March, so to speak, blew itself out; April came and went; May was here. And on the seventeenth of May the repairs on the “Cap'n Abner place” were completed. The last carpenter had gone, leaving his shavings and chips behind him. The last painter had spilled his last splash of paint on the sprouting grass beneath the spotless white window sills. The last paper-hanger had departed. Winnie S. was loading into what he called a “truck wagon” the excelsior and bagging in which the final consignment of new furniture had been wrapped during its journey from Boston. About the front yard Kenelm Parker was moving, rake in hand. In the kitchen Imogene, the girl from the Orphans' Home in Boston, who had been engaged to act as “hired help,” was arranging the new pots and pans on the closet shelf and singing “Showers of Blessings” cheerfully if not tunefully.

Yes, the old “Cap'n Abner place” was rejuvenated and transformed and on the following Monday it would be the “Cap'n Abner place” no longer: it would then become the “High Cliff House” and open its doors to hoped-for boarders, either of the “summer” or “all-the-year” variety.

The name had been Emily Howes' choice. She and Mrs. Barnes had carried on a lengthy and voluminous correspondence and the selection of a name had been left to Emily. To her also had been intrusted the selection of wallpapers, furniture and the few pictures which Thankful had felt able to afford. These were but few, for the cost of repairing and refitting had been much larger than the original estimate. The fifteen hundred dollars raised on the mortgage had gone and of the money obtained by the sale of the cranberry bog shares—Mrs. Pearson's legacy—nearly half had gone also. Estimates are one thing and actual expenditures are another, a fact known to everyone who has either built a house or rebuilt one, and more than once during the repairing and furnishing process Thankful had repented of her venture and wished she had not risked the plunge. But, having risked it, backing out was impossible. Neither was it possible to stop half-way. As she said to Captain Obed, “There's enough half-way decent boardin'-houses and hotels in this neighborhood now. There's about as much need of another of that kind as there is of an icehouse at the North Pole. Either this boardin'-house of mine must be the very best there can be, price considered, or it mustn't be at all. That's the way I look at it.”

The captain had, of course, agreed with her. His advice had been invaluable. He had helped in choosing carpenters and painters and it was owing to his suggestion that Mrs. Barnes had refrained from engaging an East Wellmouth young woman to help in the kitchen.

“You could find one, of course,” said the captain. “There's two or three I could think of right off now who would probably take the job, but two out of the three wouldn't be much account anyhow, and the only one that would is Sarah Mullet and she's engaged to a Trumet feller. Now let alone the prospect of Sarah's gettin' married and leavin' you 'most any time, there's another reason for not hirin' her. She's the everlastin'est gossip in Ostable County, and that's sayin' somethin'. What Sarah don't know about everybody's private affairs she guesses and she always guesses out loud. Inside of a fortnight she'd have all you ever done and a whole lot you never thought of doin' advertised from Race P'int to Sagamore. She's a reg'lar talkin' foghorn, if there was such a thing—only a foghorn shuts down in clear weather and SHE don't shut down, day or night. Talks in her sleep, I shouldn't wonder. If I was you, Mrs. Barnes, I wouldn't bother with any help from 'round here. I'd hire a girl from Boston, or somewheres; then you could be skipper of your own ship.”

Thankful, after thinking the matter over, decided that the advice was good. The difficulty, of course, was in determining the “somewhere” from which the right sort of servant, one willing to work for a small wage, might be obtained. At length she wrote to a Miss Coffin, once a nurse in Middleboro but now matron of an orphans' home in Boston. Miss Coffin's reply was to the effect that she had, in her institution, a girl who might in time prove to be just the sort which her friend desired.

Of course [she wrote], she isn't at all a competent servant now, but she is bright and anxious to learn. And she is a good girl, although something of a character. Her Christian name is Marguerite, at least she says it is. What her other name is goodness only knows. She has been with us now for nearly seven years. Before that she lived with and took care of a drunken old woman who said she was the girl's aunt, though I doubt if she was. Suppose I send her to you on trial; you can send her back to us if she doesn't suit. It would be a real act of charity to give her a chance, and I think you will like her in spite of her funny ways.

This doubtful recommendation caused Thankful to shake her head. She had great confidence in Miss Coffin's judgment, but she was far from certain that “Marguerite” would suit. However, guarded inquiries in Wellmouth and Trumet strengthened her conviction that Captain Obed knew what he was talking about, and, the time approaching when she must have some sort of servant, she, at last, in desperation wrote her friend to send “the Marguerite one” along for a month's trial.

The new girl arrived two days later. Winnie S. brought her down in the depot-wagon, in company with her baggage, a battered old valise and an ancient umbrella. She clung to each of these articles with a death grip, evidently fearful that someone might try to steal them. She appeared to be of an age ranging from late sixteen to early twenty, and had a turned-up nose and reddish hair drawn smoothly back from her forehead and fastened with a round comb. Her smile was of the “won't come off” variety.

Thankful met her at the back door and ushered her into the kitchen, the room most free from workmen at the moment.

“How do you do?” said the lady. “I'm real glad to see you. Hope you had a nice trip down in the cars.”

“Lordy, yes'm!” was the emphatic answer, accompanied by a brilliant smile. “I never had such a long ride in my life. 'Twas just like bein' rich. I made believe I WAS rich most all the way, except when a man set down in the seat alongside of me and wanted to talk. Then I didn't make believe none, I bet you!”

“A man?” grinned Thankful. “What sort of a man?”

“I don't know. One of the railroad men I guess 'twas; anyhow he was a fresh young guy, with some sort of uniform hat on. He asked me if I didn't want him to put my bag up in the rack. He said you couldn't be too careful of a bag like that. I told him never mind my bag; it was where it belonged and it stayed shut up, which was more'n you could say of some folks in this world. I guess he understood; anyhow he beat it. Lordy!” with another smile. “I knew how to treat HIS kind. Miss Coffin's told me enough times to look out for strange men. Is this where I'm goin' to live, ma'am?”

“Why—why, yes; if you're a good girl and try hard to please and to learn. Now—er—Marguerite—that's your name, isn't it?”

“No, ma'am, my name's Imogene.”

“Imo—which? Why! I thought you was Marguerite. Miss Coffin hasn't sent another girl, has she?”

“No, ma'am. I'm the one. My name used to be Marguerite, but it's goin' to be Imogene now. I've wanted to change for a long while, but up there to the Home they'd got kind of used to Marguerite, so 'twas easier to let it go at that. I like Imogene lots better; I got it out of a book.”

“But—but you can't change your name like that. Isn't Marguerite your real name?”

“No'm. Anyhow I guess 'tain't. I got that out of a book, too. Lordy,” with a burst of enthusiasm, “I've had more names in my time! My Aunt Bridget she called me 'Mag' when she didn't make it somethin' worse. And when I first came to the Home the kids called me 'Fire Alarm,' 'cause my hair was red. And the cook they had then called me 'Lonesome,' 'cause I guess I looked that way. And the matron—not Miss Coffin, but the other one—called me 'Maggie.' I didn't like that, so when Miss Coffin showed up I told her I was Marguerite. But I'd rather be Imogene now, if you ain't particular, ma'am.”

“Why—um—well, I don't know's I am; only seems to me I'd settle on one or t'other and stay put. What's your last name?”

“I ain't decided. Montgomery's a kind of nice name and so's St. John, or Wolcott—there used to be a Governor Wolcott, you know. I s'pose, now I'm out workin' for myself, I ought to have a last name. Maybe you can pick one out for me, ma'am.”

“Humph! Maybe I can. I've helped pick out first names for babies in my time, but pickin' out a last name for anybody would be somethin' new, I will give in. But I'll try, if you want me to. And you must try to do what I want and to please me. Will you promise me that?”

“Lordy, yes'm!”

“Um! Well, you might begin by tryin' not to say 'Lordy' quite so many times. That would please me, for a start.”

“All right'm. I got in the habit of sayin' it, I guess. When I first come to the Home I used to say, 'God sakes,' but the matron didn't like that.”

“Mercy on us! I don't wonder. Well—er—Imogene, now I'll show you the house and your room and all. I hope you like 'em.”

There was no doubt of the liking. Imogene was delighted with everything. When she was shown the sunny attic bedroom which was to be hers she clapped her hands.

“It's elegant, ma'am,” she cried. “Just grand! OH! it's too splendid to believe and yet there ain't any make-believe in it. Lordy! Excuse me, ma'am, I forgot. I won't say it again. I'll wait and see what you say and then I'll say that. And now,” briskly, “I guess you think it's time I was gettin' to work. All right, I can work if I ain't got no other accomplishments. I'm all ready to begin.”

As a worker she was a distinct success. There was not a lazy bone in her energetic body. She was up and stirring each morning at five o'clock and she evinced an eager willingness to learn that pleased Mrs. Barnes greatly. Her knowledge of cookery was limited, and deadly, but as Thankful had planned to do most of the cooking herself, for the first season at least, this made little difference. Altogether the proprietress of the High Cliff House was growing more and more sure that her female “hired help” was destined to prove a treasure.

“I am real glad you like it here so well, Imogene,” she said, at the end of a fortnight. “I was afraid you might be lonesome, down here so far from the city.”

Imogene laughed. “Who? Me?” she exclaimed. “I guess not, ma'am. Don't catch me bein' lonesome while there's folks around I care about. I was lonesome enough when I first came to the Home and the kids used to make fun of me. But I ain't lonesome now, with you so kind and nice. No indeedy! I ain't lonesome and I ain't goin' to be. You watch!”

Captain Obed heartily approved of Imogene. Of Kenelm Parker as man-of-all-work his approval was much less enthusiastic. He had been away attending to his fish weirs, when Kenelm was hired, and the bargain was made before he returned. It was Hannah Parker who had recommended her brother for the position. She had coaxed and pleaded and, at last, Thankful had consented to Kenelm's taking the place on trial.

“You'll need a nice, trustworthy man to do chores,” said Hannah. “Now Kenelm's honest; there ain't a more honest, conscientious man in East Wellmouth than my brother, if I do say it. Take him in the matter of that umbrella he lost the night you first came, Mrs. Barnes. Take that, for instance. He'd left it or lost it somewheres, he knew that, and the ordinary person would have been satisfied; but not Kenelm. No sir-ee! He hunted and hunted till he found that umbrella and come fetchin' of it home. 'Twas a week afore he did that, but when he did I says, 'Well,' I says, 'you have got more stick-to-it than I thought you had. You—'”

“Where did he find it?” interrupted Thankful.

“Land knows! He didn't seem to know himself—just found it, he said. He acts so sort of upsot and shameful about that umbrella that he and I don't talk about it any more. But it did show that he had a sense of responsibleness, and a good one. Anybody that'll stick to and persecute a hunt for a lost thing the way he done will stick to a job the same way. Don't you think so yourself, Mrs. Barnes?”

Thankful was not convinced, but she yielded. When she told Captain Bangs he laughed and observed: “Yup, well, maybe so. Judgin' by other jobs Kenelm's had he'll stick to this one same as he does to his bed of a Sunday mornin'—lay down on it and go to sleep. However, I presume likely he ought to have the chance. Of course Hannah's idea is plain enough. Long's he's at work over here, she can keep an eye on him. And it's a nice, satisfactory distance from the widow Larkin, too.”

So Kenelm came daily to work and did work—some. When he did not he always had a plausible excuse. As a self-excuser he was a shining light.

Thankful had, during the repairs on the house, waited more or less anxiously for developments concerning the mystery of the little back bedroom. Painters and paperhangers had worked in that room as in others, but no reports of strange sounds, or groans, or voices, had come from there. During the week preceding the day of formal opening Thankful herself had spent her nights in that room, but had not heard nor seen anything unusual. She was now pretty thoroughly convinced that the storm had been responsible for the groans and that the rest had been due to her imagination. However, she determined to let that room and the larger one adjoining last of all; she would take no chances with the lodgers, she couldn't afford it.

Among the equipment of the High Cliff House or its outbuildings were a horse, a pig, and a dozen hens and two roosters. Captain Obed bought the horse at Mrs. Barnes' request, a docile animal of a sedate age. A second-hand buggy and a second-hand “open wagon” he also bought. The pig and hens Thankful bought herself in Trumet. She positively would not consent to the pig's occupying the sty beneath the woodshed and adjoining the potato cellar, so a new pen was built in the hollow at the rear of the house. Imogene was tremendously interested in the live-stock. She begged the privilege of naming each animal and fowl. Mrs. Barnes had been encouraging the girl to read literature more substantial than the “Fireside Companion” tales in which she had hitherto delighted, and had, as a beginning, lent her a volume of United States history, one of several discarded schoolbooks which Emily Howes sent at her cousin's request. Imogene was immensely interested in the history. She had just finished the Revolution and the effect of her reading was evident when she announced the names she had selected.

The horse, being the most important of all the livestock, she christened George Washington. The pig was named Patrick Henry. The largest hen was Martha Washington. “As to them two roosters,” she explained, “I did think I'd name the big handsome one John Hancock and the littlest one George Three. They didn't like each other, ma'am, that was plain at the start, so I thought they'd ought to be on different sides. But the very first fight they had George pretty near licked the stuffin' out of John, so I've decided to change the names around. That ought to fix it; don't you think so, ma'am?”

On the seventeenth the High Cliff House was formally opened. It was much too early to expect “summer” boarders, but there were three of the permanent variety who had already engaged rooms. Of these the first was Caleb Hammond, an elderly widower, and retired cranberry grower, whose wife had died fifteen years before and who had been “boarding around” in Wellmouth Centre and Trumet ever since. Caleb was fairly well-to-do and although he had the reputation of being somewhat “close” in many matters and “sot” in his ways, he was a respected member of society. He selected a room on the second floor—not a front room, but one on the side looking toward the Colfax estate. The room on the other side, across the hall, was taken by Miss Rebecca Timpson, who had taught the “upstairs” classes in the Wellmouth school ever since she was nineteen, a considerable period of time.

The large front rooms, those overlooking the bluff and the sea, Thankful had intended reserving for guests from the city, but when Mr. Heman Daniels expressed a wish to engage and occupy one of them, that on the left of the hall, she reconsidered and Mr. Daniels obtained his desire. It was hard to refuse a personage like Mr. Daniels anything. He was not an elderly man; neither was he, strictly speaking, a young one. His age was, perhaps, somewhere in the late thirties or early forties and he was East Wellmouth's leading lawyer, in fact its only one.

Heman was a bachelor and rather good-looking. That his bachelorhood was a matter of choice and not necessity was a point upon which all of East Wellmouth agreed. He was a favorite with the ladies, most of them, and, according to common report, there was a rich widow in Bayport who would marry him at a minute's notice if he gave the notice. So far, apparently, he had not given it. He was a “smart” lawyer, everyone said that, and it is probable that he himself would have been the last to deny the accusation. He was dignified and suave and gracious, also persuasive when he chose to be.

He had been boarding with the Holts, but, like the majority of the hotel lodgers and “mealers,” was very willing to change. The location of the High Cliff House was, so he informed Thankful, the sole drawback to its availability as a home for him.

“If a bachelor may be said to have a home, Mrs. Barnes,” he added, graciously. “However, I am sure even an unfortunate single person like myself may find a real home under your roof. You see, your reputation had preceded you, ma'am. Ha, ha! yes. As I say, the location is the only point which has caused me to hesitate. My—er—offices are on the Main Road near the postoffice and that is nearly a mile from here. But, we'll waive that point, ma'am. Six dollars a week for the room and seven for meals, you say. Thirteen dollars—an unlucky number: Ha, ha! Suppose we call it twelve and dodge the bad luck, eh? That would seem reasonable, don't you think?”

Thankful shook her head. “Altogether too reasonable, Mr. Daniels, I'm afraid,” she replied. “I've cut my rates so close now that I'm afraid they'll catch cold in bad weather. Thirteen dollars a week may be unlucky, but twelve would be a sight more unlucky—for me. I can let you have a side room, of course, and that would be cheaper.”

But Mr. Daniels did not wish a side room; he desired a front room and, at last, consented to pay the regular rate for it. But when the arrangement was concluded Thankful could not help feeling that she had taken advantage of an unworldly innocence.

Captain Obed Bangs, when she told him, reassured her.

“Don't worry, ma'am,” he said. “I wouldn't lay awake nights fearin' I'd got ahead of Heman Daniels much. If you have got ahead of him you're the only person I ever see that did, and you ought to be proud instead of ashamed. And I'd get him to make his offer in writin' and you lock up the writin'.”

“Why! Why, Captain Obed! How you do talk! You don't mean that Mr. Daniels is a cheat, do you? You don't mean such a thing as THAT?”

The captain waved a protesting hand.

“No, no,” he declared. “I wouldn't call any lawyer a cheat. That's too one-sided a deal to be good business. The expense of hirin' counsel is all on one side if it ever comes to a libel suit. And besides, I don't think Daniels is a cheat. I never heard of him doin' anything that wa'n't legally honest. He's sharp and he's smart, but he's straight enough. I was only jokin', Mrs. Barnes. Sometimes I think I ought to hang a lantern on my jokes; then folks would see 'em quicker.”

So Mr. Daniels came, and Mr. Hammond came, and so also did Miss Timpson. The first dinner was served in the big dining-room and it was a success, everyone said so. Beside the boarders there were invited guests, Captain Bangs and Hannah Parker, and Kenelm also. It was a disappointment to Thankful, although she kept the disappointment to herself, the fact that the captain had not shifted what he called his “moorings” to her establishment. She had hoped he might; she liked him and she believed him to be just the sort of boarder she most desired. It may be that he, too, was disappointed. What he said was:

“You see, ma'am, I've been anchorin' along with Hannah and Kenelm now for quite a spell. They took me in when 'twas a choice between messin' at the Holt place or eatin' grass in the back yard like King Nebuchadnezzar. Hannah don't keep a reg'lar boardin'-house but she does sort of count on me as one of the family, and I don't feel 'twould be right to shift—not yet, anyhow. But maybe I can pilot other craft into High Cliff Harbor, even if I don't call it my own home port.”

That first dinner was a bountiful meal. Miss Parker expressed the general opinion, although it was expressed in her own way, when she said:

“My sakes alive, Mrs. Barnes! If THIS is the way you're goin' to feed your boarders right along then I say it's remarkable. I've been up to Boston a good many times in my life, and I've been to Washington once, but in all MY experience at high-toned hotels I never set down to a better meal. It's a regular Beelzebub's feast, like the one in Scriptur'—leavin' out the writin' on the wall of course.”

Kenelm ate enough for two and then, announcing that he couldn't heave away no more time, having work to do, retired to the rear of the barn where, the rake beside him, he slumbered peacefully for an hour.

“There!” said Thankful to Imogene that night. “We've started anyhow. And 'twas a good start if I do say it.”

“Good!” exclaimed Imogene. “I should say 'twas good! But if them boarders eat as much every day as they have this one 'twon't be a start, 'twill be a finish. Lor—I mean mercy on us, ma'am—if this is a boardin'-house I'd like to know what a palace is. Why a king never had better grub served to him. Huh! I guess he didn't. Old George Three used to eat gruel, like a—like a sick orphan at the Home. Oh, he did, ma'am, honest! I read about it in one of them history books you lent me. He was a tight-wad old gink, he was. Are you goin' to give these guys as much every meal, ma'am?”

“I mean to, of course,” declared Mrs. Barnes. “Nobody shall starve at my table. And please, Imogene, don't call people ginks and guys. That ain't nice talk for a young woman.”

Imogene apologized and promised to be more careful. But she thought a great deal and, at the end of the first week, she imparted her thoughts to Captain Obed.

“Say, Captain Bangs,” she said, “do you know what is the matter with the name of this place? I tell you what I think is the matter. It hadn't ought to be the HIGH Cliff House. The CHEAP Cliff House would be a sight better. Givin' guys—folks, I mean—fifteen-dollar-a-week board for seven dollars may be mighty nice for them, but it's plaguy poor business for Mrs. Thankful.”

The captain shook his head; he had been thinking, too, and his conclusions were much the same.

“You mustn't find fault with Mrs. Barnes, Imogene,” he said. “She's a mighty fine woman.”

“Fine woman! You bet she is! She's too plaguy fine, that's the trouble with her. She's so afraid her boarders'll starve that she forgets all about makin' money. She's the best woman there is in the world, but she needs a mean partner. Then the two of them might average up all right, I guess.”

Captain Obed rubbed his chin. “Think she needs a business manager, eh?” he observed.

Imogene nodded emphatically. “She needs two of them,” she declared. “One to manage the place and another to keep that Parker man workin'. He can eat more and talk more and work less than any guy ever I see. Why, he'd spend half his time in this kitchen gassin' with me, if I'd let him. But you bet I don't let him.”

The captain thought more and more during the days that followed. At length he wrote a letter to Emily Howes at South Middleboro. In it he expressed his fear that Mrs. Barnes, although in all other respects perfect, was a too generous “provider” to be a success as a boarding-house keeper in East Wellmouth.

She'll have boarders enough, you needn't worry about that, [he wrote] but she'll lose money on every one. I've tried to hint, but she don't take the hint, and it ain't any of my affair, rightly speaking, so I can't speak out plain. Can't you write her a sort of warning afore it's too late? Or better still, can't you come down here and talk to her? I wish you would. Excuse my nosing in and writing you this way, please. I'm doing it just because I want to see her win out in the race, that's all. I wish you'd answer this pretty prompt, if you don't mind.

But the reply he hoped for did not come and he began to fear that he had made a bad matter worse by writing. Doubtless Miss Howes resented his “nosing in.”

Thankful now began advertising in the Boston papers. And the answers to the ads began to arrive. Sometimes men and women from the city came down to inspect the High Cliff House, preparatory to opening negotiations for summer quarters. They inspected the house itself, interviewed Thankful, strolled along the bluff admiring the view, and sampled a meal. Then, almost without exception, they agreed upon terms and selected rooms. That the house would be full from top to bottom by the first of July was now certain. But, as Imogene said to Captain Bangs, “If we lose five dollars a week on everyone of 'em that ain't nothin' to hurrah about, seems to me.”

The captain had not piloted any new boarders to the High Cliff. Perhaps he thought, under the circumstances, this would be a doubtful kindness. But the time came when he did bring one there. And the happenings leading to that result were these:

It was a day in the first week in June and Captain Obed, having business in Wellmouth Centre, had hired George Washington, Mrs. Barnes' horse, and the buggy and driven there. The business done he left the placid George moored to a hitching-post by the postoffice and strolled over to the railway station to watch the noon train come in.

The train was, of course, late, but not very late in this instance, and the few passengers alighted on the station platform. The captain, seated on the baggage-truck, noticed one of these passengers in particular. He was a young fellow, smooth-faced and tall, and as, suitcase in hand, he swung from the last car and strode up the platform it seemed to Captain Obed as if there was something oddly familiar in that stride and the set of his square shoulders. His face, too, seemed familiar. The captain felt as if he should recognize him—but he did not.

He came swinging on until he was opposite the baggage-truck. Then he stopped and looked searchingly at the bulky form of the man seated upon it. He stepped closer and looked again. Then, with a twinkle in his quiet gray eye, he did a most amazing thing—he began to sing. To sing—not loudly, of course, but rather under his breath. And this is what he sang:

To the average person this would have sounded like the wildest insanity. But not to Captain Obed Bangs of East Wellmouth. The captain sprang from the truck and held out his hand.

“Johnnie Kendrick!” he shouted. “It's Johnnie Kendrick, I do believe! Well, I swan to man!”

The young man laughed, and, seizing the captain's hand, shook it heartily.

“I am glad you do,” he said. “If you hadn't swanned to man I should have been afraid there was more change in Captain Obed Bangs than I cared to see. Captain Obed, how are you?”

Captain Obed shook his head. “I—I—” he stammered. “Well, I cal'late my timbers are fairly strong if they can stand a shock like this. Johnnie Kendrick, of all folks in the world!”

“The very same, Captain.”

“And you knew me right off! Well done for you, John! Why, it's all of twenty odd year since you used to set on a nail keg in my boathouse and tease me into singing the Dreadnought chanty. I remember that. Good land! I ought to remember the only critter on earth that ever ASKED me to sing. Ho! ho! but you was a little towheaded shaver then; and now look at you! What are you doin' away down here?”

John Kendrick shook his head. “I don't know that I'm quite sure myself, Captain,” he said. “I have some suspicions, of course, but they may not be confirmed. First of all I'm going over to East Wellmouth; so just excuse me a minute while I speak to the driver of the bus.”

He was hurrying away, but his companion caught his arm.

“Heave to, John!” he ordered. “I've got a horse and a buggy here myself, such as they are, and unless you're dead sot on bookin' passage in Winnie S.'s—what did you call it?—bust—I'd be mighty glad to have you make the trip along with me. No, no. 'Twon't be any trouble. Come on!”

Five minutes later they were seated in the buggy and George Washington was jogging with dignified deliberation along the road toward East Wellmouth.

“And why,” demanded Captain Obed, “have you come to Wellmouth again, after all these years?”

Mr. Kendrick smiled.

“Well, Captain Bangs,” he said, “it is barely possible that I've come here to stay.”

“To stay! You don't mean to stay for good?”

“Well, that, too, is possible. Being more or less optimistic, we'll hope that if I do stay it will be for good. I'm thinking of living here.”

His companion turned around on the seat to stare at him.

“Livin' here!” he repeated. “You? What on earth—? What are you goin' to do?”

The passenger's eyes twinkled, but his tone was solemn enough.

“Nothing, very likely,” he replied. “That's what I've been doing for some time.”

“But—but, the last I heard of you, you was practicin' law over to New York.”

“So I was. That, for a young lawyer without funds or influence, is as near doing nothing as anything I can think of.”

“But—but, John—”

“Just a minute, Captain. The 'buts' are there, plenty of them. Before we reach them, however, perhaps I'd better tell you the story of my life. It isn't exciting enough to make you nervous, but it may explain a few things.”

He told his story. It was not the story of his life, his whole life, by any means. The captain already knew the first part of that life. He had known the Kendricks ever since he had known anyone. Every person in East Wellmouth of middle age or older remembered when the two brothers, Samuel Kendrick and Bailey Kendrick—Bailey was John's father—lived in the village and were the “big” men of the community. Bailey was the more important and respected at that time, for Samuel speculated in stocks a good deal and there were seasons when he was so near bankruptcy that gossip declared he could not pass the poorhouse without shivering. If it had not been for his brother Bailey, so that same gossip affirmed, he would most assuredly have gone under, but Bailey lent him money and helped him in many ways. Both brothers were widowers and each had a son; but Samuel's boy Erastus was fifteen years older than John.

The families moved from Wellmouth when John was six years old. They went West and there, so it was said, the positions of the brothers changed. Samuel's luck turned; he made some fortunate stock deals and became wealthy. Bailey, however, lost all he had in bad mining ventures and sank almost to poverty. Both had been dead for years now, but Samuel's son, Erastus—he much preferred to be called E. Holliday Kendrick—was a man of consequence in New York, a financier, with offices on Broad Street and a home on Fifth Avenue. John, the East Wellmouth people had last heard of as having worked his way through college and law school and as practicing his profession in the big city.

So much Captain Bangs knew. And John Kendrick told him the rest. The road to success for a young attorney in New York he had found hard and discouraging. For two years he had trodden it and scarcely earned enough to keep himself alive. Now he had decided, or practically decided, to give up the attempt, select some small town or village and try his luck there. East Wellmouth was the one village he knew and remembered with liking. So to East Wellmouth he had come, to, as Captain Obed described it, “take soundin's and size up the fishin' grounds.”

“So there you are, Captain,” he said, in conclusion. “That is why I am here.”

The captain nodded reflectively.

“Um—yes,” he said. “I see; I see. Well, well; and you're figgerin' on bein' a lawyer here—in East Wellmouth?”

Mr. Kendrick nodded also. “It may, and probably will be, pretty close figuring at first,” he admitted, “but at least there will be no more ciphers in the sum than there were in my Manhattan calculations. Honestly now, Captain Bangs, tell me—what do you think of the idea?”

The captain seemed rather dubious.

“Humph!” he grunted. “Well, I don't know, John. East Wellmouth ain't a very big place.”

“I know that. Of course I shouldn't hope to do much in East Wellmouth alone. But it seemed to me I might do as other country lawyers have done, have an office—or a desk—in several other towns and be in those towns on certain days in the week. I think I should like to live in East Wellmouth, though. It is—not to be sentimental but just truthful—the one place I remember where I was really happy. And, as I remember too, there used to be no lawyer there.”

Captain Obed's forehead puckered.

“That's just it, John,” he said. “There is a lawyer here now. Good deal of a lawyer, too—if you ask HIM. Name's Heman Daniels. You used to know him as a boy, didn't you?”

Kendrick nodded assent.

“I think I did,” he said. “Yes, I remember him. He was one of the big boys when I was a little one, and he used to bully us small chaps.”

“That's the feller. He ain't changed his habits so much, neither. But he's our lawyer and I cal'late he's doin' well.”

“Is he? Well, that's encouraging, at any rate. And he's the only lawyer you have? Only one lawyer in a whole town. Why in New York I couldn't throw a cigar stump from my office window without running the risk of hitting at least two and starting two damage suits.”

The captain chuckled.

“I presume likely you didn't throw many,” he observed. “That would be expensive fun.”

“It would,” was the prompt reply. “Cigars cost money.”

They jogged on for a few minutes in silence. Then said Captain Obed:

“Well, John, what are you plannin' to do first? After we get into port, I mean.”

“I scarcely know. Look about, perhaps. Possibly try out a boarding-house and hunt for a prospective office. By the way, Captain, you don't happen to know of a good, commodious two by four office that I could hire at a two by four figure, do you? One not so far from the main street that I should wear out an extravagant amount of shoe leather walking to and from it?”

More reflection on the captain's part. Then he said:

“Well, I don't know as I don't. John, I'll tell you: I've got a buildin' of my own. Right abreast the post-office; Henry Cahoon has been usin' it for a barber-shop. But Henry's quit, and it's empty. The location's pretty good and the rent—well, you and me wouldn't pull hair over the rent question, I guess.”

“Probably not, but I should insist on paying as much as your barber friend did. This isn't a charity proposition I'm making you, Captain Bangs. Oh, let me ask this: Has this—er—office of yours got a good front window?”

“Front window! What in time—? Yes, I guess likely the front window's all right. But what does a lawyer want of a front window?”

“To look out of. About all a young lawyer does is look out of the window. Now about a boarding-place?”

Captain Obed had been waiting for this question.

“I've got a boardin'-place for you, John,” he declared. “The office I may not be so sartin about, but the boardin'-place I am. There ain't a better one this side of Boston and I know it. And the woman who keeps it is—well, you take my word for it she's all RIGHT.”

His passenger regarded him curiously.

“You seem very enthusiastic, Captain,” he observed, with a smile.

Captain Bangs' next remark was addressed to the horse. He gruffly bade the animal “gid-dap” and appeared a trifle confused.

“I am,” he admitted, after a moment. “You'll be, too, when you see her.”

He described the High Cliff House and its owner. Mr. Kendrick asked the terms for board and an “average” room. When told he whistled.

“That isn't high,” he said. “For such a place as you say this is it is very low. But I am afraid it is too high for me. Isn't there any other establishment where they care for men—and poor lawyers?”

“Yes, there is, but you shan't go to it, not if I can stop you. You come right along with me now to the High Cliff and have dinner. Yes, you will. I ain't had a chance to treat you for twenty year and I'm goin' to buy you one square meal if I have to feed you by main strength. Don't you say another word. There! There's east Wellmouth dead ahead of us. And there's the High Cliff House, too. Git dap, Father of your Country! See! He's hungry, too, and he knows what he'll get, same as I do.”

They drove into the yard of Mrs. Barnes' “property” and Thankful herself met them at the door. Captain Obed introduced his passenger and announced that the latter gentleman and he would dine there. The lady seemed glad to hear this, but she seemed troubled, too. When she and the captain were alone together she disclosed the cause of her trouble.

“I'm afraid I'm goin' to lose my best boarder,” she said. “Mr. Daniels says he's afraid he must take his meals nearer his place of business. And, if he does that, he'll get a room somewheres uptown. I'm awful sorry. He's about the highest payin' roomer I have and I did think he was permanent. Oh, dear!” she added. “It does seem as if there was just one thing after the other to worry me. I—I don't seem to be makin' both ends meet the way I hoped. And—and lookin' out for everything myself, the way I have to do, keeps me stirred up all the time. I feel almost sort of discouraged. I know I shouldn't, so soon, of course. It's—it's because I'm tired today, I guess likely.”

“Yes, I guess likely 'tis. Tired! I shouldn't wonder? It ain't any of my affairs at all, Mrs. Barnes, and I beg your pardon for sayin' it, but if you don't have some good capable person to take some of the care and managin' of this place off your shoulders you'll be down sick afore the summer's through.”

Thankful sighed, and then smiled. “I know I need help, the right kind of help, just as well as you do, Cap'n Bangs,” she said. “But I know, too, that I can't afford to pay for it, so I must get along best I can without it. As for gettin' sick—well, I can't afford that, either.”

At dinner John Kendrick met Mr. Heman Daniels and Miss Timpson and Caleb Hammond. All three were evidently very curious concerning the business which had brought the young man to East Wellmouth, but their curiosity was not satisfied. Kendrick himself refused to notice hints and insinuations and, though he talked freely on most subjects, would not talk of his own affairs. Captain Obed, of course, disclosed nothing of the knowledge he had gained. So the table talk dealt mainly with the changes in the village since John was a boy there, and of old times and old residents long gone.

Mr. Daniels was very gracious and very affable. He spoke largely of cases intrusted to his care, of responsibilities and trusts, and if the guest gained the idea that Mr. Daniels was a very capable and prosperous lawyer indeed—if he gained such an idea and did not express it, how could Heman be expected to contradict?

After dinner—Kendrick informed his friend it was one of the best he had ever eaten—he and the captain walked over to the village, where they spent the afternoon wandering about, inspecting the ex-barber-shop and discussing chances and possibilities. The young man was still doubtful of East Wellmouth's promise of professional opportunities. He should like to live there, he said, and he might decide to do so, but as yet he had not so decided. He seemed more pessimistic than during the drive down from the station. Captain Obed, however, and oddly enough, was much more optimistic than he had been at first.

“I don't know, John,” he said, “but I ain't sure you couldn't make good, and pretty good, too, by settlin' here. This section needs a good lawyer.”

“Another good lawyer you mean. Daniels is here, remember. Judging by his remarks this noon he is very much here.”

“Um—yes, I know. If you take his remarks at the value he marks 'em with he's the whole bank and a safe-deposit vault hove in. But I wouldn't wonder if those remarks was subject to a discount. Anyhow I know mighty well there's a lot of folks in this town—good substantial folks, too—who don't like him. They hire him once in a while because there ain't another lawyer short of Trumet and that's quite a ways. But maybe they'd be mighty glad to shift if there was a chance right at hand. Don't you strike the colors yet awhile. Think it over first.”

He insisted upon Kendrick's returning to the High Cliff House that night. “I want Mrs. Barnes to show you the room she's got vacant,” he said. “Ain't no harm lookin' at a brindle calf, as the feller said; you don't have to buy the critter unless you want to.”

So Mr. Kendrick inspected the rooms and expressed himself as delighted with them.

“They're all right in every respect, Captain,” he declared. “And the food is more than that. But the price—although it's surprisingly low considering the value offered—is too steep for me. I'm afraid, if I should locate here, for a trial trip, I couldn't afford to be comfortable and I shouldn't expect to.”

Captain Bangs remained to take supper with his friend. The meal over, they and the rest of the boarders were seated in the big living-room—once Captain Abner's “best parlor”—when there came from outside the rattle of wheels and the voice of Winnie S. shouting “Whoa!” to General Jackson.

Thankful, who had been in the kitchen superintending Imogene, who was learning rapidly, came hurrying to the front door. The group in the parlor heard her utter an exclamation, an exclamation of surprise and delight. There were other exclamations, also in a feminine voice, and the sounds of affectionate greetings. Then Mrs. Barnes, her face beaming, ushered into the living-room a young woman. And this young woman was her cousin, Emily Howes.

Captain Obed rose to greet her.

“Well, I swan to man, Miss Howes!” he cried. “This IS a surprise! I didn't know you was due for a v'yage in this latitude.”

Thankful laughed. “Neither did I,” she declared. “It's as big a surprise to me as it is to you, Cap'n. She didn't write me a word.”

Emily laughed.

“Of course I didn't, Auntie,” she said. “I wanted to surprise you. But you're glad to see me, aren't you?”

“GLAD! I don't believe I was ever so glad to see anybody in MY life.”

“We're all glad to see you, Miss Howes,” announced the captain. “Come down to make us a little visit, hey?”

“Oh, more than a little one. You can't escape so easily. I am going to stay all summer at least, perhaps longer. There, Aunt Thankful, what do you think of that?”