Galusha Cabot Bangs' first day in East Wellmouth was spent for the most part indoors. He was willing that it should he; the stiffness and lameness in various parts of his body, together with the shakiness at the knees which he experienced when he tried to walk, warned him that a trip abroad would not be a judicious undertaking. The doctor having granted him permission, however, he did go out into the yard for a brief period.

Gould's Bluffs and their surroundings were more attractive on this pleasant October afternoon than on the previous evening. The Phipps house was a story and a half cottage, of the regulation Cape Cod type, with a long “L” and sheds connecting it with a barn and chicken yards. The house was spotlessly white, with blinds conventionally green, as most New England houses are. There was a white fence shutting it off from the road, the winding, narrow road which even yet held puddles and pools of mud in its hollows, souvenirs of the downpour of the night before. Across the road, perhaps a hundred yards away, was the long, brown—and now of course bleak—broadside of the Restabit Inn, its veranda looking lonesome and forsaken even in the brilliant light of day. Behind it and beyond it were rolling hills, brown and bare, except for the scattered clumps of beach-plum and bayberry bushes. There were no trees, except a grove of scrub pine perhaps a mile away. Between the higher hills and over the tops of the lower ones Galusha caught glimpses of the sea. In the opposite direction lay a little cluster of roofs, with a church spire rising above them. He judged this to be East Wellmouth village.

The road, leading from the village, wound in and out between the hills, past the Restabit Inn and the Phipps homestead until it ended at another clump of buildings; a house, with ells and extensions, several other buildings and sheds, and a sturdy white and black lighthouse. He was leaning upon the fence rail peering through his spectacles when Primmie came up behind him.

“That's a lighthouse you're lookin' at, Mr. Bangs,” she observed, with the air of one imparting valuable information.

Galusha started; he had not heard her coming.

“Eh? Oh! Yes, so I—ah—surmised,” he said.

“Hey? What did you do?”

“I say I thought it was a lighthouse.”

“'Tis. Ever see one afore, have you?”

Galusha admitted that he had seen a lighthouse before. “Kind of interestin' things, ain't they? You know I never realized till I come down here to live what interestin' things lighthouses was. There's so much TO 'em, you know, ain't there?”

“Why—ah—is there?”

“I should say there was. I don't mean the tower part, though that's interestin' of itself, with them round and round steps—What is it Miss Martha said folks called 'em? Oh, yes, spinal stairs, that's it. I never see any spinal stairs till I come here. They don't have 'em up to North Mashpaug. That's where I used to live, up to North Mashpaug. Ever been to North Mashpaug, Mr. Bangs?”

“No.”

“Well, a good many folks ain't, far's that goes. Where I lived was way off in the woods, anyhow. My family was Indian, way back. Not all Indian, but some, you know; the rest was white, though Pa he used to cal'late there might be a little Portygee strung along in somewhere. It's kind of funny to be all mixed up that way, ain't it? Hello, there's Cap'n Jethro! See him? See him?”

Bangs saw the figure of a man emerge from the door of the white house by the light and stand upon the platform. There was nothing particularly exciting about the man's appearance, but Primmie seemed to be excited.

“See him, Mr. Bangs?” she repeated.

“Yes, I see him. Who is he?”

“Don't you know? No, course you don't; why should you? He's Cap'n Jethro Hallett, keeps the lighthouse, he does—him and Lulie and Zach.”

“Oh, he is the light keeper, is he? What has he got his head tied up for?”

“Hey? HEAD tied up?”

“Why, yes. Isn't there something gray—a—ah—scarf or something tied about his head? I think I see it flutter in the wind.”

“That? That ain't no scarf, them's his whiskers. He wears 'em long and they blow consider'ble. Say, what do you think?” Primmie leaned forward and whispered mysteriously. “He sees his wife.”

Galusha turned to look at her. Her expression was a combination of awe and excitement.

“I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered, “but really I—What did you say he did?”

“I said he sees his wife. Anyhow, he thinks he does. She comes to him nights and stands alongside of his bed and they talk. Ain't that awful?”

Galusha took off his spectacles and rubbed them.

“Ain't it awful, Mr. Bangs?” repeated Primmie.

Galusha's faint smile twitched the corners of his lips. “We-ll,” he observed, “I—really I can't say. I never met the lady.”

“What difference does that make? If a dead woman come and stood alongside of MY bed 'twouldn't make no difference to me whether I'd MET her or not. Meetin' of her then would be enough. My Lord of Isrul!”

“Oh—oh, I beg your pardon. Do I understand you to say that this—ah—gentleman's wife is dead?”

“Um-hm. Been dead seven year, so Miss Martha says. That's what I mean when I say it's awful. Wouldn't you think 'twas awful if a woman that had been dead seven year come and stood alongside of you?”

Galusha smiled again. “Yes,” he admitted, “I am inclined to think I—ah—should.”

“You bet you would! So'd anybody but Jethro Hallet. He likes it. Yes, sir! And he goes to every medium place from here to Boston, seems so, so's to have more talks with them that's over the river.”

“Eh? Over the—Oh, yes, I comprehend. Dead, you mean. Then this Mr. Hallet is a Spiritualist, I take it.”

“Um-hm. Rankest kind of a one. Course everybody believes in Spiritulism SOME, can't help it. Miss Martha says she don't much and Zach Bloomer he says he cal'lates his doubts keep so close astern of his beliefs that it's hard to tell which'll round the stake boat first. But there ain't no doubt about Cap'n Jethro's believin', he's rank.”

“I see. Well, is he—is he rational in other ways? It seems odd to have a—ah—an insane man in charge of—”

“Insane? My savin' soul, what put that idea in your head? He ain't crazy, Jethro Hallet ain't. He's smart. Wuth consider'ble money, so they say, and hangs on to it, too. Used to be cap'n of a four-masted schooner, till he hurt his back and had to stay ashore. His back's got to hurtin' him worse lately and Zach and Miss Martha they cal'late that's why Lulie give up her teachin' school up to Ostable and come down here to live along with him. I heard 'em talkin' about it t'other day and that's what they cal'late. Miss Martha she thinks a sight of Lulie.”

“And—ah—this Miss Lulie is the light keeper's daughter?” Bangs was not especially interested in the Hallett family, but he found Primmie amusing.

“Uh-hm. All the child he's got. Some diff'rent from our tribe; there was thirteen young ones in our family. Pa used to say he didn't care long's we didn't get so thick he'd step on ary one of us. He didn't care about a good many things, Pa didn't. Ma had to do the carin' and most of the work, too. Yes, Lulie's Jethro's daughter and he just bows down and worships her.”

“I see. I see. And is—ah—Miss Hallett as spookily inclined as her parent?”

“Hey?”

“Is she a Spiritualist, too?”

“No, no. Course she don't say much on her pa's account, but Zach says she don't take no stock in it. Lulie has to be pretty careful, 'cause ever since Cap'n Jethro found out about Nelse he—Hey? Yes'm, I'm a-comin'.”

Miss Phipps had called to her from the kitchen door. Galusha stood by the fence a while longer. Then he went in to supper. Before he went to his room that night he asked his landlady a question.

“That—ah—maid of yours has a peculiar name, hasn't she?” he observed. “Primmie. I think I never heard it before.”

Miss Martha laughed.

“I should say it was peculiar!” she exclaimed. “Her Christian name is Primrose, if you can call such a name Christian. I almost died when I heard it first. She's a queer blossom, Primmie is, a little too much tar in her upper riggin', as father used to say, but faithful and willin' as a person could be. I put up with her tongue and her—queerness on that account. Some friends of mine over at Falmouth sent her to me; they knew I needed somebody in the house after father died. Her name is Primrose Annabel Cash and she comes from a nest of such sort of folks in the Mashpaug woods. She provokes me sometimes, but I have a good deal of fun with her on the whole. You ought to see her and Zacheus Bloomer together and hear 'em talk; THEN you would think it was funny.”

“Is this Mr.—ah—Bloomer queer also?”

“Why, yes, I presume likely he is. Not foolish, you understand, or even a little bit soft like Primmie. He's shrewd enough, Zach is, but he's peculiar, that's about it. Has a queer way of talkin' and walkin'—yes, and thinkin'. He's put in the most of his life in out-of-the-way places, boat-fishin' all alone off on the cod banks, or attendin' to lobster pots way down in the South Channel, or aboard lightships two miles from nowhere. That's enough to make any man queer, bein' off by himself so. Why, this place of assistant light keeper here at Gould's Bluffs is the most sociable job Zach Bloomer has had for ten years, I shouldn't wonder. And Gould's Bluffs isn't Washington Street, exactly,” she added, with a smile.

“Have you lived here long, Miss Phipps?” inquired Galusha.

“Pretty nearly all my life, and that's long enough, goodness knows. Father bought this place in 1893, I think it was. He was goin' coastin' voyages then. Mother died in 1900 and he gave up goin' to sea that year. He and I lived here together until two years ago next August; then he died. I have been here since, with Primmie to help. I suppose likely I shall stay here now until I die—or dry up with old age and blow away, or somethin'. That is, I shall stay provided I—I can.”

There was a change in her tone as she spoke the last words. Galusha, glancing up, saw that she was gazing out of the window. He waited for her to go on, but she did not. He looked out of the window also, but there was nothing to be seen, nothing except the fields and hills, cold and bleak in the gathering dusk. After an interval she stirred and rose from her chair.

“Ah, well,” she said, with a shrug, and a return to her usual brisk manner, “there isn't a bit of use in makin' today to-morrow, is there, Mr. Bangs? And today's been nice and pleasant, and they can't take it from us.”

Galusha looked very much surprised. “Why, dear me, dear me!” he exclaimed. “That's extremely odd, now really.”

“What?”

“Why, your—ah—remark about making to-day to-morrow. Almost precisely the same thing was said to me at one time by another person. It is quite extraordinary.”

“Oh, not so very, I guess. A million folks must have thought it and said it since Adam. Who said it to you, Mr. Bangs?”

“A—ah—person in Abyssinia. He had stolen my—ah—shirt and I warned him that he should be punished on the following day. He laughed and I asked him what there was to laugh at. Then he made the remark about to-morrow's being afar off and that today the sun shone, or words to that effect. It seems strange that you should say it. Quite a coincidence, Miss Phipps, don't you think so?”

“Why—why, I suppose you might call it that. But WHAT did you say this man had stolen?”

“My—ah—shirt. I had another, of course; in fact I was wearing it, but the one he took was the only whole one remaining in my kit. I was quite provoked.”

“I should think you might have been. What sort of creature was he, for goodness sakes?”

“Oh, he was an Arab camel driver. A very good man, too.”

“Yes, he must have been. Did you get your shirt back?”

“No—ah—no. The fact is, he had put it on and—as he was rather—well, soiled, so to speak, I let him keep it. And he really was a very good man, I mean a good camel driver.”

Miss Martha regarded her guest thoughtfully.

“Where did you say this was, Mr. Bangs?”

“In the Abyssinian desert. We were there at the time.”

“Abyssinia? Abyssinia? That's in Africa, isn't it?”

“Yes, northern Africa.”

“Mercy me, that's a long way off.”

“Oh, not so very, when one becomes accustomed to the journey. The first time I found it rather tiring, but not afterward.”

“Not afterward. You mean you've been there more than once?”

“Yes—ah—yes. Three times.”

“But why in the world do you go to such an outlandish place as that three times?”

“Oh, on research work, connected with my—ah—profession. There are some very interesting remains in that section.”

“What did you say your business—your profession was, Mr. Bangs?”

“I am an archaeologist, Miss Phipps.”

“Oh!”

He went to his room soon afterwards. Martha went into the dining room. A suspicious rustle as she turned the door knob caused her to frown. Primmie was seated close to the wall on the opposite side of the room industriously peeling apples. Her mistress regarded her intently, a regard which caused its object to squirm in her chair.

“It's—it's a kind of nice night, ain't it, Miss Martha?” she observed.

Miss Martha did not answer. “Primmie Cash,” she said, severely, “you've been listen in' again. Don't deny it.”

“Now—now Miss Martha, I didn't mean to, really, but—”

“Do you want to go back to the Mashpaug poorhouse again?”

“No'm. You know I don't, Miss Martha. I didn't mean to do it, but I heard him talkin' and it was SO interestin'. That about the camel stealin' his shirt—my soul! And—”

“If you listen again I WILL send you back; I mean it.”

“I won't, ma'am. I won't. Now—”

“Be still. Where is our dictionary? It isn't in the closet with the other books where it ought to be. Do you know where it is?”

“No'm.... Yes'm, come to think of it, I do. Lulie Hallet borrowed it the other day. Her and Zach Bloomer was havin' a lot of talk about how to spell somethin' and Lulie she got our dictionary so's to settle it—and Zach. I'll fetch it back to-morrow mornin'.... But what do you want the dictionary for, Miss Martha?”

Martha shook her head, with the air of one annoyed by a puzzle the answer to which should be familiar.

“I'm goin' to find out what an archaeologist is,” she declared. “I ought to know, but I declare I don't.”

“An arky-what? Oh, that's what that little Mr. Bangs said he was, didn't he? You know what I think he is, Miss Martha?”

“No, I don't. You go to bed, Primmie.”

“I think he's an undertaker.”

“Undertaker! Good heavens and earth, what put that in your head?”

“Everything. Look at them clothes he wears, black tail-coat and white shirt and stand-up collar and all. Just exactly same as Emulous Dodd wears when he's runnin' a funeral. Yes, and more'n that—more'n that, Miss Martha. Didn't you hear what he said just now about 'remains'?”

“WHAT?”

“Didn't you ask him what he went traipsin' off to that—that camel place for? And didn't he say there was some interestin' remains there. Uh-hm! that's what he said—'remains.' If he ain't an undertaker what—”

Martha burst out laughing. “Primmie,” she said, “go to bed. And don't forget to get that dictionary to-morrow mornin'.”

The next day was Sunday and the weather still fine. Galusha Bangs was by this time feeling very much stronger. Miss Phipps commented upon his appearance at breakfast time.

“I declare,” she exclaimed, “you look as if you'd really had a good night's rest, Mr. Bangs. Now you'll have another biscuit and another egg, won't you?”

Galusha, who had already eaten one egg and two biscuits, was obliged to decline. His hostess seemed to think his appetite still asleep.

After breakfast he went out for a walk. There was a brisk, cool wind blowing and Miss Martha cautioned him against catching cold. She insisted upon his wrapping a scarf of her own, muffler fashion, about his neck beneath his coat collar and lent him a pair of mittens—they were Primmie's property—to put on in case his hands were cold. He had one kid glove in his pocket, but only one.

“Dear me!” he said. “I can't think what became of the other. I'm quite certain I had two to begin with.”

Martha laughed. “I'm certain of that myself,” she said. “I never heard of anybody's buying gloves one at a time.”

Her guest smiled. “It might be well for me to buy them that way,” he observed. “My brain doesn't seem equal to the strain of taking care of more than one.”

Primmie and her mistress watched him from the window as he meandered out of the yard. Primmie made the first remark.

“There now, Miss Martha,” she said, “DON'T he look like an undertaker? Them black clothes and that standin' collar and—and—the kind of still way he walks—and talks. Wouldn't you expect him to be sayin': 'The friends of the diseased will now have a chanct to—'”

“Oh, be still, Primmie, for mercy sakes!”

“Yes'm. What thin little legs he's got, ain't he?” Miss Phipps did not reply to her housemaid's criticism of the Bangs limbs. Instead, she made an observation of her own.

“Where in the world did he get that ugly, brown, stiff hat?” she demanded. “It doesn't look like anything that ever grew on land or sea.”

Primmie hitched up her apron strings, a habit she had.

“'Twould have been a better job,” she observed, “if that camel thing he was tellin' you about had stole that hat instead of his other shirt. Don't you think so, Miss Martha?”

Meanwhile Galusha, ignorant of the comments concerning his appearance, was strolling blithely along the road. His first idea had been to visit the lighthouse, his next to walk to the village. He had gone but a short distance, however, when another road branching off to the right suggested itself as a compromise. He took the branch road.

It wound in and out among the little hills which he had noticed from the windows and from the yard of the Phipps' house. It led past a little pond, hidden between two of those hills. Then it led to the top of another hill, the highest so far, and from that point Galusha paused to look about him.

From the hilltop the view was much the same, but more extensive. The ocean filled the whole eastern horizon, a shimmering, moving expanse of blue and white, with lateral stretches of light and dark green. To the south were higher hills, thickly wooded. Between his own hill and those others was a small grove of pines and, partially hidden by it, a weather-beaten building with a steeple, its upper half broken off. The building, Galusha guessed, was an abandoned church. Now an old church in the country suggested, naturally, an old churchyard. Toward the building with half a steeple Mr. Bangs started forthwith.

There WAS a churchyard, an ancient, grass-grown burying ground, with slate gravestones and weather-worn tombs. There were a few new stones, gleaming white and conspicuous, but only a few. Galusha's trained eye, trained by his unusual pastime of college days, saw at once that the oldest stones must date from early colonial times. Very likely there might be some odd variations of the conventional carvings, almost certainly some quaint and interesting inscriptions. It would, of course, be but tame sport for one of the world's leading Egyptologists, but to Galusha Cabot Bangs research was research, and while some varieties were better than others, none was bad. A moment later he was on his knees before the nearest gravestone. It was an old stone and the inscription and carving were interesting. Time paused there and then for Galusha.

What brought him from the dead past to the living present was the fact that his hat blew off. The particular stone which he was examining at the moment was on the top of a little knoll and, as Galusha clambered up and stooped, the breeze, which had increased in force until it was a young gale, caught the brown derby beneath its brim and sent it flying. He scrambled after it, but it dodged his clutch and rolled and bounded on. He bounded also, but the hat gained. It caught for an instant on the weather side of a tombstone, but just as he was about to pick it up, a fresh gust sent it sailing over the obstacle. It was dashed against the side of the old church and then carried around the end of the building and out of sight. Its owner plunged after it and, a moment later, found himself at the foot of a grass-covered bank, a good deal disheveled and very much surprised. Also, close at hand some one screamed, in a feminine voice, and another voice, this one masculine, uttered an emphatically masculine exclamation.

Galusha sat up. The old church was placed upon a side-hill, its rear toward the cemetery which he had just been exploring, and its front door on a level at least six feet lower. He, in his wild dash after the brown derby, had not noticed this and, rushing around the corner, had been precipitated down the bank. He was not hurt, but he was rumpled and astonished. No more astonished, however, than were the young couple who had been sitting upon the church steps and were now standing, staring down at him.

Galusha spoke first.

“Oh, dear!” he observed. “Dear me!” Then he added, by way of making the situation quite clear, “I must have fallen, I think.”

Neither of the pair upon the church steps seemed to have recovered sufficiently to speak, so Mr. Bangs went on.

“I—I came after my hat,” he explained. “You see—Oh, there it is!”

The brown derby was stuck fast in the bare branches of an ancient lilac bush which some worshiper of former time had planted by the church door. Galusha rose and limped over to rescue his truant property.

“It blew off,” he began, but the masculine half of the pair who had witnessed his flight from the top to the bottom of the bank, came forward. He was a dark-haired young man, with a sunburned, pleasant face.

“Say, that was a tumble!” he declared. “I hope you didn't hurt yourself. No bones broken, or anything like that?”

Galusha shook his head. “No-o,” he replied, somewhat doubtfully. “No, I think not. But, dear me, what a foolish thing for me to do!”

The young man spoke again.

“Sure you're not hurt?” he asked. “Let me brush you off; you picked up a little mud on the way down.”

Galusha looked at the knees of his trousers.

“So I did, so I did,” he said. “I don't remember striking at all on the way, but I could scarcely have accumulated all that at the bottom. Thank you, thank you!... Why, dear me, your face is quite familiar! Haven't we met before?”

The young fellow smiled. “I guess we have,” he said. “I put you aboard Lovetts' express wagon Friday afternoon and started you for Wellmouth Centre. I didn't expect to see you over here in East Wellmouth.”

Galusha adjusted his spectacles—fortunately they were not broken—and looked at the speaker.

“Why, of course!” he cried. “You are the young man who was so kind to me when I got off at the wrong station. You are the station man at—ah—at South Wellmouth, isn't it?”

“That's right.”

“Dear me! Dear me! Well, I don't wonder you were surprised to have me—ah—alight at your feet just now. We-ll,” with his quiet smile, “I seem to have a habit of making unexpected appearances. I surprised Miss Phipps on Friday evening almost as greatly.”

“Miss Phipps? Martha Phipps, Cap'n Jim's daughter; lives over here by the light, do you mean?”

“Why—why, yes her name is Martha, I believe.”

“But how in the world did you get—”

His companion interrupted him. “Why, Nelson,” she cried, “he must be the one—the man who is staying at Martha's. Don't you know I told you Primmie said there was some one there who was sick?”

Galusha looked at her. She was young, not more than nineteen or twenty, slender, brown-haired and pretty. The young man spoke again.

“But Lulie,” he said, “he isn't sick. You aren't sick, are you?” addressing Galusha.

“My health has not been good of late,” replied the latter, “and after my long walk on Friday evening I was rather done up. But I'm not ill at present, although,” with a return of his faint smile, “I probably shall be if I continue to—ah—fly, as I did just now.”

The young woman broke into an irresistible trill of laughter. The South Wellmouth station agent joined her. Galusha smiled in a fatherly fashion upon them both.

“I had quite a series of adventures after leaving you,” he went on. “Quite a series—yes.”

He told briefly of his losing his way, of his meeting with Raish Pulcifer, of his tramp in the rain, and of his collapse in the Phipps' sitting room.

“So that is—ah—my Odyssey,” he concluded. “You see, we—ah—I beg your pardon, but I don't know that I learned your name when we met the other day. Mine is Bangs.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bangs. My name is Howard—Nelson Howard. And this is—”

He paused. The young woman was regarding him in a troubled way.

“Nelson,” she said, “don't you think, perhaps, we had better not—”

They were both embarrassed. Galusha noticed the embarrassment.

“Dear me! Dear me!” he said, hastily. “Please don't trouble. Ah—good-morning. I must go—really—yes.”

He was on his way toward the bank, but the young woman called his name.

“Mr. Bangs,” she said.

He turned. “Did you—did you wish to speak to me?” he asked.

“Why—why, yes, I—Mr. Bangs, I—I want to ask a favor of you. I know, Nelson, but what is the use, after all? We've done nothing to be ashamed of. Mr. Bangs, my name is Hallett. My father is the keeper of the lighthouse.”

Galusha bowed. He had guessed her identity. Primmie had spoken of Lulie Hallett in their conversation by the fence the day before.

“I am Lulie Hallett,” she went on, “and—and Mr. Howard and I are—are—”

“We're engaged to be married,” broke in Howard. “The fact is, Mr. Bangs, I came over on my bicycle this morning to meet Lulie here where—where no one would see us. You see—well, Cap'n Jethro—her father, you know—is prejudiced against me and—and so to save her trouble and—and unpleasantness we—well, we—”

He was red and confused and stammering. Galusha was almost as much embarrassed.

“Oh—oh, all right—ah—dear me, yes, of course,” he said, hastily. “I am very sorry I—I interrupted. I beg your pardon. Ah—good-morning.”

“But, Mr. Bangs,” Lulie pleaded, earnestly, “you won't misunderstand this, will you? We meet in this way on my father's account. He is—you see, he is not very well, and rather prejudiced and—and stubborn, I'm afraid. Please don't think that—that—”

“Of course he won't,” declared Howard. “Mr. Bangs won't think anything that he shouldn't.”

“Oh, no—no,” stammered Galusha, nervously. “I am—I am SO sorry I interrupted. I BEG your pardon.”

“And Mr. Bangs,” said Lulie, again, “I wonder if you will be kind enough not to tell any one you saw us? This is a small place, East Wellmouth, and people do talk—oh, dreadfully. If it got to father's ears he—PLEASE don't speak of it, will you, Mr. Bangs?”

“Oh, no; no, indeed, Miss Hallett. You may depend upon me.”

“I shall tell Martha Phipps myself the next time I see her. She is my best friend, except—” with a becoming blush—“Nelson, and father, of course—and she understands. I never have any secrets from her.”

Galusha began to climb the bank. As his head rose above its upper edge he stopped.

“Ah—dear me, there's some one coming in this direction,” he said.

Howard started forward. “Coming? Coming here?” he cried. He sprang up the bank beside Mr. Bangs and peered over its top.

“Oh, confound it!” he exclaimed. “Lulie, it's your father.”

“Father? Coming here? Why, he started for church. He never comes to the cemetery on Sunday MORNING.”

“I can't help it, he's coming now. And there's some one with him, or coming after him. It looks like—Yes, it's Raish Pulcifer.”

Miss Hallett was very much distressed. “Oh, dear, dear, dear!” she cried. “If father finds us there will be another dreadful time. And I wouldn't have Raish Pulcifer see and hear it, of all people in the world. Oh, WHAT made father come? Nelson, can't we run away before he gets here? Into the pines, or somewhere?”

“No chance, Lulie. He would see us sure. If he should stop at the other end of the cemetery it might give us a chance, but he probably won't. He'll come to your mother's grave and that is close by here. Oh, hang the luck!”

Galusha looked at the young people; he was almost as distressed as they were. He liked young Howard; the latter had been very kind to him on the fateful Friday afternoon when he had alighted at South Wellmouth. He liked Lulie, also—had fancied her at first sight. He wished he might help them. And then he had an idea.

“I wouldn't—ah—interfere in your affairs for the world, Miss Hallett,” he faltered, “but if I might—ah—offer a suggestion, suppose I—ah—meet your father and talk with him for a few moments. Then you might—so to speak—ah—go, you know.”

“Yes, of course, of course. Oh, WILL you, Mr. Bangs? Thank you so much.”

Galusha climbed the bank. There was no one in sight, but he heard masculine voices from the hollow beyond the farther end of the cemetery. He hastened to that end and, stooping, began to examine the inscription upon a tomb.

The voices drew nearer as the men climbed the hill. The breeze now was stronger than ever and was blowing more from the west. The conversation, borne by the gusts, came to Galusha's ears clearly and distinctly. One of the speakers seemed to be explaining, urging, the other peremptorily refusing to listen.

“But, Cap'n Jeth,” urged the first voice, and Mr. Bangs recognized it as belonging to his obliging guide and pilot of the fateful Friday evening, Mr. Horatio Pulcifer. “But, Cap'n Jeth,” said Mr. Pulcifer, “don't fly off the handle for nothin'. I ain't tryin' to put nothin' over on you. I'm just—”

“I don't want to hear you,” broke in the second voice, gruffly. “This is the Lord's Day and I don't want to talk business with you or nobody else—especially with you.”

For some reason this seemed to irritate Mr. Pulcifer. His tone had lost a little of its urbanity when he answered.

“Oh, especially with me, eh?” he repeated. “Well, what's the 'especially with me' for? If you think I'm any more to blame than the rest, you're mistaken. I tell you when you and me and Cap'n Jim and all hands of us got the Wellmouth Development Company goin' it looked like a cinch. How was I to know?”

“I tell you, Raish, I don't want to talk about it.”

“And I tell you, Jeth Hallett, I DO want to. You've hove in that 'especially with me' and I don't like it. Look here, what are you pickin' on me for? How was I to—No, now you wait a minute, Cap'n Jeth, and answer me. I've chased you 'way over here and you can give me five minutes even if 'tis Sunday. Come, Cap'n, come, just answer me and then I won't bother you any more.”

There was silence for a brief interval. Galusha, crouching behind the tomb and wondering if the time had come for him to show himself, waited anxiously. But Captain Hallett's answer, when at last he did reply, sounded no nearer. Apparently the men were now standing still.

“Well,” grunted the light keeper, “I'll listen to you for the five minutes, Raish, but no more. I hadn't ought to do that. This is Sabbath day and I make it a p'int never—”

“I know,” hastily, “I know. Well, I tell you, Cap'n Jeth, all's I wanted to say was this: What are we goin' to do with this Development stock of ours?”

“Do with it? Why, nothin' at present. CAN'T do anything with it, can we? All we can do is wait. It may be one year or three, but some day somebody will have to come to us. There ain't a better place for a cold storage fish house on this coast and the Wellmouth Development Company owns that place.”

“Yes, that's so, that's so. But some of us can afford to wait and some can't. Now I've got more of the Development Company stock than anybody else. I've got five hundred shares, Cap'n Jeth; five hundred shares at twenty dollars a share. A poor man like me can't afford to have ten thousand dollars tied up as long's this is liable to be. Can he now? Eh? Can he, Cap'n?”

“Humph! Well, I've got eight thousand tied up there myself.”

“Ye-es, but it don't make so much difference to you. You can afford to wait. You've got a gov'ment job.”

“Ye-es, and from what I hear you may be havin' a state job pretty soon yourself, Raish. Well, never mind that. What is it you're drivin' at, anyhow?”

“Why, I tell you, Jeth. Course you know and I know that this is a perfectly sure investment to anybody that'll wait. I can't afford to wait, that's what's the matter. It kind of run acrost my mind that maybe you'd like to have my holdin's, my five hundred shares. I'll sell 'em to you reasonable.”

“Humph! I want to know! What do you call reasonable?”

“I'll sell 'em to you for—for—well, say nineteen dollars a share.”

“Humph! Don't bother me any more, Raish.”

“Well, say eighteen dollars a share. Lord sakes, that's reasonable enough, ain't it?”

“Cruise along towards home, Raish. I've talked all the business I want to on Sunday. Good-by.”

“Look here, Jethro, I—I'm hard up, I'm desp'rate, pretty nigh. I'll let you have my five hundred shares of Wellmouth Development Company for just half what I paid for it—ten dollars a share. If you wasn't my friend, I wouldn't—What are you laughin' at?”

Galusha Bangs, hiding behind the tomb, understanding nothing of this conversation, yet feeling like an eavesdropper, wished this provoking pair would stop talking and go away. He heard the light keeper laugh sardonically.

“Ho, ho, ho,” chuckled Hallett. “You're a slick article, ain't you, Raish? Why, you wooden-headed swab, did you cal'late you was the only one that had heard about the directors' meetin' over to the Denboro Trust Company yesterday? I knew the Trust Company folks had decided not to go ahead with the fish storage business just as well as you did, and I heard it just as soon, too. I know they've decided to put the twelve hundred shares of Wellmouth Development stock into profit and loss, or to just hang on and see if it ever does come to anything. But you cal'lated I didn't know it and that maybe you could unload your five hundred shares on to me at cut rates, eh? Raish, you're slick—but you ain't bright, not very.”

He chuckled again. Mr. Pulcifer whistled, apparently expressing resignation.

“ALL right, Cap'n,” he observed, cheerfully, “just as you say. No harm in tryin', was there? Never catch a fish without heavin' over a hook, as the feller said. Maybe somebody else that ain't heard will buy that stock, you can't tell.”

“Maybe so, but—See here, Raish, don't you go tryin' anything like this on—on—”

“I know who you mean. No danger. There ain't money enough there to buy anything, if what I hear's true.”

“What's that?”

“Oh, nothin', nothin'. Just talk, I guess. Well, Jeth, I won't keep you any longer. Goin' to hang on to YOUR four hundred Development stock, I presume likely?”

“Yes. I shall sell that at a profit. Not a big profit, but a profit.”

“Sho! Is that so? Who told you?”

“It was,” the gruff voice became solemn, “it was revealed to me.”

“Revealed to you? Oh, from up yonder, up aloft, eh?”

“Raish,” sharply, “don't you dare be sacrilegious in my presence.”

“No, no, not for nothin', Cap'n. So you had a message from the sperit world about that stock, eh?”

“Yes. It bade me be of good cheer and hold for a small profit. When that profit comes, no matter how small it may be, I'll sell and sell quick, but not sooner.... But there, I've profaned the Lord's day long enough. I came over here this mornin' to visit Julia's grave. There was a scoffer in our pulpit, that young whippersnapper from Wapatomac had exchanged with our minister and I didn't care to hear him.”

“Oh, I see. So you come over to your wife's grave, eh?”

“Yes. What are you lookin' like that for?”

“Oh, nothin'. I thought maybe you was chasin' after Lulie. I see her meanderin' over this way a little while ago.”

“LULIE?”

“Um-hm. Looked like her.”

“Was there—was there anybody else?”

“We-ll, I wouldn't swear to that, Cap'n Jeth. I didn't SEE nobody, but—Godfreys mighty! What's that thing?”

The thing was the brown derby. Galusha, crouching behind the tomb, had been holding it fast to his head with one hand. Now, startled by Pulcifer's statement that he had seen Miss Hallett, he let go his hold. And a playful gust lifted the hat from his head, whirled it like an aerial teetotum and sent it rolling and tumbling to the feet of the pair by the cemetery gate.

Jethro Hallett jumped aside.

“Good Lord! What is it?” he shouted.

“It's a—a hat, ain't it?” cried Raish.

From around the tomb hastened Mr. Bangs.

“Will you gentlemen be good enough to—to stop that hat for me?” he asked, anxiously.

The light keeper and his companion started at the apparition in speechless astonishment.

“It's—it's my hat,” explained Galusha. “If you will be kind enough to pick it up before—Oh, DEAR me! There it GOES! Stop it, stop it!”

Another gust had set the hat rolling again. Captain Jethro made a grab at it but his attempt only lifted it higher into the air, where the wind caught it underneath and sent it soaring.

“Oh, dear!” piped the exasperated Galusha, and ran after it.

“Who in tunket IS he?” demanded Jethro.

Mr. Pulcifer gazed at the thin little figure hopping after the hat. The light of recognition dawned in his face.

“I know who he is!” he exclaimed. “I fetched him over t'other night in my car. But what in blazes is he doin' here NOW?... Hi, look out, Mister! Don't let it blow that way. If you do you'll—Head it OFF!”

The hat was following an air line due east. Galusha was following a terrestrial route in the same direction. Now Raish followed Galusha and after him rolled Captain Jethro Hallett. As they say in hunting stories, the chase was on.

It was not a long chase, of course. It ended unexpectedly—unexpectedly for Galusha, that is—at a point where a spur of the pine grove jutted out upon the crest of a little hill beyond the eastern border of the cemetery. The hat rolled, bounced, dipped and soared up the hill and just clear of the branches of the endmost pine. Then it disappeared from sight. Its owner breathlessly panted after it. He reached the crest of the little hill and stopped short—stopped for the very good reason that he could go no further.

The hill was but half a hill. Its other half, the half invisible from the churchyard, was a sheer sand and clay bluff dropping at a dizzy angle down to the beach a hundred and thirty feet below. This beach was the shore of a pretty little harbor, fed by a stream which flowed into it from the southwest. On the opposite side of the stream was another stretch of beach, more sand bluffs, pines and scrub oaks. To the east the little harbor opened a clear channel between lines of creaming breakers to the deep blue and green of the ocean.

Galusha Bangs saw most of this in detail upon subsequent visits. Just now he looked first for his hat. He saw it. Below, upon the sand of the beach, a round object bounced and rolled. As he gazed a gust whirled along the shore and pitched the brown object into the sparkling waters of the little harbor. It splashed, floated and then sailed jauntily out upon the tide. The brown derby had started on its last voyage.

Galusha gazed down at his lost headgear. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then he turned and looked back toward the hollow by the front door of the old church. From the knoll where he stood he could see every inch of that hollow and it was untenanted. There was no sign of either human being or of a bicycle belonging to a human being.

Mr. Bangs sighed thankfully. The sacrifice of the brown derby had not been in vain.