And now life in East Harniss became temporarily fevered. Issy McKay dashed out of the station and rushed importantly up and down the platform. Ed Crocker and Cornelius Rowe emerged and draped themselves in statuesque attitudes against the side of the building. Obed Gott came hurrying from his paint and oil shop, which was next to the “general store.” Mr. Higgins, proprietor of the latter, sauntered easily across to receive, in his official capacity as postmaster, the mail bag. Ten or more citizens, of both sexes, and of various ages, gathered in groups to inspect and supervise.

The locomotive pulled its string of cars, a “baggage,” a “smoker,” and two “passengers,” alongside the platform. The sliding door of the baggage car was pushed back and the baggage master appeared in the opening. “Hi! Cap'n!” he shouted. “Hi, Cap'n Sol! Here's some express for you.”

But unfortunately the Captain was in conversation with the conductor at the other end of the train. Issy, willing and officious, sprang forward. “I'll take it, Bill,” he volunteered. “Here, give it to me.”

The baggage master handed down the package, a good sized one marked “Glass. With Care.” Issy received it, clutched it to his bosom, turned and saw Gertie Higgins, pretty daughter of Beriah Higgins, stepping from the first car to the platform. Gertie had been staying with an aunt in Trumet and was now returning home for a day or two.

Issy stopped short and gazed at her. He saw her meet and kiss her father, and the sight roused turbulent emotions in his bosom. He saw her nod and smile at acquaintances whom she passed. She approached, noticed him, and—oh, rapture!—said laughingly, “Hello, Is.” Before he could recover his senses and remember to do more than grin she had disappeared around the corner of the station. Therefore he did not see the young man who stepped forward to shake her hand and whisper in her ear. This young man was Sam Bartlett, and, as a “city dude,” Issy loathed and hated him.

No, Issy did not see the hurried and brief meeting between Bartlett and Gertie Higgins, but he had seen enough to cause forgetfulness of mundane things. For an instant he stared after the vanished vision. Then he stepped blindly forward, tripped over something—“his off hind leg,” so Captain Sol afterwards vowed—and fell sprawling, the express package beneath him.

The crash of glass reached the ears of the depot master. He broke away from the conductor and ran toward his prostrate “assistant.” Pushing aside the delighted and uproarious bystanders, he forcibly helped the young man to rise.

“What in time?” he demanded.

Issy agonizingly held the package to his ear and shook it.

“I—I'm afraid somethin's cracked,” he faltered.

The crowd set up a whoop. Ed Crocker appeared to be in danger of strangling.

“Cracked!” repeated Captain Sol. “Cracked!” he smiled, in spite of himself. “Yes, somethin's cracked. It's that head of yours, Issy. Here, let's see!”

He snatched the package from the McKay hands and inspected it.

“Smashed to thunder!” he declared. “Who's the lucky one it belongs to? Humph!” He read the inscription aloud, “Major Cuthbertson S. Hardee. The Major, hey! . . . Well, Is, you take the remains inside and you and I'll hold services over it later.”

“I—I didn't go to do it,” protested the frightened Issy.

“Course you didn't. If you had you wouldn't. You're like the feller in Scriptur', you leave undone the things you ought to do and do them that—All right, Jim! Let her go! Cast off!”

The conductor waved his hand, the engine puffed, the bell rang, and the train moved onward. For another twelve hours East Harniss was left marooned by the outside world.

Beriah Higgins and the mail bag were already in the post office. Thither went the crowd to await the sorting and ultimate distribution. A short, fat little man lingered and, walking up to the depot master, extended his hand.

“Hello, Sol!” he said, smiling. “Thought I'd stop long enough to say 'Howdy,' anyhow.”

“Why, Bailey Stitt!” cried the Captain. “How are you? Glad to see you. Thought you was down to South Orham, takin' out seasick parties for the Ocean House, same kind of a job I used to have in Wellmouth.”

“I am,” replied Captain Stitt. “That is, I was. Just now I've run over here to see about contractin' for a supply of clams and quahaugs for our boarders. You never see such a gang to eat as them summer folks, in your life. Barzilla Wingate, he says the same about his crowd. He's comin' on the mornin' train from Wellmouth.”

“You don't tell me. I ain't seen Barzilla for a long spell. Where you stoppin'? Come up to the house, won't you?”

“Can't. I'm goin' to put up over to Obed Gott's. His sister, Polena Ginn, is a relation of mine by marriage. So long! Obed's gone on ahead to tell Polena to put the kettle on. Maybe Obed and I'll be back again after I've had supper.”

“Do. I'll be round here for two or three hours yet.”

He entered the depot. Except the forlorn Issy, who sat in a corner, holding the express package in his lap, Simeon Phinney was the only person in the waiting room.

“Come on now, Sol!” pleaded Sim. “I want to hear the rest of that about you and Williams. You left off in the most ticklish place possible, out of spite, I do believe. I'm hangin' on to that boat in the breakers until I declare I believe I'm catchin' cold just from imagination.”

“Wait a minute, Sim,” said the depot master. Then he turned to his assistant.

“Issy,” he said, “this is about the nineteenth time you've done just this sort of thing. You're no earthly use and I ought to give you your clearance papers. But I can't, you're too—well—ornamental. You've got to be punished somehow and I guess the best way will be to send you right up to Major Hardee's and let you give him the remnants. He'll want to know how it happened, and you tell him the truth. The TRUTH, understand? If you invent any fairy tales out of those novels of yours I'll know it by and by and—well, YOU'LL know I know. No remarks, please. Git!”

Issy hesitated, seemed about to speak, thought better of it, took up package and cap, and “got.”

“Let's see,” said the Captain, sitting down in one of the station chairs and lighting a fresh cigar; “where was Williams and I in that yarn of mine? Oh, yes, I could see land and cal'lated we was goin' to bump. Well, we did. Steerin' anyways but dead ahead was out of the question, and all I could do was set my teeth and trust in my bein' a member of the church. The Shootin' Star hit that beach like she was the real article. Overboard went oar and canvas and grub pails, and everything else that wa'n't nailed down, includin' Fatty and me. I grabbed him by the collar and wallowed ashore.

“'Awk! hawk!' he gasps, chokin', 'I'm drownded.'

“I let him BE drownded, for the minute. I had the launch to think of, and somehow or 'nother I got hold of her rodin' and hauled the anchor up above tide mark. Then I attended to my passenger.

“'Where are we?' he asks.

“I looked around. Close by was nothin' but beach-grass and seaweed and sand. A little ways off was a clump of scrub pines and bayberry bushes that looked sort of familiar. And back of them was a little board shanty that looked more familiar still. I rubbed the salt out of my eyes.

“'WELL!' says I. 'I swan to man!'

“'What is it?' he says. 'Do you know where we are? Whose house is that?'

“I looked hard at the shanty.

“'Humph!' I grunted. 'I do declare! Talk about a feller's comin' back to his own. Whose shanty is that? Well, it's mine, if you want to know. The power that looks out for the lame and the lazy has hove us ashore on Woodchuck Island, and that's a piece of real estate I own.'

“It sounds crazy enough, that's a fact; but it was true. Woodchuck Island is a little mite of a sand heap off in the bay, two mile from shore and ten from the nighest town. I'd bought it and put up a shanty for a gunnin' shack; took city gunners down there, once in a while, the fall before. That summer I'd leased it to a friend of mine, name of Darius Baker, who used it while he was lobsterin'. The gale had driven us straight in from sea, 'way past Sandy P'int and on to the island. 'Twas like hittin' a nail head in a board fence, but we'd done it. Shows what Providence can do when it sets out.

“I explained some of this to Williams as we waded through the sand to the shanty.

“'But is this Baker chap here now?' he asks.

“'I'm afraid not,' says I. 'The lobster season's about over, and he was goin' South on a yacht this week. Still, he wa'n't to go till Saturday and perhaps—'

“But the shanty was empty when we got there. I fumbled around in the tin matchbox and lit the kerosene lamp in the bracket on the wall. Then I turned to Williams.

“'Well,' says I, 'we're lucky for once in—'

“Then I stopped. When he went overboard the water had washed off his hat. Likewise it had washed off his long black hair—which was a wig—and his head was all round and shiny and bald, like a gull's egg out in a rain storm.”

“I knew he wore a wig,” interrupted Phinney.

“Of course you do. Everybody does now. But he wa'n't such a prophet in Israel then as he's come to be since, and folks wa'n't acquainted with his personal beauties.

“'What are you starin' at?' he asks.

“I fetched a long breath. 'Nothin',' says I. 'Nothin'.'

“But for the rest of that next ha'f hour I went around in a kind of daze, as if MY wig had gone and part of my head with it. When a feller has been doin' a puzzle it kind of satisfies him to find out the answer. And I'd done my puzzle.

“I knew where I'd met Mr. Williams afore.”

“You did?” cried Simeon.

“Um-hm. Wait a while. Well, Fatty went to bed, in one of the hay bunks, pretty soon after that. He stripped to his underclothes and turned in under the patchwork comforters. He was too beat out to want any supper, even if there'd been any in sight. I built a fire in the rusty cook stove and dried his duds and mine. Then I set down in the busted chair and begun to think. After a spell I got up and took account of stock, as you might say, of the eatables in the shanty. Darius had carted off his own grub and what there was on hand was mine, left over from the gunnin' season—a hunk of salt pork in the pickle tub, some corn meal in a tin pail, some musty white flour in another pail, a little coffee, a little sugar and salt, and a can of condensed milk. I took these things out of the locker they was in, looked 'em over, put 'em back again and sprung the padlock. Then I put the key into my pocket and went back to my chair to do some more thinkin'.

“Next mornin' I was up early and when the banker turned out I was fryin' a couple of slices of the pork and had some coffee b'ilin'. Likewise there was a pan of johnnycake in the oven. The wind had gone down consider'ble, but 'twas foggy and thick again, which was a pleasin' state of things for yours truly.

“Williams smelt the cookin' almost afore he got his eyes open.

“'Hurry up with that breakfast,' he says to me. 'I'm hungry as a wolf.'

“I didn't say nothin' then; just went ahead with my cookin'. He got into his clothes and went outdoor. Pretty soon he comes back, cussin' the weather.

“'See here, Mr. Williams,' says I, 'how about them orders to your housekeeper? Are they straight? Won't she have you hunted up for a week?'

“He colored pretty red, but from what he said I made out that she wouldn't. I gathered that him and the old lady wa'n't real chummy. She give him his grub and her services, and he give her the Old Harry and her wages. She wouldn't hunt for him, not until she was ordered to. She'd be only too glad to have him out of the way.

“'Humph!' says I. 'Then I cal'late we'll enjoy the scenery on this garden spot of creation until the week's up.'

“'What do you mean?' says he.

“'Well,' I says, 'the launch is out of commission, unless it should rain gasoline, and at this time of year there ain't likely to be a boat within hailin' distance of this island; 'specially if the weather holds bad.'

“He swore a blue streak, payin' partic'lar attention to the housekeeper for her general stupidness and to me because I'd got him, so he said, into this scrape. I didn't say nothin'; set the table, with one plate and one cup and sasser and knife and fork, hauled up a chair and set down to my breakfast. He hauled up a box and set down, too.

“'Pass me that corn bread,' says he. 'And why didn't you fry more pork?'

“He was reachin' out for the johnnycake, but I pulled it out of his way.

“'Wait a minute, Mr. Williams,' says I. 'While you was snoozin' last night I made out a kind of manifest of the vittles aboard this shanty. 'Cordin' to my figgerin' here's scursely enough to last one husky man a week, let along two husky ones. I paid consider'ble attention to your preachin' yesterday and the text seemed to be to look out for number one. Now in this case I'm the one and I've got to look out for myself. This is my shanty, my island, and my grub. So please keep your hands off that johnnycake.'

“For a minute or so he set still and stared at me. Didn't seem to sense the situation, as you might say. Then the red biled up in his face and over his bald head like a Fundy tide.

“'Why, you dummed villain!' he shouts. 'Do you mean to starve me?'

“'You won't starve in a week,' says I, helpin' myself to pork. 'A feller named Tanner, that I read about years ago, lived for forty days on cold water and nothin' else. There's the pump right over in the corner. It's my pump, but I'll stretch a p'int and not charge for it this time.'

“'You—you—' he stammers, shakin' all over, he was so mad. 'Didn't I hire you—'

“'You hired me to take you out to the fishin' grounds and back, provided the launch was made ready by YOU. It wa'n't ready, so THAT contract's busted. And you was to furnish your extrys and I was to furnish mine. Here they be and I need 'em. It's as legitimate a deal as ever I see; perfect case of supply and demand—supply for one and demand for two. As I said afore, I'm the one.'

“'By thunder!' he growls, standin' up, 'I'll show you—'

“I stood up, too. He was fat and flabby and I was thin and wiry. We looked each other over.

“'I wouldn't,' says I. 'You're under the doctor's care, you know.'

“So he set down again, not havin' strength even to swear, and watched me eat my breakfast. And I ate it slow.

“'Say,' he says, finally, 'you think you're mighty smart, don't you. Well, I'm It, I guess, for this time. I suppose you'll have no objection to SELLIN' me a breakfast?'

“'No—o,' says I, 'not a mite of objection. I'll sell you a couple of slices of pork for five dollars a slice and—'

“'FIVE DOLLARS a—!' His mouth dropped open like a main hatch.

“'Sartin,' I says. 'And two slabs of johnnycake at five dollars a slab. And a cup of coffee at five dollars a cup. And—'

“'You're crazy!' he sputters, jumpin' up.

“'Not much, I ain't. I've been settin' at your feet larnin' high finance, that's all. You don't seem to be onto the real inwardness of this deal. I've got the grub market cornered, that's all. The market price of necessaries is five dollars each now; it's likely to rise at any time, but now it's five.'

“He looked at me steady for at least two more minutes. Then he got up and banged out of that shanty. A little later I see him down at the end of the sand spit starin' out into the fog; lookin' for a sail, I presume likely.

“I finished my breakfast and washed up the dishes. He come in by and by. He hadn't had no dinner nor supper, you see, and the salt air gives most folks an almighty appetite.

“'Say,' he says, 'I've been thinkin'. It's usual in the stock and provision market to deal on a margin. Suppose I pay you a one per cent margin now and—'

“'All right,' says I, cheerful. 'Then I'll give you a slip of paper sayin' that you've bought such and such slices of pork and hunks of johnnycake and I'm carryin' 'em for you on a margin. Of course there ain't no delivery of the goods now because—'

“'Humph!' he interrupts, sour. 'You seem to know more'n I thought you did. Now are you goin' to be decent and make me a fair price or ain't you?'

“'Can't sell under the latest quotations,' says I. 'That's five now; and spot cash.'

“'But hang it all!' he says, 'I haven't got money enough with me. Think I carry a national bank around in my clothes?'

“'You carry a Wellmouth Bank check book,' says I, 'because I see it in your jacket pocket last night when I was dryin' your duds. I'll take a check.'

“He started to say somethin' and then stopped. After a spell he seemed to give in all to once.

“'Very good,' he says. 'You get my breakfast ready and I'll make out the check.'

“That breakfast cost him twenty-five dollars; thirty really, because he added another five for an extry cup of coffee. I told him to make the check payable to 'Bearer,' as 'twas quicker to write than 'Solomon.'

“He had two more meals that day and at bedtime I had his checks amountin' to ninety-five dollars. The fog stayed with us all the time and nobody come to pick us up. And the next mornin's outlook was just as bad, bein' a drizzlin' rain and a high wind. The mainland beach was in sight but that's all except salt water and rain.

“He was surprisin'ly cheerful all that day, eatin' like a horse and givin' up his meal checks without a whimper. If things had been different from what they was I'd have felt like a mean sneak thief. BEIN' as they was, I counted up the hundred and ten I'd made that day without a pinch of conscience.

“This was a Wednesday. On Thursday, the third day of our Robinson Crusoe business, the weather was still thick, though there was signs of clearin'. Fatty come to me after breakfast—which cost him thirty-five, payable, as usual, to 'Bearer'—with almost a grin on his big face.

“'Berry,' he says, 'I owe you an apology. I thought you was a green Rube, like the rest down here, but you're as sharp as they make 'em. I ain't the man to squeal when I get let in on a bad deal, and the chap who can work me for a sucker is entitled to all he can make. But this pay-as-you-go business is too slow and troublesome. What'll you take for the rest of the grub in the locker there, spot cash? Be white, and make a fair price.'

“I'd been expectin' somethin' like this, and I was ready for him.

“'Two hundred and sixty-five dollars,' says I, prompt.

“He done a little figgerin'. 'Well, allowin' that I have to put up on this heap of desolation for the better part of four days more, that's cheap, accordin' to your former rates,' he says. 'I'll go you. But why not make it two fifty, even?'

“'Two hundred and sixty-five's my price,' says I. So he handed over another 'Bearer' check, and his board bill was paid for a week.

“Friday was a fine day, clear as a bell. Me and Williams had a real picnicky, sociable time. Livin' outdoor this way had made him forget his diseases and the doctor, and he showed signs of bein' ha'fway decent. We loafed around and talked and dug clams to help out the pork—that is, I dug 'em and Fatty superintended. We see no less'n three sailin' craft go by down the bay and tried our best to signal 'em, but they didn't pay attention—thought we was gunners or somethin', I presume likely.

“At breakfast on Saturday, Williams begun to ask questions again.

“'Sol,' says he, 'it surprised me to find that you knew what a “margin” was. You didn't get that from anything I said. Where did you get it?'

“I leaned back on my box seat.

“'Mr. Williams,' says I, 'I cal'late I'll tell you a little story, if you want to hear it. 'Tain't much of a yarn, as yarns go, but maybe it'll interest you. The start of it goes back to consider'ble many year ago, when I was poorer'n I be now, and a mighty sight younger. At that time me and another feller, a partner of mine, had a fish weir out in the bay here. The mackerel struck in and we done well, unusual well. At the end of the season, not countin' what we'd spent for livin' and expenses, we had a balance owin' us at our fish dealer's up to Boston of five hundred dollars—two fifty apiece. My partner was goin' to be married in the spring and was cal'latin' to use his share to buy furniture for the new house with. So we decided we'd take a trip up to Boston and collect the money, stick it into some savin's bank where 'twould draw interest until spring and then haul it out and use it. 'Twas about every cent we had in the world.

“'So to Boston we went, collected our money, got the address of a safe bank and started out to find it. But on the way my partner's hat blowed off and the bank address, which was on a slip of paper inside of it, got lost. So we see a sign on a buildin', along with a lot of others, that kind of suggested bankin', and so we stepped into the buildin' and went upstairs to ask the way again.

“'The place wa'n't very big, but 'twas fixed up fancy and there was a kind of blackboard along the end of the room where a boy was markin' up figgers in chalk. A nice, smilin' lookin' man met us and, when we told him what we wanted, he asked us to set down. Then, afore we knowed it almost, we'd told him the whole story—about the five hundred and all. The feller said to hold on a spell and he'd go along with us and show us where the savin's bank was himself.

“'So we waited and all the time the figgers kept goin' up on the board, under signs of “Pork” and “Wheat” and “Cotton” and such, and we'd hear how so and so's account was makin' a thousand a day, and the like of that. After a while the nice man, who it turned out was one of the bosses of the concern, told us what it meant. Seemed there was a big “rise” in the market and them that bought now was bound to get rich quick. Consequent we said we wished we could buy and get rich, too. And the smilin' chap says, “Let's go have some lunch.”'

“Williams laughed. 'Ho, ho!' says he. 'Expensive lunch, was it?'

“'Most extravagant meal of vittles ever I got away with,' I says. 'Cost me and my partner two hundred and fifty apiece, that lunch did. We stayed in Boston two days, and on the afternoon of the second day we was on our way back totin' a couple of neat but expensive slips of paper signifyin' that we'd bought December and May wheat on a one per cent margin. We was a hundred ahead already, 'cordin' to the blackboard, and was figgerin' what sort of palaces we'd build when we cashed in.'

“'Ain't no use preachin' a long sermon over the remains. 'Twas a simple funeral and nobody sent flowers. Inside of a month we was cleaned out and the wheat place had gone out of business—failed, busted, you understand. Our fish dealer friend asked some questions, and found out the shebang wa'n't a real stock dealer's at all. 'Twas what they call a “bucket shop,” and we'd bought nothin' but air, and paid a commission for buyin' it. And the smilin', nice man that run the swindle had been hangin' on the edge of bust for a long while and knowed 'twas comin'. Our five hundred had helped pay his way to a healthier climate, that's all.'

“'Hold on a minute,' says Fatty, lookin' more interested. 'What was the name of the firm that took you greenhorns in?'

“''Twas the Empire Bond, Stock and Grain Exchange,' says I. 'And 'twas on Derbyshire Street.'

“He give a little jump. Then he says, slow, Hu-u-m! I—see.'

“'Yes,' says I. 'I thought you would. You had a mustache then and your name was diff'rent, but you seemed familiar just the same. When your false hair got washed off I knew you right away.'

“He took out his pocket pen and his check book and done a little figgerin'.

“'Humph!' he says, again. 'You lost five hundred and I've paid you five hundred and five. What's the five for?'

“'That's my commission on the sales,' I says.

“And just then comes a hail from outside the shanty. Out we bolted and there was Sam Davis, just steppin' ashore from his power boat. Williams's housekeeper had strained a p'int and had shaded her orders by a couple of days.

“Williams and Sam started for home right off. I followed in the Shootin' Star, havin' borrered gasoline enough for the run. I reached the dock ha'f an hour after they did, and there was Fatty waitin' for me.

“'Berry,' says he, 'I've got a word or two to say to you. I ain't kickin' at your givin' me tit for tat, or tryin' to. Turn about's fair play, if you can call the turn. But it's against my principles to allow anybody to beat me on a business deal. Do you suppose,' he says, 'that I'd have paid your robber's prices without a word if I hadn't had somethin' up my sleeve? Why, man,' says he, 'I gave you my CHECKS, not cash. And I've just telephoned to the Wellmouth Bank to stop payment on those checks. They're no earthly use to you; see? There's one or two things about high finance that you don't know even yet. Ho, ho!'

“And he rocked back and forth on his heels and laughed.

“I held up my hand. 'Wait a jiffy, Mr. Williams,' says I. 'I guess these checks are all right. When we fust landed on Woodchuck, I judged by the looks of the shanty that Baker hadn't left it for good. I cal'lated he'd be back. And sure enough he come back, in his catboat, on Thursday evenin', after you'd turned in. Them checks was payable to “Bearer,” you remember, so I give 'em to him. He was to cash 'em in the fust thing Friday mornin', and I guess you'll find he's done it.'”

“Well, I swan to MAN!” interrupted the astonished and delighted Phinney. “So you had him after all! And I was scart you'd lost every cent.”

Captain Sol chuckled. “Yes,” he went on, “I had him, and his eyes and mouth opened together.

“'WHAT?' he bellers. 'Do you mean to say that a boat stopped at that dummed island and DIDN'T TAKE US OFF?'

“'Oh,' says I, 'Darius didn't feel called on to take you off, not after I told him who you was. You see, Mr. Williams,' I says, 'Darius Baker was my partner in that wheat speculation I was tellin' you about.'”

The Captain drew a long breath and re-lit his cigar, which had gone out. His friend pounded the settee ecstatically.

“There!” he cried. “I knew the name 'Darius Baker' wa'n't so strange to me. When was you and him in partners, Sol?”

“Oh, 'way back in the old days, afore I went to sea at all, and afore mother died. You wouldn't remember much about it. Mother and I was livin' in Trumet then and our house here was shut up. I was only a kid, or not much more, and Williams was young, too.”

“And that's the way he made his money! HIM! Why, he's the most respected man in this neighborhood, and goes to church, and—”

“Yes. Well, if you make money ENOUGH you can always be respected—by some kinds of people—and find some church that'll take you in. Ain't that so, Bailey?”

Captain Stitt and his cousin, Obed Gott, the paint dealer, were standing in the doorway of the station. They now entered.

“I guess it's so,” replied Stitt, pulling up a chair, “though I don't know what you was talkin' about. However, it's a pretty average safe bet that what you say is so, Sol, 'most any time. What's the special 'so,' this time?”

“We was talkin' about Mr. Williams,” began Phinney.

“The Grand Panjandrum of East Harniss,” broke in the depot master. “East Harniss is blessed with a great man, Bailey, and, like consider'ble many blessin's he ain't entirely unmixed.”

Obed and Simeon looked puzzled, but Captain Stitt bounced in his chair like a good-natured rubber ball. “Ho! ho!” he chuckled, “you don't surprise me, Sol. We had a great man over to South Orham three years ago and he begun by blessin's and ended with—with t'other thing. Ho! ho!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Sim.

“Why, I mean Stingy Gabe. You've heard of Stingy Gabe, ain't you?”

“I guess we've all heard somethin' about him,” laughed Captain Sol; “but we're willin' to hear more. He was a reformer, wa'n't he?”

“He sartin was! Ho! ho!”

“For the land sakes, tell it, Bailey,” demanded Mr. Gott impatiently. “Don't sit there bouncin' and gurglin' and gettin' purple in the face. Tell it, or you'll bust tryin' to keep it in.”

“Oh, it's a great, long—” began Captain Bailey protestingly.

“Go on,” urged Phinney. “We've got more time than anything else, the most of us. Who was this Stingy Gabe?”

“Yes,” urged Gott, “and what did he reform?”

Captain Stitt held up a compelling hand. “It's all of a piece,” he interrupted. “It takes in everything, like an eatin'-house stew. And, as usual in them cases, the feller that ordered it didn't know what was comin' to him.

“Stingy Gabe was that feller. His Sunday name was Gabriel Atkinson Holway, and his dad used to peddle fish from Orham to Denboro and back. The old man was christened Gabriel, likewise. He owed 'most everybody, and, besides, was so mean that he kept the scales and trimmin's of the fish he sold to make chowder for himself and family. All hands called him 'Stingy Gabe,' and the boy inherited the name along with the fifteen hundred dollars that the old man left when he died. He cleared out—young Gabe did—soon as the will was settled and afore the outstandin' debts was, and nobody in this latitude see hide nor hair of him till three years ago this comin' spring.

“Then, lo and behold you! he drops off the parlor car at the Orham station and cruises down to South Orham, bald-headed and bay-windowed, sufferin' from pomp and prosperity. Seems he'd been spendin' his life cornerin' copper out West and then copperin' the corners in Wall Street. The folks in his State couldn't put him in jail, so they sent him to Congress. Now, as the Honorable Atkinson Holway, he'd come back to the Cape to rest his wrist, which had writer's cramp from signin' stock certificates, and to ease his eyes with a sight of the dear old home of his boyhood.

“Bill Nickerson comes postin' down to me with the news.

“'Bailey,' says he, 'what do you think's happened? Stingy Gabe's struck the town.'

“'For how much?' I asks, anxious. 'Don't let him have it, whatever 'tis.'

“Then he went on to explain. Gabe was rich as all get out, and 'twas his intention to buy back his old man's house and fix it up for a summer home. He was delighted to find how little change there was in South Orham.

“'No matter if 'tain't but fifteen cents he'll get it, if the s'lectmen don't watch him,' I says; and the bills, too. I know HIS tribe.'

“'You don't understand,' says Nickerson. 'He ain't no thief. He's rich, I tell you, and he's cal'latin' to do the town good.'

“'Course he is,' I says. 'It runs in the family. His dad done it good, too—good as 'twas ever done, I guess.'

“But next day Gabe himself happens along, and I see right off that I'd made a mistake in my reckonin'. The Honorable Atkinson Holway wa'n't figgerin' to borrow nothin'. When a chap has been skinnin' halibut, minnows are too small for him to bother with. Gabe was full of fried clams and philanthropy.

“'By Jove! Stitt,' he says, 'livin' here has been the dream of my life.'

“'You'll be glad to wake up, won't you?' says I. 'I wish I could.'

“'I tell you,' he says, 'this little old village is all right! All it needs is a public-spirited resident to help it along. I propose to be the P. S. R.'

“And on that program he started right in. Fust off he bought his dad's old place, built it over into the eight-sided palace that's there now, fetched down a small army of servants skippered by an old housekeeper, and commenced to live simple but complicated. Then, havin' provided the needful charity for himself, he's ready to scatter manna for the starvin' native.

“He had a dozen schemes laid out. One was to build a free but expensive library; another was to pave the main road with brick; third was to give stained-glass windows and velvet cushions to the meetin' house, so's the congregation could sleep comfortable in a subdued light. The stained-glass idee put him in close touch with the minister, Reverend Edwin Fisher, and the minister suggested the men's club. And he took to that men's club scheme like an old maid to strong tea; the rest of the improvements went into dry dock to refit while Admiral Gabe got his men's club off the ways.

“'Twas the billiard room that made the minister hanker for a men's club. That billiard room was the worry of his life. Old man Jotham Gale run it and had run it sence the Concord fight, in a way of speakin'. You remember his sign, maybe: 'Jotham W. Gale. Billiard, Pool, and Sipio Saloon. Cigars and Tobacco. Tonics and Pipes. Minors under Ten Years of Age not Admitted.' Jotham's customers was called, by the outsiders, 'the billiard-room gang.'

“The billiard room gang wa'n't the best folks in town, I'll own right up to that. Still, they wa'n't so turrible wicked. Jotham never sold rum, and he'd never allow no rows in his place. But, just the same, his saloon was reckoned a bad influence. Young men hadn't ought to go there—most of us said that. If there was a nicer place TO go, argues the minister, 'twould help the moral tone of the community consider'ble. 'Why not,' says he to Stingy Gabe, 'start a free club for men that'll make the billiard room look like the tail boat in a race?' And says Gabe: 'Bully! I'll do it.'”

Captain Stitt paused long enough to enjoy a chuckle all by himself. Before he had quite finished his laugh, slow and reluctant steps were heard on the back platform and Issy appeared on the threshold. He was without the package, but did not look happy.

“Well, Is,” inquired the depot master, “did you give the remains to the Major?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Issy.

“Did you tell him how the shockin' fatality happened? How the thing got broken?”

“Yes, sir, I told him.”

“What did he say? Didn't let his angry passions rise, did he?”

“No-o; no, sir, he didn't rise nothin'. He didn't get mad neither. But you could see he felt pretty bad. Talked about 'old family glass' and 'priceless airloons' or some such. Said much as he regretted to, he should feel it no more'n justice to have somebody pay damages.”

“Humph!” Captain Sol looked very grave. “Issy, I can see your finish. You'll have to pay for somethin' that's priceless, and how are you goin' to do that? 'Old family glass,' hey? Hum! And I thought I saw the label of a Boston store on that package.”

Obed Gott leaned forward eagerly.

“Is that Major Hardee you're talkin' about?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. He's the only Major we've got. Cap'ns are plenty as June bugs, but Majors and Gen'rals are scarce. Why?”

“Oh, nothin'. Only—” Mr. Gott muttered the remainder of the sentence under his breath. However, the depot master heard it and his eye twinkled.

“You're glad of it!” he exclaimed. “Why, Obed! Major Cuthbertson Scott Hardee! I'm surprised. Better not let the women folks hear you say that.”

“Look here!” cried Captain Stitt, rather tartly, “am I goin' to finish that yarn of mine or don't you want to hear it?”

“BEG your pardon, Bailey. Go on. The last thing you said was what Stingy Gabe said, and that was—”