“Well,” said Thankful, with a sigh, “she's gone, anyhow. I feel almost as if I'd cut my anchor rope and was driftin' out of sight of land. It's queer, ain't it, how you can make up your mind to do a thing, and then, when you've really started to do it, almost wish you hadn't. Last night—yes, and this mornin'—I was as set on carryin' through this plan of mine as a body could be, but just now, when I saw Emily get aboard those cars, it was all I could do to keep from goin' along with her.”

Captain Obed nodded. “Sartin,” he agreed. “That's natural enough. When I was a youngster I was forever teasin' to go to sea. I thought my dad was meaner than a spiled herrin' to keep on sayin' no when I said yes. But when he did say yes and I climbed aboard the stagecoach to start for Boston, where my ship was, I never was more homesick in my life. I was later on, though—homesick and other kinds.”

They were standing on the station platform at Wellmouth Centre, and the train which was taking Emily back to South Middleboro was a rapidly moving, smoking blur in the distance. The captain, who seemed to have taken a decided fancy to his prospective neighbor and her young relative, had come with them to the station. Thankful had hired a horse and “open wagon” at the livery stable in East Wellmouth and had intended engaging a driver as well, but Captain Bangs had volunteered to act in that capacity.

“I haven't got much to do this mornin',” he said. “Fact is, I generally do have more time on my hands than anything else this season of the year. Later on, when I put out my fish weirs, I'm pretty busy, but now I'm a sort of 'longshore loafer. You're figurin' to go to Trumet after you've seen Miss Emily leave the dock, you said, didn't you? Well, I've got an errand of my own in Trumet that might as well be done now as any time. I'll drive you over and back if you're willin' to trust the vessel in my hands. I don't set up to be head of the Pilots' Association when it comes to steerin' a horse, but I cal'late I can handle any four-legged craft you're liable to charter in East Wellmouth.”

His offer was accepted and so far he had proved a competent and able helmsman. Now, Miss Howes having been started on her homeward way, the next port of call was to be the office of Mr. Solomon Cobb at Trumet.

During the first part of the drive Thankful was silent and answered only when spoken to. The parting with Emily and the sense of heavy responsibility entailed by the project she had in mind made her rather solemn and downcast. Captain Obed, noticing this, and suspecting the cause, chatted and laughed, and after a time his passenger seemed to forget her troubles and to enjoy the trip.

They jogged up the main street of Trumet until they reached the little three-cornered “square” which is the business center of the village. Next beyond the barbershop, which is two doors beyond the general store and postoffice, was a little one-story building, weather-beaten and badly in need of paint. The captain steered his “craft” up to the sidewalk before this building and pulled up.

“Whoa!” he ordered, addressing the horse. Then, turning to Thankful, he said:

“Here you are, ma'am. This is Sol Cobb's place.”

Mrs. Barnes looked at the little building. Its exterior certainly was not inviting. The windows looked as if they had not been washed for weeks, the window shades were yellow and crooked, and one of the panes of glass in the front door was cracked across. Thankful had not seen her “Cousin Solomon” for years, not since she was a young woman, but she had heard stories of his numerous investments and business prosperity, and she could scarcely believe this dingy establishment was his.

“Are you sure, Cap'n Bangs?” she faltered. “This can't be the Solomon Cobb I mean. He's well off and it don't seem as if he would be in an office like this—if 'tis an office,” she added. “It looks more like a henhouse to me. And there's no signs anywhere.”

The captain laughed. “Signs cost money,” he said. “It takes paint to make a sign, same as it does to keep a henhouse lookin' respectable. This is the only Sol Cobb in Trumet, fur's I ever heard, and he's well off, sartin. He ought to be; I never heard of him lettin' go of anything he got hold of. Maybe you think I'm talkin' pretty free about your relation, Mrs. Barnes,” he added, apologetically. “I hadn't ought to, I suppose, but I've had one or two little dealin's with Sol, one time or 'nother, and I—well, maybe I'm prejudiced. Excuse me, won't you? He may be altogether different with his own folks.”

Thankful was still staring at the dubious and forbidding front door.

“It doesn't seem as if it could be,” she said. “But if you say so of course 'tis.”

“Yes, ma'am, I guess 'tis. That's Sol Cobb's henhouse and the old rooster is in, judgin' by the signs. Those are his rubbers on the step. Wearin' rubbers winter or summer is a habit of his. Humph! I'm talkin' too much again. You're goin' in, I suppose, ma'am?”

Thankful threw aside the carriage robe and prepared to clamber from the wagon.

“I surely am,” she declared. “That's what I came way over here for.”

The captain sprang to the ground and helped her to alight.

“I'll be right across the road at the store there,” he said. “I'll be on the watch when you came out. I—I—”

He hesitated. Evidently there was something else he wished to say, but he found the saying difficult. Thankful noticed the hesitation.

“Yes, what was it, Cap'n Bangs?” she asked.

Captain Obed fidgeted with the reins.

“Why, nothin', I guess,” he faltered. “Only—only—well, I tell you, Mrs. Barnes, if—if you was figgerin' on doin' any business with Mr. Cobb, any money business, I mean, and—and you'd rather go anywheres else I—I—well, I'm pretty well acquainted round here on the Cape amongst the bank folks and such and I'd be real glad to—”

Thankful interrupted. She had, after much misgiving and reluctance, made up her mind to approach her distant relative with the mortgage proposition, but to discuss that proposition with strangers was, to her mind, very different. She had mentioned the proposed mortgage to Emily, but she had told no one else, not even the captain himself. And she did not mean to tell. The boarding house plan must stand or fall according to Mr. Cobb's reception of it.

“No, no,” she said, hastily. “It ain't anything important—that is, very important.”

“Well, all right. You see—I only meant—excuse me, Mrs. Barnes. I hope you don't think I meant to be nosey or interferin' in your affairs.”

“Of course I don't. You've gone to a lot of trouble on my account as 'tis, and you've been real kind.”

The captain hurriedly muttered that he hadn't been kind at all and watched her as she walked up the short path to Mr. Cobb's front door. Then, with a solemn shake of the head, he clinched again at the wagon seat and drove across the road to the hitching-posts before the store. Thankful opened the door of the “henhouse” and entered.

The interior of the little building was no mare inviting than its outside. One room, dark, with a bare floor, and with cracked plastered walls upon which a few calendars and an ancient map were hanging. There was a worn wooden settee and two wooden armchairs at the front, near the stove, and at the rear an old-fashioned walnut desk.

At this desk in a shabby, leather-cushioned armchair, sat a little old man with scant gray hair and a fringe of gray throat whiskers. He wore steel-rimmed spectacles and over these he peered at his visitor.

“Good mornin',” said Thankful. It seemed to her high time that someone said something, and the little man had not opened his lips. He did not open them even now.

“Um,” he grunted, and that was all.

“Are you Mr. Solomon Cobb?” she asked. She knew now that he was; he had changed a great deal since she had last seen him, but his eyes had not changed, and he still had the habit she remembered, that of pulling at his whiskers in little, short tugs as if trying to pull them out. “Like a man hauling wild carrots out of a turnip patch,” she wrote Emily when describing the interview.

He did not answer the question. Instead, after another long look, he said:

“If you're sellin' books, I don't want none. Don't use 'em.”

This was so entirely unexpected that Mrs. Barnes was, for the moment, confused and taken aback.

“Books!” she repeated, wonderingly. “I didn't say anything about books. I asked you if you was Mr. Cobb.”

Another look. “If you're sellin' or peddlin' or agentin' or anything I don't want none,” said the little man. “I'm tellin' you now so's you can save your breath and mine. I've got all I want.”

Thankful looked at him and his surroundings. This ungracious and unlooked for reception began to have its effect upon her temper; as she wrote Emily in the letter, her “back fin began to rise.” It was on the tip of her tongue to say that, judging by appearances, he should want a good many things, politeness among others. But she did not say it.

“I ain't a peddler or a book agent,” she declared, crisply. “When I ask you to buy, seems to me 'twould be time enough to say no. If you're Solomon Cobb, and I know you are, I've come to see you on business.”

The word “business” had an effect. Mr. Cobb swung about in his chair and regarded her fixedly. There was a slight change in his tone.

“Business, hey?” he repeated. “Well, I'm a business man, ma'am. What sort of business is it you've got?”

Thankful did not answer the question immediately. Instead she walked nearer to the desk.

“Yes,” she said, slowly, “you're Solomon Cobb. I should know you anywhere now. And I ain't seen you for twenty year. I presume likely you don't know me.”

The man of business stared harder than ever. He took off his spectacles, rubbed them with his handkerchief, put them on and stared again.

“No, ma'am, I don't,” he said. “You don't live in Trumet, I know that. You ain't seen me for twenty year, eh? Twenty year is quite a spell. And yet there's somethin' sort of—sort of familiar about you, now that I look closer. Who be you?”

“My name is Thankful Barnes—now. It didn't used to be. When you knew me 'twas Thankful Cahoon. My grandmother, on my father's side, was your mother's own cousin. Her name was Matilda Myrick. That makes you and me sort of distant relations, Mr. Cobb.”

If she expected this statement to have the effect of making the little man more cordial she was disappointed. In fact, if it had any effect at all, it was the opposite, judging by his manner and expression. His only comments on the disclosure of kinship were a “Humph!” and a brief “Want to know!” He stared at Thankful and she at him. Then he said:

“Well?”

Mrs. Barnes was astonished.

“Well?” she repeated. “What's well? What do you mean by that?”

“Nothin's I know of. You said you came to see me about some business or other. What sort of business?”

“I came to see you about gettin' some money. I need some money just now and—”

Solomon interrupted her.

“Humph!” he grunted. “I cal'lated as much.”

“You cal'lated it! For the land sakes—why?”

“Because you begun by sayin' you was a relation of mine. I've got a good many relations floatin' around loose and there ain't nary one of 'em ever come to see me unless 'twas to get money. If I give money to all my relations that asked for it I'd be a dum sight poorer'n I be now.”

Thankful was by this time thoroughly angry.

“Look here,” she snapped. “If I'd come to you expectin' you to GIVE me any money I'd be an idiot as well as a relation. Far's that last part goes I ain't any prouder of it than you are.”

This pointed remark had no more effect than the statement of relationship. Mr. Cobb was quite unruffled.

“You came to see me,” he said, “and you ain't come afore for twenty year—you said so. Now, when you do come, you want money, you said that, too.”

“Well, what of it?”

“Nothin' of it, 'special. Only when a party comes to me and commences by sayin' he or she's a relation I know what's comin' next. Relations! Humph! My relations never done much for me.”

Thankful's fingers twitched. “'Cordin' to all accounts you never done much for them, either,” she declared. “You don't even ask 'em to sit down. Well, you needn't worry so far's I'm concerned. Good-by.”

She was on her way out of the office, but he called her back.

“Hi, hold on!” he called. “You ain't told me what that business was yet. Come back! You—you can set down, if you want to.”

Thankful hesitated. She was strongly tempted to go and never return. And yet, if she did, she must go elsewhere to obtain the mortgage she wished. And to whom should she go? Reluctantly she retraced her steps.

“Set down,” said Mr. Cobb, pulling forward a chair. “Now what is it you want?”

Mrs. Barnes sat down. “I'll tell you what I don't want,” she said with emphasis. “I don't want you to give me any money or to lend me any, either—without it's bein' a plain business deal. I ain't askin' charity of you or anybody else, Solomon Cobb. And you'd better understand that if you and I are goin' to talk any more.”

Mr. Cobb tugged at his whiskers.

“You've got a temper, ain't you,” he declared. “Temper's a good thing to play with, maybe, if you can afford it. I ain't rich enough, myself. I've saved a good many dollars by keepin' mine. If you don't want me to give you nor lend you money, what do you want?”

“I want you to take a mortgage on some property I own. You do take mortgages, don't you?”

More whisker pulling. Solomon nodded.

“I do sometimes,” he admitted; “when I cal'late they're safe to take. Where is this property of yours?”

“Over in East Wellmouth. It's the old Abner Barnes place. Cap'n Abner willed it to me. He was my uncle.”

And at last Mr. Cobb showed marked interest. Slowly he leaned back in his chair. His spectacles fell from his nose into his lap and lay there unheeded.

“What? What's that you say?” he asked, sharply. “Abner Barnes was your uncle? I—I thought you said your name was Cahoon.”

“I said it used to be afore I was married, when I knew you. Afterwards I married Eben Barnes, Cap'n Abner's nephew. That made the captain my uncle by marriage.”

Solomon's fingers groped for his spectacles. He picked them up and took his handkerchief from his pocket. But it was his forehead he rubbed with his handkerchief, not the glasses.

“You're—you're Abner Barnes' niece!” he said slowly.

“Yes—niece by marriage.”

“The one he used to talk so much about? What was her name—Patience—Temp'rance—”

“Thankful—that's my name. I presume likely Uncle Abner did use to talk about me. He always declared he thought as much of me as if I was his own child.”

There was an interval of silence. Mr. Cobb replaced his spectacles and stared through them at his visitor. His manner was peculiar—markedly so.

“I went mate for Cap'n Abner a good many v'yages,” he said, after a moment.

“Yes, I know you did.”

“He—he told you so, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“What else did he tell you; about—about me, I mean?”

“Why, nothin' 'special that I know of. Why? What was there to tell?”

“Nothin'. Nothin' much, I guess. Abner and me was sort of—sort of chums and I didn't know but he might have said—might have told you considerable about me. He didn't, hey?”

“No. He told me you was his mate, that's all.”

It may have been Thankful's imagination, but it did seem as if her relative was a trifle relieved. But even yet he did not seem quite satisfied. He pulled at his whiskers and asked another question.

“What made you come here to me?” he asked.

“Mercy on us! I've told you that, haven't I? I came to see about gettin' a mortgage on his old place over to East Wellmouth. I knew you took mortgages—at least folks said you did—and bein' as you was a relation I thought—”

A wave of the hand interrupted her.

“Yes, yes,” broke in Solomon, hastily. “I know that. Was that the only reason?”

“I presume likely 'twas. I did think it was a natural one and reason enough, but I guess THAT was a mistake. It looks as if 'twas.”

She made a move to rise, but he leaned forward and detained her.

“There! there!” he said. “Set still, set still. So you're Abner Barnes' niece?”

“My soul! I've told you so three times.”

“Abner's niece! I want to know!”

“Well, I should think you might know by this time. Now about that mortgage.”

“Hey? Oh, yes—yes! You want a mortgage on Abner's place over to East Wellmouth. Um! Well, I know the property and about what it's wuth—which ain't much. What are you cal'latin' to do—live there?”

“Yes, if I can carry out the plan I've got in my head. I'm thinkin' of fixin' up that old place and livin' in it. I'm figgerin' to run it as a boardin'-house. It'll cost money to put it in shape and a mortgage is the simplest way of raisin' that money, I suppose. That's the long and short of it.”

The dealer in mortgages appeared to hear and there was no reason why he should not have understood. But he seemed still unsatisfied, even suspicious. The whiskers received another series of pulls and he regarded Thankful with the same questioning stare.

“And you say,” he drawled, “that you come to me just because—”

“Mercy on us! If you don't know why I come by this time, then—”

“All right, all right. I—I'm talkin' to myself, I guess. Course you told me why you come. So you're cal'latin' to start a boardin'-house, eh? Risky things, boardin'-houses are. There's a couple of hundred launched every year and not more'n ten ever make a payin' v'yage. Let's hear what your plan is, the whole of it.”

Fighting down her impatience Thankful went into details concerning her plan. She explained why she had thought of it and her growing belief that it might be successful. Mr. Cobb listened.

“Humph!” he grunted, when she had finished. “So Obed Bangs advised you to try it, hey? That don't make me think no better of it, as I know of. I know Bangs pretty well.”

“Yes,” dryly; “I supposed likely you did. Anyhow, he said he knew you.”

“He did, hey? Told you some things about me, hey?”

“No, he didn't tell me anything except that you and he had had some dealin's. Now, Mr. Cobb, we've talked a whole lot and it don't seem to me we got anywheres. If you don't want to take a mortgage on that place—”

“Sshh! Who said I didn't want to take it? How do I know what I want to do yet? Lord! How you women do go on! Suppose I should take a mortgage on that place—mind, I don't say I will, but suppose I should—how would I know that the mortgage would be paid, or the interest, or anything?”

“If it ain't paid you can foreclose when the time comes, I presume likely. As for the interest—well, I'm fairly honest, or I try to be, and that'll be paid reg'lar if I live.”

“Ya'as. Well, fur's honesty goes, I could run a seine through Ostable County any day in the week and load a schooner with honest folks; and there wouldn't nary one of 'em have cash enough to pay for the wear and tear on the net. Honesty's good policy, maybe, but it takes hard money to pay bills.”

Thankful stood up.

“All right,” she said, decidedly, “then I'll go where they play the honest game. And you needn't set there and weed your face any more on my account.”

Mr. Cobb rose also. “There! there!” he protested. “Don't get het up. I don't say I won't take your mortgage, do I?”

“You've said a good deal. If you say any more of the same kind you can say it to yourself. I tell you, honest, I don't like the way you say it.”

The owner of the “hen-house” looked as if he wished very much to retort in kind. The glare he gave his visitor prophesied direful things. But he did not retort; nor, to her surprise, did he raise his voice or order her off the premises. Instead his tone, when he spoke again, was quiet, even conciliatory.

“I—I'm sorry if I've said anything I shouldn't,” he stammered. “I'm gettin' old and—and sort of short in my talk, maybe. I—I—there's a good many folks round here that don't like me, 'count of my doin' business in a business way, 'stead of doin' it like the average poor fool. I suppose they've been talkin' to you and you've got sort of prejudiced. Well, I don't know's I blame you for that. I shan't hold no grudge. How much of a mortgage do you cal'late to want on Abner's place?”

“Two thousand dollars.”

“Two thousand! . . . There, there! Hold on, hold on! Two thousand dollars is a whole lot of money. It don't grow on every bush.”

“I know that as well as you do. If I did I'd have picked it afore this.”

“Um—hm. How long a time do you want?”

“I don't know. Three years, perhaps.”

Solomon shook his head.

“Too long,” he said. “I couldn't give as long a mortgage as that to anybody. No, I couldn't do it. . . . Tell you what I will do,” he added. “I—I don't want to act mean to a relation. I think as much of relations as anybody does. I'd like to favor you and I will if I can. You give me a week to think this over in and then I'll let you know what I'll do. That's fair, ain't it?”

Mrs. Barnes declined the offer.

“It may be fair to you,” she said, “but I can't wait so long. I want to settle this afore I go back to South Middleboro. And I shall go back tomorrow, or the day after at the latest.”

Another session of “weeding.” Then said Mr. Cobb: “Well, all right, all right. I'll think it over and then I'll drive across to East Wellmouth, have another look at the property, and let you know. I'll see you day after tomorrow forenoon. Where you stoppin' over there?”

Thankful told him. He walked as far as the door with her.

“Hope you ain't put out with me, ma'am,” he said. “I have to be kind of sharp and straight up and down in my dealin's; they'd get the weather gauge on me a dozen times a day if I wa'n't. But I'm real kind inside—to them I take a notion to. I'll—I'll treat you right—er—er—Cousin Thankful; you see if I don't. I'm real glad you come to me. Good day.”

Thankful went down the path. As she reached the sidewalk she turned and looked back. The gentleman with the kind interior was standing peering at her through the cracked glass of the door. He was still tugging at his whiskers and if, as he had intimated, he had “taken a notion” to her, his expression concealed the fact wonderfully.

Captain Obed, who had evidently been on the lookout for his passenger, appeared on the platform of the store on the other side of the road. After asking if she had any other “port of call” in that neighborhood, he assisted her into the carriage and they started on their homeward trip. The captain must have filled with curiosity concerning the widow's interview with Mr. Cobb, but beyond asking if she had seen the latter, he did not question. Thankful appreciated his reticence; the average dweller in Wellmouth—Winnie S., for instance—would have started in on a vigorous cross-examination. Her conviction that Captain Bangs was much above the average was strengthened.

“Yes,” she said, “he was there. I saw him. He's a—a kind of queer person, I should say. Do you know him real well, Cap'n Bangs?”

The captain nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I know him about as well as anybody outside of Trumet does. I ain't sure that anybody really knows him all the way through. Queer!” he chuckled. “Well, yes—you might say Sol Cobb was queer and you wouldn't be strainin' the truth enough to start a plank. He's all that and then consider'ble.”

“What sort of a man is he?”

“Sol? Hum! Well, he's smart; anybody that beats Sol Cobb in a trade has got to get up a long ways ahead of breakfast time. Might stay up all night and then not have more leeway than he'd be liable to need.”

“Yes, Yes, I'm sure he's smart in business. But is he—is he a GOOD man?”

The captain hesitated before replying.

“Git dap!” he ordered, addressing the horse. “Good? Is Sol good? Well, I cal'late that depends some on what dictionary you hunt up the word in. He's pious, sartin. There ain't many that report on deck at the meetin'-house more reg'lar than he does. He don't cal'late to miss a prayer-meetin' and when there's a revival goin' on he's right up front with the mourners. Folks do say that his favorite hymn is 'I'm Glad Salvation's Free' and they heave out consider'ble many hints that if 'twa'n't free he wouldn't have got it; but then, that's an old joke and I've heard 'em say the same thing about other people.”

“But do you think he's honest?”

“I never heard of his doin' anything against the law. He'll skin honesty as close as he can, there ain't much hide left when he gets through; but I cal'late he thinks he's honest. And maybe he is—maybe he is. It all depends on the definition, same as I said. Sol's pious all right. I cal'late he'd sue anybody that had a doubt as to how many days Josiah went cabin passenger aboard the whale. His notion of Heaven may be a little mite hazy, although he'd probably lay consider'ble stress on the golden streets, but he's sot and definite about t'other place. Yes, siree!” he added, reflectively, “Sol is sartin there's a mighty uncomf'table Tophet, and that folks who don't believe just as he does are bound there. And he don't mean to go himself, if 'tendin' up to meetin' 'll keep him clear.

“It's kind of queer to me,” he went on, slowly, “to see the number of folks that make up their minds to be good—or what they call good—because they're scared to be bad. Doin' right because right IS right, and lettin' the Almighty credit 'em with that, because He's generally supposed to know it's right full well as they do—that ain't enough for their kind. They have to keep hollerin' out loud how good they are so He'll hear and won't make any mistake in bookin' their own particular passage. Sort of takin' out a religious insurance policy, you might say 'twas. . . . Humph!” he added, coming out of his reverie and looking doubtfully at his companion, “I—I hope I ain't shocked you, ma'am. I don't mean to be irreverent, you understand. I've thought consider'ble about such things and I have funny ideas maybe.”

Thankful declared that she was not shocked. She had heard but little of her driver's long dissertation. She was thinking of her interview with Mr. Cobb and the probability of his accepting her proposal and taking a mortgage on her East Wellmouth property. If he refused, what should she do then? And if he accepted and she went on to carry her plan into execution, what would be the outcome? The responsibility was heavy. She would be risking all she had in the world. If she succeeded, well and good. If she failed she would be obliged to begin all over again, to try for another position as housekeeper, perhaps to “go out nursing” once more. She was growing older; soon she would be beyond middle life and entering upon the first stages of old age. And what a lonely old age hers was likely to be! Her husband was dead; her only near relative, brother Jedediah, was—well, he might be dead also, poor helpless, dreamy incompetent. He might have died in the Klondike, providing he ever reached that far-off country, which was unlikely. He would have been but an additional burden upon her had he lived and remained at home, but he would have been company for her at least. Emily was a comfort, but she had little hope of Emily's being able to leave her school or the family which her salary as teacher helped to support. No, she must carry her project through alone, all alone.

She spoke but seldom and Captain Obed, noticing the change in her manner and possibly suspecting the cause, did his best to divert her thoughts and cheer her. He chatted continuously, like, as he declared afterwards, “a poll parrot with its bill greased.” He changed the topic from Mr. Cobb and his piety to the prospects of good fishing in the spring, from that to the failure of the previous fall's cranberry crop, and from that again to Kenelm Parker and his sister Hannah. And, after a time, Thankful realized that he was telling a story.