The morning train for Boston, at that season of the year, reached East Harniss at five minutes to six, an “ungodly hour,” according to the irascible Mr. Ogden Williams, who, in company with some of his wealthy friends, the summer residents, was petitioning the railroad company for a change in the time-table. When Captain Sol Berry, the depot master, walked briskly down Main Street the morning following Mr. Gott's eventful evening at the club, the hands of the clock on the Methodist church tower indicated that the time was twenty minutes to six.

Issy McKay was already at the depot, the doors of which were open. Captain Sol entered the waiting room and unlocked the ticket rack and the little safe. Issy, languidly toying with the broom on the front platform, paused in his pretense of sweeping and awaited permission to go home for breakfast. It came, in characteristic fashion.

“How's the salt air affectin' your appetite, Is?” asked the Captain, casually.

Issy, who, being intensely serious by nature, was uneasy when he suspected the presence of a joke, confusedly stammered that he cal'lated his appetite was all right.

“Payin' for the Major's glass ain't kept you awake worryin', has it?”

“No-o, sir. I—”

“P'r'aps you thought he was the one to 'do the worryin', hey?”

“I—I don't know.”

“Well, what's your folks goin' to have to eat this mornin'?”

Issy admitted his belief that fried clams were to be the breakfast.

“So? Clams? Is, did you ever read the soap advertisement about not bein' a clam?”

“I—I don't know's I ever did. No, sir.”

“All right; I only called your attention to it as a warnin', that's all. When anybody eats as many clams as you do there's a fair chance of his turnin' into one. Now clear out, and don't stay so long at breakfast that you can't get back in time for dinner. Trot!”

Issy trotted. The depot master seated himself by the door of the ticket office and fell into a reverie. It was interrupted by the entrance of Hiram Baker. Captain Hiram was an ex-fishing skipper, fifty-five years of age, who, with his wife, Sophronia, and their infant son, Hiram Joash Baker, lived in a small, old-fashioned house at the other end of the village, near the shore. Captain Hiram, having retired from the sea, got his living, such as it was, from his string of fish traps, or “weirs.”

The depot master hailed the new arrival heartily.

“Hello, there, Hiram!” he cried, rising from his chair. “Glad to see you once in a while. Ain't goin' to leave us, are you? Not goin' abroad for your health, or anything of that kind, hey?”

Captain Baker laughed.

“No,” he answered. “No further abroad than Hyannis. And I'll be back from there tonight, if the Lord's willin' and the cars don't get off the track. Give me a round trip ticket, will you, Sol?”

The depot master retired to the office, returning with the desired ticket. Captain Hiram counted out the price from a confused mass of coppers and silver, emptied into his hand from a blackened leather purse, tied with a string.

“How's Sophrony?” asked the depot master. “Pretty smart, I hope.”

“Yup, she's smart. Has to be to keep up with the rest of the family—'specially the youngest.”

He chuckled. His friend laughed in sympathy.

“The youngest is the most important of all, I s'pose,” he observed. “How IS the junior partner of H. Baker and Son?”

“He ain't a silent partner, I'll swear to that. Honest, Sol, I b'lieve my 'Dusenberry' is the cutest young one outside of a show. I said so only yesterday to Mr. Hilton, the minister. I did, and I meant it.”

“Well, we're all gettin' ready to celebrate his birthday. Ho, ho!”

This was a standard joke and was so recognized and honored. A baby born on the Fourth of July is sure of a national celebration of his birthday. And to Captain Baker and his wife, no celebration, however widespread, could do justice to the importance of the occasion. When, to answer the heart longings of the child-loving couple married many years, the baby came, he was accepted as a special dispensation of Providence and valued accordingly.

“He's got a real nice voice, Hiram,” said Sophronia, gazing proudly at the prodigy, who, clutched gingerly in his father's big hands, was screaming his little red face black. “I shouldn't wonder if he grew up to sing in the choir.”

“That's the kind of voice to make a fo'mast hand step lively!” declared Hiram. “You'll see this boy on the quarter deck of a clipper one of these days.”

Naming him was a portentous proceeding and one not to be lightly gone about. Sophronia, who was a Methodist by descent and early confirmation, was of the opinion that the child should have a Bible name.

The Captain respected his wife's wishes, but put in an ardent plea for his own name, Hiram.

“There's been a Hiram Baker in our family ever since Noah h'isted the main-r'yal on the ark,” he declared. “I'd kinder like to keep the procession a-goin'.”

They compromised by agreeing to make the baby's Christian name Hiram and to add a middle name selected at random from the Scriptures. The big, rickety family Bible was taken from the center table and opened with shaking fingers by Mrs. Baker. She read aloud the first sentence that met her eye: “The son of Joash.”

“Joash!” sneered her husband. “You ain't goin' to cruelize him with that name, be you?”

“Hiram Baker, do you dare to fly in the face of Scriptur'?”

“All right! Have it your own way. Go to sleep now, Hiram Joash, while I sing 'Storm along, John,' to you.”

Little Hiram Joash punched the minister's face with his fat fist when he was christened, to the great scandal of his mother and the ill-concealed delight of his father.

“Can't blame the child none,” declared the Captain. “I'd punch anybody that christened a middle name like that onto me.”

But, in spite of his name, the baby grew and prospered. He fell out of his crib, of course, the moment that he was able, and barked his shins over the big shells by the what-not in the parlor the first time that he essayed to creep. He teethed with more or less tribulation, and once upset the household by an attack of the croup.

They gave up calling him by his first name, because of the Captain's invariably answering when the baby was wanted and not answering when he himself was wanted. Sophronia would have liked to call him Joash, but her husband wouldn't hear of it. At length the father took to calling him “Dusenberry,” and this nickname was adopted under protest.

Captain Hiram sang the baby to sleep every night. There were three songs in the Captain's repertoire. The first was a chanty with a chorus of

The second was the “Bowline Song.”

At the “haul!” the Captain's foot would come down with a thump. Almost the first word little Hiram Joash learned was “haul!” He used to shout it and kick his father vigorously in the vest.

These were fair-weather songs. Captain Hiram sang them when everything was going smoothly. The “Bowline Song” indicated that he was feeling particularly jubilant. He had another that he sang when he was worried. It was a lugubrious ditty, with a refrain beginning:

He sang this during the worst of the teething period, and, later, when the junior partner wrestled with the whooping cough. You could always tell the state of the baby's health by the Captain's choice of songs.

Meanwhile Dusenberry grew and prospered. He learned to walk and to talk, after his own peculiar fashion, and, at the mature age of two years and six months, formally shipped as first mate aboard his father's dory. His duties in this responsible position were to sit in the stern, securely fastened by a strap, while the Captain and his two assistants rowed out over the bar to haul the nets of the deep water fish weir.

The first mate gave the orders, “All hands on deck! 'Tand by to det ship under way!” There was no “sogerin'” aboard the Hiram Junior—that was the dory's name—while the first officer had command.

Captain Hiram, always ready to talk of the wonderful baby, told the depot master of the youngster's latest achievement, which was to get the cover off the butter firkin in the pantry and cover himself with butter from head to heel.

“Ho, ho, ho!” he roared, delightedly, “when Sophrony caught him at it, what do you s'pose he said? Said he was playin' he was a slice of bread and was spreadin' himself. Haw! haw!”

Captain Sol laughed in sympathy.

“But he didn't mean no harm by it,” explained the proud father. “He's got the tenderest little heart in the world. When he found his ma felt bad he bust out cryin' and said he'd scrape it all off again and when it come prayer time he'd tell God who did it, so He'd know 'twa'n't mother that wasted the nice butter. What do you think of that?”

“No use talkin', Hiram,” said the depot master, “that's the kind of boy to have.”

“You bet you! Hello! here's the train. On time, for a wonder. See you later, Sol. You take my advice, get married and have a boy of your own. Nothin' like one for solid comfort.”

The train was coming and they went out to meet it. The only passenger to alight was Mr. Barzilla Wingate, whose arrival had been foretold by Bailey Stitt the previous evening. Barzilla was part owner of a good-sized summer hotel at Wellmouth Neck. He and the depot master were old friends.

After the train had gone Wingate and Captain Sol entered the station together. The Captain had insisted that his friend come home with him to breakfast, instead of going to the hotel. After some persuasion Barzilla agreed. So they sat down to await Issy's arrival. The depot master could not leave the station until the “assistant” arrived.

“Well, Barzilla,” asked Captain Sol, “what's the newest craze over to the hotel?”

“The newest,” said Wingate, with a grin, “is automobiles.”

“Automobiles? Why, I thought 'twas baseball.”

“Baseball was last summer. We had a championship team then. Yes, sir, we won out, though for a spell it looked pretty dubious. But baseball's an old story. We've had football since, and now—”

“Wait a minute! Football? Why, now I do remember. You had a football team there and—and wa'n't there somethin' queer, some sort of a—a robbery, or stealin', or swindlin' connected with it? Seems's if I'd heard somethin' like that.”

Mr. Wingate looked his friend over, winked, and asked a question.

“Sol,” he said, “you ain't forgot how to keep a secret?”

The depot master smiled. “I guess not,” he said.

“Well, then, I'm goin' to trust you with one. I'm goin' to tell you the whole business about that robbin'. It's all mixed up with football and millionaires and things—and it's a dead secret, the truth of it. So when I tell you it mustn't go no further.

“You see,” he went on, “it was late into August when Peter T. was took down with the inspiration. Not that there was anything 'specially new in his bein' took. He was subject to them seizures, Peter was, and every time they broke out in a fresh place. The Old Home House itself was one of his inspirations, so was the hirin' of college waiters, the openin' of the two 'Annex' cottages, the South Shore Weather Bureau, and a whole lot more. Sometimes, as in the weather-bureau foolishness, the disease left him and t'other two patients—meanin' me and Cap'n Jonadab—pretty weak in the courage, and wasted in the pocketbook; but gen'rally they turned out good, and our systems and bank accounts was more healthy than normal. One of Peter T.'s inspirations was consider'ble like typhoid fever—if you did get over it, you felt better for havin' had it.

“This time the attack was in the shape of a 'supplementary season.' 'Twas Peter's idea that shuttin' up the Old Home the fust week in September was altogether too soon.

“'What's the use of quittin',' says he, 'while there's bait left and the fish are bitin'? Why not keep her goin' through September and October? Two or three ads—MY ads—in the papers, hintin' that the ducks and wild geese are beginnin' to keep the boarders awake by roostin' in the back yard and hollerin' at night—two or three of them, and we'll have gunners here by the regiment. Other summer hotels do it, the Wapatomac House and the rest, so why not us? It hurts my conscience to see good money gettin' past the door 'count of the “Not at Home” sign hung on the knob. What d'you say, partners?' says he.

“Well, we had consider'ble to say, partic'lar Cap'n Jonadab. 'Twas too risky and too expensive. Gunnin' was all right except for one thing—that is, that there wa'n't none wuth mentionin'.

“'Ducks are scurser round here than Democrats in a Vermont town-meetin',' growled the Cap'n. 'And as for geese! How long has it been since you see a goose, Barzilla?'

“'Land knows!' says I. 'I can remember as fur back as the fust time Washy Sparrow left off workin', but I can't—'

“Brown told us to shut up. Did we cal'late he didn't know what he was talkin' about?

“'I can see two geese right now,' he snaps; 'but they're so old and leather-headed you couldn't shoot an idea into their brains with a cannon. Gunnin' ain't the whole thing. My makin' a noise like a duck is only to get the would-be Teddy Roosevelts headed for this neck of the woods. After they get here, it's up to us to keep 'em. And I can think of as many ways to do that as the Cap'n can of savin' a quarter. Our baseball team's been a success, ain't it? Sure thing! Then why not a football team? Parker says he'll get it together, and coach and cap'n it, too. And Robinson and his daughter have agreed to stay till October fifteenth. So there's a start, anyhow.'

“'Twas a start, and a pretty good one. The Robinsons had come to the Old Home about the fust of August, and they was our star boarders. 'G. W. Robinson' was the old man's name as entered on the hotel log, and his daughter answered to the hail of 'Grace'—that is, when she took a notion to answer at all. The Robinsons was what Peter T. called 'exclusive.' They didn't mix much with the rest of the bunch, but kept to themselves in their rooms, partic'lar when a fresh net full of boarders was hauled aboard. Then they seemed to take an observation of every arrival afore they mingled; questioned the pedigree and statistics of all hands, and acted mighty suspicious.

“The only thing that really stirred Papa Robinson up and got him excited and friendly was baseball and boat racin'. He was an old sport, that was plain, the only real plain thing about him; the rest was mystery. As for Grace, she wa'n't plain by a good sight, bein' what Brown called a 'peach.' She could have had every single male in tow if she'd wanted 'em. Apparently she didn't want em, preferrin' to be lonesome and sad and interestin'. Yes, sir, there was a mystery about them Robinsons, and even Peter T. give in to that.

“'If 'twas anybody else,' says he, 'I'd say the old man was a crook, down here hidin' from the police. But he's too rich for that, and always has been. He ain't any fly-by-night. I can tell the real article without lookin' for the “sterlin'” mark on the handle. But I'll bet all the cold-storage eggs in the hotel against the henyard—and that's big odds—that he wa'n't christened Robinson. And his face is familiar to me. I've seen it somewhere, either in print or in person. I wish I knew where.'

“So if the Robinsons had agreed to stay—them and their two servants—that was a big help, as Brown said. And Parker would help, too, though we agreed there wa'n't no mystery about him. He was a big, broad-shouldered young feller just out of college somewheres, who had drifted our way the fortni't after the Robinsons came, with a reputation for athletics and a leanin' toward cigarettes and Miss Grace. She leaned a little, too, but hers wa'n't so much of a bend as his was. He was dead gone on her, and if she'd have decided to stay under water, he'd have ducked likewise. 'Twas easy enough to see why HE believed in a 'supplementary season.'

“Me and Jonadab argued it out with Peter, and finally we met halfway, so's to speak. We wouldn't keep the whole shebang open, but we'd shut up everything but one Annex cottage, and advertise that as a Gunner's Retreat. So we done it.

“And it worked. Heavens to Betsy—yes! It worked so well that by the second week in September we had to open t'other Annex. The gunnin' was bad, but Peter's ads fetched the would-be's, and his 'excursions' and picnics and the football team held 'em. The football team especial. Parker cap'ned that, and, from the gunnin' crew and the waiters and some fishermen in the village, he dug up an eleven that showed symptoms of playin' the game. We played the Trumet High School, and beat it, thanks to Parker, and that tickled Pa Robinson so that he bought a two-handled silver soup tureen—'lovin' cup,' he called it—and agreed to give it to the team round about that won the most of the series. So the series was arranged, the Old Home House crowd and the Wapatomac House eleven and three high-school gangs bein' in it. And 'twas practice, practice, practice, from then on.

“When we opened the second Annex, the question of help got serious. Most of our college waiters had gone back to school, and we was pretty shy of servants. So we put some extry advertisin' in the Cape weeklies, and trusted in Providence.

“The evenin' followin' the ad in the weeklies, I was settin' smokin' on the back piazza of the shut-up main hotel, when I heard the gate click and somebody crunchin' along the clam-shell path. I sung out: 'Ahoy, there!' and the cruncher, whoever he was, come my way. Then I made out that he was a tall young chap, with his hands in his pockets.

“'Good evenin',' says he. 'Is this Mr. Brown?'

“'Thankin' you for the compliment, it ain't,' I says. 'My name's Wingate.'

“'Oh!' says he. 'Is that so? I've heard father speak of you, Mr. Wingate. He is Solomon Bearse, of West Ostable. I think you know him slightly.'

“Know him? Everybody on the Cape knows Sol Bearse; by reputation, anyhow. He's the richest, meanest old cranberry grower and coastin'-fleet owner in these parts.

“'Is Sol Bearse your dad?' I asks, astonished. 'Why, then, you must be Gus?'

“'No,' he says. 'I'm the other one—Fred.'

“'Oh, the college one. The one who's goin' to be a lawyer.'

“'Well, yes—and no,' says he. 'I WAS the college one, as you call it, but I'm not goin' to be a lawyer. Father and I have had some talk on that subject, and I think we've settled it. I—well, just at present, I'm not sure what I'm goin' to be. That's what I've come to you for. I saw your ad in the Item, and—I want a job.'

“I was set all aback, and left with my canvas flappin', as you might say. Sol Bearse's boy huntin' a job in a hotel kitchen! Soon's I could fetch a whole breath, I wanted partic'lars. He give 'em to me.

“Seems he'd been sent out to one of the colleges in the Middle West by his dad, who was dead set on havin' a lawyer in the family. But the more he studied, the less he hankered for law. What he wanted to be was a literature—a book-agent or a poet, or some such foolishness. Old Sol, havin' no more use for a poet than he had for a poor relation, was red hot in a minute. Was this what he'd been droppin' good money in the education collection box for? Was this—etcetery and so on. He'd be—what the church folks say he will be—if Fred don't go in for law. Fred, he comes back that he'll be the same if he does. So they disowned each other by mutual consent, as the Irishman said, and the boy marches out of the front door, bag and baggage. And, as the poetry market seemed to be sort of overly supplied at the present time, he decided he must do somethin' to earn a dollar, and, seein' our ad, he comes to Wellmouth Port and the Old Home.

“'But look here,' says I, 'we ain't got no job for a literary. We need fellers to pass pie and wash dishes. And THAT ain't no poem.'

“Well, he thought perhaps he could help make up advertisin'.

“'You can't,' I told him. 'One time, when Peter T. Brown was away, me and Cap'n Jonadab cal'lated that a poetry advertisement would be a good idee and we managed to shake out ten lines or so. It begun:

“'We thought 'twas pretty slick, but we never got but one answer, and that was a circular from one of them correspondence schools of authors, sayin' they'd let us in on a course at cut rates. And the next thing we knew we see that poem in the joke page of a Boston paper. I never—'

“He laughed, quiet and sorrowful. He had the quietest way of speakin', anyhow, and his voice was a lovely tenor. To hear it purrin' out of his big, tall body was as unexpected as a hymn tune in a cent-in-the-slot talkin' machine.

“'Too bad,' he says. 'As a waiter, I'm afraid—'

“Just then the door of one of the Annex houses opened sudden, and there stood Grace Robinson. The light behind her showed her up plain as could be. I heard Fred Bearse make a kind of gaspin' noise in his throat.

“'What a lovely night!' she says, half to herself. Then she calls: 'Papa, dear, you really ought to see the stars.'

“Old man Robinson, who I judged was in the settin' room, snarled out somethin' which wa'n't no compliment to the stars. Then he ordered her to come in afore she catched cold. She sighed and obeyed orders, shuttin' the door astern of her. Next thing I knew that literary tenor grabbed my arm—'twa'n't no canary-bird grip, neither.

“'Who was that?' he whispers, eager.

“I told him. 'That's the name they give,' says I, 'but we have doubts about its bein' the real one. You see, there's some mystery about them Robinsons, and—'

“'I'll take that waiter's place,' he says, quick. 'Shall I go right in and begin now? Don't stop to argue, man; I say I'll take it.'

“And he did take it by main strength, pretty nigh. Every time I'd open my mouth he'd shut it up, and at last I give in, and showed him where he could sleep.

“'You turn out at five sharp,' I told him. 'And you needn't bother to write no poems while you're dressin', neither.'

“'Good night,' he answers, brisk. 'Go, will you, please? I want to think.'

“I went. 'Tain't until an hour later that I remembered he hadn't asked one word concernin' the wages. And next mornin' he comes to me and suggests that perhaps 'twould be as well if I didn't tell his real name. He was pretty sure he'd been away schoolin' so long that he wouldn't be recognized. 'And incognitos seem to be fashionable here,' he purrs, soft and gentle.

“I wouldn't know an incognito if I stepped on one, but the tenor voice of him kind of made me sick.

“'All right,' I snaps, sarcastic. 'Suppose I call you “Willie.” How'll that do?'

“'Do as well as anything, I guess,' he says. Didn't make no odds to him. If I'd have called him 'Maud,' he'd have been satisfied.

“He waited in Annex Number Two, which was skippered by Cap'n Jonadab. And, for a poet, he done pretty well, so the Cap'n said.

“'But say, Barzilla,' asks Jonadab, 'does that Willie thing know the Robinsons?'

“'Guess not,' I says. But, thinkin' of the way he'd acted when the girl come to the door: 'Why?'

“'Oh, nothin' much. Only when he come in with the doughnuts the fust mornin' at breakfast, I thought Grace sort of jumped and looked funny. Anyhow, she didn't eat nothin' after that. P'r'aps that was on account of her bein' out sailin' the day afore, though.'

“I said I cal'lated that was it, but all the same I was interested. And when, a day or so later, I see Grace and Willie talkin' together earnest, out back of the kitchen, I was more so. But I never said nothin'. I've been seafarin' long enough to know when to keep my main hatch closed.

“The supplementary season dragged along, but it wa'n't quite the success it looked like at the start. The gunnin' that year was even worse than usual, and excursions and picnics in late September ain't all joy, by no manner of means. We shut up the second Annex at the end of the month, and transferred the help to Number One. Precious few new boarders come, and a good many of the old ones quit. Them that did stay, stayed on account of the football. We was edgin' up toward the end of the series, and our team and the Wapatomac crowd was neck and neck. It looked as if the final game between them and us, over on their grounds, would settle who'd have the soup tureen.

“Pa Robinson and Parker had been quite interested in Willie when he fust come. They thought he might play with the eleven, you see. But he wouldn't. Set his foot right down.

“'I don't care for athletics,' he says, mild but firm. 'They used to interest me somewhat, but not now.'

“The old man was crazy. He'd heard about Willie's literature leanin's, and he give out that he'd never see a writer yet that wa'n't a 'sissy.' Wanted us to fire Bearse right off, but we kept him, thanks to me. If he'd seen the 'sissy' kick the ball once, same as I did, it might have changed his mind some. He was passin' along the end of the field when the gang was practicin', and the ball come his way. He caught it on the fly, and sent it back with his toe. It went a mile, seemed so, whirlin' and whizzin'. Willie never even looked to see where it went; just kept on his course for the kitchen.

“The big sensation hit us on the fifth of October, right after supper. Me and Peter T. and Jonadab was in the office, when down comes Henry, old Robinson's man servant, white as a sheet and wringin' his hands distracted.

“'Oh, I say, Mr. Brown!' says he, shakin' all over like a quicksand. 'Oh, Mr. Brown, sir! Will you come right up to Mr. Sterz—I mean Mr. Robinson's room, please, sir! 'E wants to see you gentlemen special. 'Urry, please! 'Urry!'

“So we ''urried,' wonderin' what on earth was the matter. And when we got to the Robinson rooms, there was Grace, lookin' awful pale, and the old man himself ragin' up and down like a horse mack'rel in a fish weir.

“Soon as papa sees us, he jumped up in the air, so's to speak, and when he lit 'twas right on our necks. His daughter, who seemed to be the sanest one in the lot, run and shut the door.

“'Look here, you!' raved the old gent, shakin' both fists under Peter T.'s nose. 'Didn't you tell me this was a respectable hotel? And ain't we payin' for respectability?'

“Peter admitted it, bein' too much set back to argue, I cal'late.

“'Yes!' rages Robinson. 'We pay enough for all the respectability in this state. And yet, by the livin' Moses! I can't go out of my room to spoil my digestion with your cussed dried-apple pie, but what I'm robbed!'

“'Robbed!' the three of us gurgles in chorus.

“'Yes, sir! Robbed! Robbed! ROBBED! What do you think I came here for? And why do I stay here all this time? 'Cause I LIKE it? 'Cause I can't afford a better place? No, sir! By the great horn spoon! I come here because I thought in this forsaken hole I could get lost and be safe. And now—'

“He tore around like a water spout, Grace trying to calm him, and Henry and Suzette, the maid, groanin' and sobbin' accompaniments in the corner. I looked at the dresser. There was silver-backed brushes and all sorts of expensive doodads spread out loose, and Miss Robinson's watch and a di'mond ring, and a few other knickknacks. I couldn't imagine a thief's leavin' all that truck, and I said so.

“'Them?' sputters Pa, frantic. 'What the brimstone blazes do you think I care for them? I could buy that sort of stuff by the car-load, if I wanted to. But what's been stole is—Oh, get out and leave me alone! You're no good, the lot of you!'

“'Father has had a valuable paper stolen from him,' explains Grace. 'A very valuable paper.'

“'Valuable!' howls her dad. 'VALUABLE! Why, if Gordon and his gang get that paper, they've got ME, that's all. Their suit's as good as won, and I know it. And to think that I've kept it safe up to within a month of the trial, and now—Grace Sterzer, you stop pattin' my head. I'm no pussy-cat! By the—' And so on, indefinite.

“When he called his daughter Sterzer, instead of Robinson, I cal'lated he was loony, sure enough. But Peter T. slapped his leg.

“'Oh!' he says, as if he'd seen a light all to once. 'Ah, NOW I begin to get wise. I knew your face was—See here, Mr. Sterzer—Mr. Gabriel Sterzer—don't you think we'd better have a real, plain talk on this matter? Let's get down to tacks. Was the paper you lost something to do with the Sterzer-Gordon lawsuit? The Aluminum Trust case, you know?'

“The old man stopped dancin', stared at him hard, and then set down and wiped his forehead.

“'Something to DO with it?' he groans. 'Why, you idiot, it was IT! If Gordon's lawyers get that paper—and they've been after it for a year—then the fat's all in the fire. There's nothin' left for me to do but compromise.'

“When Peter T. mentioned the name of Gabriel Sterzer, me and Jonadab begun to see a light, too. 'Course you remember the bust-up of the Aluminum Trust—everybody does. The papers was full of it. There'd been a row among the two leadin' stockholders, Gabe Sterzer and 'Major' Gordon. Them two double-back-action millionaires practically owned the trust, and the state 'twas in, and the politics of that state, and all the politicians. Each of 'em run three or four banks of their own, and a couple of newspapers, and other things, till you couldn't rest. Then they had the row, and Gabe had took his playthings and gone home, as you might say. Among the playthings was a majority of the stock, and the Major had sued for it. The suit, with pictures of the leadin' characters and the lawyers and all, had been spread-eagled in the papers everywheres. No wonder 'Robinson's' face was familiar.

“But it seemed that Sterzer had held the trump card in the shape of the original agreement between him and Gordon. And he hung on to it like the Old Scratch to a fiddler. Gordon and his crowd had done everything, short of murder, to get it; hired folks to steal it, and so on, because, once they DID get it, Gabe hadn't a leg to stand on—he'd have to divide equal, which wa'n't his desires, by a good sight. The Sterzer lawyers had wanted him to leave it in their charge, but no—he knew too much for that. The pig-headed old fool had carted it with him wherever he went, and him and his daughter had come to the Old Home House because he figgered nobody would think of their bein' in such an out-of-the-way place as that. But they HAD thought of it. Anyhow, the paper was gone.

“'But Mr. Robinzer—Sterson, I mean—' cut in Cap'n Jonadab, 'you could have 'em took up for stealin', couldn't you? They wouldn't dare—'

“''Course they'd dare! S'pose they don't know I wouldn't have that agreement get in the papers? Dare! They'd dare anything. If they get away with it, by hook or crook, all I can do is haul in my horns and compromise. If they've got that paper, the suit never comes to trial.'

“'Well, they ain't got it yet,' says Peter, decided. 'Whoever stole the thing is right here in this boardin'-house, and it's up to us to see that they stay here. Barzilla, you take care of the mail. No letters must go out to-night. Jonadab, you set up and watch all hands, help and all. Nobody must leave this place, if we have to tie em. And I'll keep a gen'ral overseein' of the whole thing, till we get a detective. And—if you'll stand the waybill, Mr. Sterzer—we'll have the best Pinkerton in Boston down here in three hours by special train. By the way, are you sure the thing IS lifted? Where was it?'

“Old Gabe kind of colored up, and give in that 'twas under his pillow. He always kept it there after the beds was made.

“'Humph!' grunts Brown. 'Why didn't you hang it on the door-knob? Under the pillow! If I was a sneak thief, the first place I'd look would be under the pillow; after that I'd tackle the jewelry box and the safe.'

“There was consider'ble more talk. Seems the Sterzers had left Henry on guard, same as they always done, when they went to supper. They could trust him and Suzette absolute, they said. But Henry had gone down the hall after a drink of water, and when he had got back everything apparently was all right. 'Twa'n't till Gabe himself come up that he found the paper gone. I judged he'd made it interestin' for Henry; the poor critter looked that way.

“All hands agreed to keep mum for the present and to watch. Peter hustled to the office and called up the Pinkertons over the long distance.”

Mr. Wingate paused. Captain Sol was impatient.

“Go on,” he said. “Don't stop now, I'm gettin' anxious.”

Barzilla rose to his feet. “Here's your McKay man back again,” he said. “Let's go up to your house and have breakfast. We can talk while we're eatin'. I'm empty as a poorhouse boarder's pocketbook.”