exhibition was in progress Miss Dawes called. And before she left Gabe Lumley drove up in the depot wagon bearing a big express package addressed to “Miss Emily Thomas, Bayport.”

“Humph!” exclaimed Captain Cy. “Somethin' more for Bos'n, hey! Who in the world sent it, do you s'pose?”

Asaph and Bailey made various inane suggestions as to the sender. Phoebe said nothing. There was a frown on her face as she watched the captain get to work on the box with chisel and hammer. It contained a beautiful doll, fully and expensively dressed, and pinned to the dress was a card—“To dear little Emmie, from her lonesome Papa.”

The Board of Strategy looked at the doll in wonder and astonishment. Captain Cy strode away to the window.

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bangs. “I didn't believe he had that much heart inside of him. I bet you that cost four or five dollars; ain't that so, Cy?”

The captain did not answer.

“Don't you think so, teacher?” repeated Bailey, turning to Phoebe. “What ails you? You don't seem surprised.”

“I'm not,” replied the lady. “I expected something of that sort.”

Captain Cy wheeled from the window.

“You DID?” he asked.

“Yes. Miss Phinney said the other day she had heard that that man was going to give his daughter a beautiful present. She was very enthusiastic about his generosity and self-sacrifice. I asked who told her and she said Mr. Simpson.”

“Oh! Tad? Is that so!” The captain looked at her.

“Yes. And I think there is no doubt that Simpson had orders to make the 'generosity' known to as many townspeople as possible.”

“Hum! I see. You figure that Thomas cal'lates 'twill help his popularity and make his case stronger; is that it?”

“Not exactly. I doubt if he ever thought of such a thing himself. But some one thought for him—and some one must have supplied the money.”

“Well, they say he's to work up in Boston.”

“I know. But no one can tell where he works. Captain Whittaker, this is Mr. Atkins's doing—you know it. Now, WHY does he, a busy man, take such an interest in getting this child away from you?”

Captain Cy shook his head and smiled.

“Teacher,” he said, “you're dead set on taggin' Heman with a mystery, ain't you?”

“Miss Dawes,” asked the forgetful Bailey, “when you and me went drivin' t'other day did you find out anything from—”

Phoebe interrupted quickly.

“Mr. Bangs,” she said, “at what time do we distribute Christmas presents at your boarding house? I suppose you must have many Christmas secrets to keep. You keep a secret SO well.”

Mr. Bangs turned red. The hint concerning secret keeping was not wasted. He did not mention the drive again.

A little later Captain Cy found Bos'n busily playing with the doll he had given her. The other, her father's gift, was nowhere in sight.

“I put her back in the box,” said the child in reply to his question. “She was awful pretty, but I think I'm goin' to love this one best.”

The remark seems a foolish thing to give comfort to a grown man, but Captain Cy found comfort in it, and comfort was what he needed.

He needed it more as time went on. In January the court gave its decision. The captain's appointment as guardian was revoked. With the father alive, and professedly anxious to provide for the child's support, nothing else was to be expected, so Mr. Peabody said. The latter entered an appeal which would delay matters for a time, two or three months perhaps; meanwhile Captain Cy was to retain custody of Bos'n.

But the court's action, expected though it was, made the captain very blue and downcast. He could see no hope. He felt certain that he should lose the little girl in the end, in spite of the long succession of appeals which his lawyer contemplated. And what would become of her then? What sort of training would she be likely to have? Who would her associates be, under the authority of a father such as hers? And what would he do, alone in the old house, when she had gone for good? He could not bear to think of it, and yet he thought of little else.

The evenings, after Bos'n had gone to bed, were the worst. During the day he tried his best to be busy at something or other. The doll house was finished, and he had begun to fashion a full-rigged ship in miniature. In reality Emily, being a normal little girl, was not greatly interested in ships, but, because Uncle Cy was making it, she pretended to be vastly concerned about this one. On Saturdays and after school hours she sat on a box in the wood shed, where the captain had put up a small stove, and watched him work. The taboo which so many of our righteous and Atkins-worshiping townspeople had put upon the Whittaker place and its occupants included her, and a number of children had been forbidden to play with her. This, however, did not prevent their tormenting her about her father and her disreputable guardian.

But the captain's evenings were miserable. He no longer went to Simmons's. He didn't care for the crowd there, and knew they were all “down” on him. Josiah Dimick called occasionally, and the Board of Strategy often, but their conversation was rather tiresome. There were times when Captain Cy hated Bayport, the house he had “fixed up” with such interest and pride, and the old sitting room in particular. The mental picture of comfort and contentment which had been his dream through so many years of struggle and wandering, looked farther off than ever. Sometimes he was tempted to run away, taking Bos'n with him. But the captain had never run away from a fight yet; he had never abandoned a ship while there was a chance of keeping her afloat. And, besides, there was another reason.

Phoebe Dawes had come to be his chief reliance. He saw a great deal of her. Often when she walked home from school, she found him hanging over the front gate, and they talked of various things—of Bos'n's progress with her studies, of the school work, and similar topics. He called her by her first name now, although in this there was nothing unusual—after a few weeks' acquaintance we Bayporters almost invariably address people by their “front” names. Sometimes she came to the house with Emily. Then the three sat by the stove in the sitting room, and the apartment became really cheerful, in the captain's eyes.

Phoebe was in good spirits. She was as hopeful as Captain Cy was despondent. She seemed to have little fear of the outcome of the legal proceedings, the appeals and the rest. In fact, she now appeared desirous of evading the subject, and there was about her an air of suppressed excitement. Her optimism was the best sort of bracer for the captain's failing courage. Her advice was always good, and a talk with her left him with shoulders squared, mentally, and almost happy.

One cold, rainy afternoon, early in February, she came in with Bos'n, who had availed herself of the shelter of the teacher's umbrella. Georgianna was in the kitchen baking, and Emily had been promised a “saucer pie”—so the child went out to superintend the construction of that treat.

“Set down, teacher,” said Captain Cy, pushing forward a rocker. “My! but I'm glad to see you. 'Twas bluer'n a whetstone 'round here to-day. What's the news—anything?”

“Why, no,” replied Phoebe, accepting the rocker and throwing open her wet jacket; “there's no news in particular. But I wanted to ask if you had seen the Breeze?”

“Um—hum,” was the listless answer. “I presume likely you mean the news about the appropriation, and the editorial dig at yours truly? Yes, I've seen it. They don't bother me much. I've got more important things on my mind just now.”

Congressman Atkins's pledge in his farewell speech, concerning the mighty effort he was to make toward securing the appropriation for Bayport harbor, was in process of fulfillment—so he had written to the local paper. But, alas! the mighty effort was likely to prove unavailing. In spite of the Honorable Heman's battle for his constituents' rights it seemed certain that the bill would not provide the thirty thousand dollars for Bayport; at least, not this year's bill. Other and more powerful interests would win out and, instead, another section of the coast be improved at the public expense. The congressman was deeply sorry, almost broken-hearted. He had battled hard for his beloved town, he had worked night and day. But, to be perfectly frank, there was little or no hope.

Few of us blamed Heman Atkins. The majority considered his letter “noble” and “so feeling.” But some one must be blamed for a community disappointment like this, and the scapegoat was on the premises. How about that “committee of one” self-appointed at town meeting? How about the blatant person who had declared HE could have gotten the appropriation? What had the “committee” done? Nothing! nothing at all! He had not even written to the Capital—so far as anyone could find out—much less gone there.

So, at Simmons's and the sewing circle, and after meeting on Sunday, Cy Whittaker was again discussed and derided. And this week's Breeze, out that morning, contained a sarcastic editorial which mentioned no names, but hinted at “a certain now notorious person” who had boasted loudly, but who had again “been weighed in the balance of public opinion and found wanting.”

Miss Dawes did not seem pleased with the captain's nonchalant attitude toward the Breeze and its editorial. She tapped the braided mat with her foot.

“Captain Cyrus,” she said, “if you intended doing nothing toward securing that appropriation why did you accept the responsibility for it at the meeting?”

Captain Cy looked up. Her tone reminded him of their first meeting, when she had reproved him for going to sleep and leaving Bos'n to the mercy of the Cahoon cow.

“Well,” he said, “afore this Thomas business happened, to knock all my plans on their beam ends, I'd done consider'ble thinkin' about that appropriation. It seemed to me that there must be some reason for Heman's comin' about so sudden. He was sartin sure of the thirty thousand for a spell; then, all to once, he begun to take in sail and go on t'other tack. I don't know much about politics, but I know HE knows all the politics there is. And it seemed to me that if a live man, one with eyes in his head, went to Washington and looked around he might find the reason. And, if he did find it, maybe Heman could be coaxed into changin' his mind again. Anyhow, I was willin' to take the risk of tryin'; and, besides, Tad and Abe Leonard had me on the griddle at that meetin', and I spoke up sharp—too sharp, maybe.”

“But you still believe that you MIGHT help if you went to Washington?”

“Yes. I guess I do. Anyhow, I'd ask some pretty p'inted questions. You see, I ain't lived here in Bayport all my life, and I don't swaller ALL the bait Heman heaves overboard.”

“Then why don't you go?”

“Hey? Why don't I go? And leave Bos'n and—”

“Emily would be all right and perfectly safe. Georgianna thinks the world of her. And, Captain Whittaker, I don't like to hear these people talk of you as they do. I don't like to read such things in the paper, that you were only bragging in order to be popular, and meant to shirk when the time came for action. I know they're not true. I KNOW it!”

Captain Cy was gratified, and his gratification showed in his voice.

“Thank you, Phoebe,” he said. “I am much obliged to you. But, you see, I don't take any interest in such things any more. When I realize that pretty soon I've got to give up that little girl for good I can't bear to be away from her a minute hardly. I don't like to leave her here alone with Georgianna and—”

“I will keep an eye on her. You trust me, don't you?”

“Trust YOU? By the big dipper, you're about the only one I CAN trust these days. I don't know how I'd have pulled through this if you hadn't helped. You're diff'rent from Ase and Bailey and their kind—not meanin' anything against them, either. But you're broad-minded and cool-headed and—and—Do you know, if I'd had a woman like you to advise me all these years and keep me from goin' off the course, I might have been somebody by now.”

“I think you're somebody as it is.”

“Don't talk that way. I own up I like to hear you, but I'm 'fraid it ain't true. You say I amount to somethin'. Well, what? I come back home here, with some money in my pocket, thinkin' that was about all was necessary to make me a good deal of a feller. The old Cy Whittaker place, I said to myself, was goin' to be a real Cy Whittaker place again. And I'd be a real Whittaker, a man who should stand for somethin', as my dad and granddad did afore me. The town should respect me, and I'd do things to help it along. And what's it all come to? Why, every young one on the street is told to be good for fear he'll grow up like me. Ain't that so? Course it's so! I'm—”

“You SHALL not speak so! Do you imagine that you're not respected by everyone whose respect counts for anything? Yes, and by others, too. Don't you suppose Mr. Atkins respects you, down in his heart—if he has one? Doesn't your housekeeper, who sees you every day, respect and like you? And little Emily—doesn't she love you more than she does all the rest of us together?”

“Well, I guess Bos'n does care for the old man some, that's a fact. She says she likes you next best, though. Did you know that?”

But Miss Dawes was indignant.

“Captain Whittaker,” she declared, “one would think you were a hundred years old to hear you. You are always calling yourself an old man. Does Mr. Atkins call himself old? And he is older than you.”

“Well, I'm over fifty, Phoebe.” In spite of the habit for which he had just been reproached, the captain found this a difficult statement to make.

“I know. But you're younger than most of us at thirty-five. You see, I'm confessing, too,” she added with a laugh and a little blush.

Captain Cy made a mental calculation.

“Twenty years,” he said musingly. “Twenty years is a long time. No, I'm old. And worse than that, I'm an old fool, I guess. If I hadn't been I'd have stayed in South America instead of comin' here to be hooted out of the town I was born in.”

The teacher stamped her foot.

“Oh, what SHALL I do with you!” she exclaimed. “It is wicked for you to say such things. Do you suppose that Mr. Atkins would find it necessary to work as he is doing to beat a fool? And, besides, you're not complimentary to me. Should I, do you think, take such an interest in one who was an imbecile?”

“Well, 'tis mighty good of you. Your comin' here so to help Bos'n's fight along is—”

“How do you know it is Bos'n altogether? I—” She stopped suddenly, and the color rushed to her face. She rose from the rocker. “I—really, I don't see how we came to be discussing such nonsense,” she said. “Our ages and that sort of thing! Captain Cyrus, I wish you would go to Washington. I think you ought to go.”

But the captain's thoughts were far from Washington at that moment. His own face was alight, and his eyes shone.

“Phoebe,” he faltered unbelievingly, “what was you goin' to say? Do you mean that—that—”

The side door of the house opened. The next instant Mr. Tidditt, a dripping umbrella in his hand, entered the sitting room.

“Hello, Whit!” he hailed. “Just run in for a minute to say howdy.” Then he noticed the schoolmistress, and his expression changed. “Oh! how be you, Miss Dawes?” he said. “I didn't see you fust off. Don't run away on my account.”

“I was just going,” said Phoebe, buttoning her jacket. Captain Cy accompanied her to the door.

“Good-by,” she said. “There was something else I meant to say, but I think it is best to wait. I hope to have some good news for you soon. Something that will send you to Washington with a light heart. Perhaps I shall hear to-morrow. If so, I will call after school and tell you.”

“Yes, do,” urged the captain eagerly. “You'll find me here waitin'. Good news or not, do come. I—I ain't said all I wanted to, myself.”

He returned to the sitting room. The town clerk was standing by the stove. He looked troubled.

“What's the row, Ase?” asked Cy cheerily. He was overflowing with good nature.

“Oh, nothin' special,” replied Mr. Tidditt. “You look joyful enough for two of us. Had good company, ain't you?”

“Why, yes; 'bout as good as there is. What makes you look so glum?”

Asaph hesitated.

“Phoebe was here yesterday, too, wan't she?” he asked.

“Yup. What of it?”

“And the day afore that?”

“No, not for three days afore that. But what OF it, I ask you?”

“Well, now, Cy, you mustn't get mad. I'm a friend of yours, and friends ought to be able to say 'most anything to each other. If—if I was you, I wouldn't let Phoebe come so often—not here, you know, at your house. Course, I know she comes with Bos'n and all, but—”

“Out with it!” The captain's tone was ominous. “What are you drivin' at?”

The caller fidgeted.

“Well, Whit,” he stammered, “there's consider'ble talkin' goin' on, that's all.”

“Talkin'? What kind of talkin'?”

“Well, you know the kind. This town does a good deal of it, 'specially after church and prayer meetin'. Seem's if they thought 'twas a sort of proper place. I don't myself; I kind of like to keep my charity and brotherly love spread out through the week, but—”

“Ase, are the folks in this town sayin' a word against Phoebe Dawes because she comes here to see—Bos'n?”

“Don't—don't get mad, Whit. Don't look at me like that. I ain't said nothin'. Why, a spell ago, at the boardin' house, I—”

He told of the meal at the perfect boarding house where Miss Dawes championed his friend's cause. Also of the conversation which followed, and his own part in it. Captain Cy paced the floor.

“I wouldn't have her come so often, Cy,” pleaded Asaph. “Honest, I wouldn't. Course, you and me know they're mean, miser'ble liars, but it's her I'm thinkin' of. She's a young woman and single. And you're a good many years older'n she is. And so, of course, you and she ain't ever goin' to get married. And have you thought what effect it might have on her keepin' her teacher's place? The committee's a majority against her as 'tis. And—you know I don't think so, but a good many folks do—you ain't got the best name just now. Darn it all! I ain't puttin' this the way I'd ought to, but YOU know what I mean, don't you, Cy?”

Captain Cy was leaning against the window frame, his head upon his arm. He was not looking out, because the shade was drawn. Tidditt waited anxiously for him to answer. At last he turned.

“Ase,” he said, “I'm much obliged to you. You've pounded it in pretty hard, but I cal'late I'd ought to have had it done to me. I'm a fool—an OLD fool, just as I said a while back—and nothin' nor NOBODY ought to have made me forget it. For a minute or so I—but there! don't you fret. That young woman shan't risk her job nor her reputation on account of me—nor of Bos'n, either. I'll see to that. And see here,” he added fiercely, “I can't stop women's tongues, even when they're as bad as some of the tongues in this town, BUT if you hear a MAN say one word against Phoebe Dawes, only one word, you tell me his name. You hear, Ase? You tell me his name. Now run along, will you? I ain't safe company just now.”

Asaph, frightened at the effect of his words, hurriedly departed. Captain Cy paced the room for the next fifteen minutes. Then he opened the kitchen door.

“Bos'n,” he called, “come in and set in my lap a while; don't you want to? I'm—I'm sort of lonesome, little girl.”

The next afternoon, when the schoolmistress, who had been delayed by the inevitable examination papers, stopped at the Cy Whittaker place, she was met by Georgianna; Emily, who stood behind the housekeeper in the doorway, was crying.

“Cap'n Cy has gone away—to Washin'ton,” declared Georgianna. “Though what he's gone there for's more'n I know. He said he'd send his hotel address soon's he got there. He went on the three o'clock train.”

Phoebe was astonished.

“Gone?” she repeated. “So soon! Why, he told me he should certainly be here to hear some news I expected to-day. Didn't he leave any message for me?”

The housekeeper turned red.

“Miss Phoebe,” she said, “he told me to tell you somethin', and it's so dreadful I don't hardly dast to say it. I think his troubles have driven him crazy. He said to tell you that you'd better not come to this house any more.”