But locatin' him wa'n't such an easy matter. All we knew was he lived somewheres in Wampaquoit, and Wampaquoit is ten miles from nowhere, in the woods up around Cohasset Narrows. I got off the train at the Narrows depot, and, after considerable cruisin' and bargainin', I hired a horse and buggy, and started to drive over. I lost my way and got onto a wood road. Don't ask me about that road. I don't want to talk about it. I'd been on salt water for a good many years, and I'd seen some rough goin', but rockin' and bouncin' over that wood road come nigher to makin' me seasick than any of my Grand Banks trips. Narrow! And grown over! My land! I had to stoop to keep from bein' scraped off the seat; and, whenever I'd straighten up to ease my back, a pine branch would fetch me a slap in the face that you could hear half a mile.

As for my language, you could hear that two miles. That road ruined my moral reputation, I'm afraid. They had a revival meetin' in the Narrows meetin'-house the follerin' week, but whether 'twas on my account or not I don't know.

However, I made port after a spell—that is, I run afoul of a house and lot in a clearin' sort of; and I asked a black-lookin' male critter, who was asleep under a tree, how to get to Wampaquoit. He riz upon one elbow, brushed the mosquitoes away from his mouth, and made answer that 'twas Wampaquoit I was in.

"But the town?" says I. "Where's the town?"

Well, it appeared that this was the town, or part of it. The rest was scattered along through the next three or four miles of wilderness. Where was the center? Oh, there wa'n't any. There was a schoolhouse and a meetin'-house, and a blacksmith's, and such, on the main road up a piece, that was all.

"But where do the Injuns live?" I wanted to know. "The knittin' women, the Lamp Mat Trust—where does it—she—they, I mean, live?"

He couldn't seem to make much out of this; and by and by he went into the house and fetched out his wife. She was about as black as he was; and I cal'lated they was a Portygee family; but, no, lo and behold you, it turned out they was Injuns themselves! But they never heard of anybody named Rose, nor of anybody that knit centerpieces, nor of an "antique," nor anything. I give it up pretty soon, for my temper was beginnin' to heat up the surroundin' air, and the mosquitoes seemed to think I was "Old Home Week," and come for miles around and brought their relations. I give up and drove away over a fairly decent road this time, till I found another house. But this was just the same; Injuns in plenty—'most everybody was part Injun—but nobody had heard of our special Mohican nor of an "antique." And, which was queerer still, they never heard of anybody around that done knittin' or crochetin' or lace makin', or had sold any, if they did do it. And they didn't any of 'em talk story-book Injun dialect, same as Uncas did. They used pretty fair United States.

Well, to bile this yarn of mine down, I rode through those woods and around the settlement most of that afternoon. Then I was ready to give up, and so was my old livery-stable horse. He'd gone dead lame, and 'twould have been a sin and a shame to make him walk a step farther. I took him to the blacksmith's shop, and left him there. I pounded mosquitoes, and asked the blacksmith some questions, and he pounded iron and wanted to ask me a million; but neither of us got a heap of satisfaction out of the duet.

Two things seemed to be sure and sartin. One was that Solomon Uncas Rose, the "child of the forest" and chief of the tattin' tribe, was mistook when he give Wampaquoit as his home town; and t'other that, much as I wanted to, I couldn't get out of that town until evenin'. My horse wa'n't fit to travel, and I couldn't hire another, not until after the blacksmith had had his supper. Then he'd hitch up and drive me back to the Narrows.

But luck was with me for once. Up the road came bumpin' a nice-lookin' mare and runabout wagon, with a pleasant-faced, gray-haired man on the seat. The mare pulled up at the blacksmith's house, and the man got down and went inside.

"Who's that?" says I. "And what's he done to be sentenced to this place?"

"Doctor," says the blacksmith, with a grunt—he was one-quarter Injun, too. "Comes from West Ostable. My wife's sick."

"I sympathize with her," says I. "I'm sick, too—homesick. Maybe this doctor'll help me out. What I need is a change of scene; and I need it bad."

So, when the doctor come out of the house, I hailed him, and asked him if he'd do a kindness to a shipwrecked mariner stranded on a lee shore.

"Why, what's the matter?" says he, laughin'.

"Matter enough," I told him. "I want to go home. Besides, a merciful man is merciful to the beasts; and if I stay here much longer these mosquitoes'll die of rush of my blood to their heads. I understand you come from West Ostable, Doctor; but if 'twas Jericho 'twould be all the same. I want you to let me ride there with you. And you can charge anything you want to."

That doctor was a fine feller. He laughed some more, and told me to jump right in. Said he'd got to see one more patient on his way back; but, if I didn't mind that stop, he'd be glad of my company. So I told the blacksmith to keep my horse and buggy overnight, and when I got to West Ostable I'd telephone for the livery folks to send for 'em. Then I got into the doctor's runabout, and off we drove.

We did consider'ble talkin' durin' the drive; but 'twas all general, and nothin' definite on my part. 'Course, he was curious to know what I was doin' 'way over there; but I said I come on business, and let it go at that. I was beginnin' to have some suspicions, and I cal'lated not to be laughed at if I could help it. So we drove and drove; and, by and by, when I judged we must be pretty nigh to West Ostable, he turned the horse into a side road, and brought him to anchor alongside of an old ramshackle house, with a tumble-down barn and out-buildin's astern of it.

"Now, Cap'n," he says, "I'll have to ask you to wait a few minutes while I see that last patient of mine. 'Twon't take long."

"Patient?" says I. "Good land! Does anybody live in this fag end of nothin'ness?"

"Yes," says he. "'Twas empty for years, but now a couple of fellers live here all by themselves. Foreigners of some kind they are. Been here for a month or more. One of 'em let a packin' case fall on his foot, and—"

"I sympathize with him," says I. "The same thing happened to me a spell ago. But a packin' case! Cranberry crate, you mean, I guess."

"Maybe so," he says. "I didn't ask. But 'twas somethin' heavy, anyhow. Nobody seems to know much about these chaps or what they do. Well, be as comfort'ble as you can. I'll be back soon."

He took his medicine satchel and went into the house. Soon's he was out of sight, I climbed out of the buggy and started explorin'. I was curious.

I wandered around back of the house. Such a slapjack place you never see in your life! Windows plugged with papers and old rags, shingles off the roof, chimneys shy of bricks—'twas a miracle it didn't blow down long ago. Whoever the tenants was, they was only temporary, I judged, and willin' to take chances.

From somewheres out in the barn I heard a scratchin' kind of noise, and I headed for there. The big door was open a little ways, and I squeezed through. 'Twas pretty dark, and I couldn't see much for a minute; but soon as my eyes got used to the gloominess, I saw lots of things. That barn was half filled with boxes and crates, some empty and some not. There was a horse in the stall—an old white horse—and standin' in the middle of the floor was a wagon heaped with things, and covered with a piece of tarpaulin. I lifted the tarpaulin. Underneath it was a spinnin' wheel, an old-fashioned table, two chairs, and a basket. There was embroidery and fancywork in the basket.

Then I took a few soundin's among the full boxes and crates standin' round. I didn't do much of this, 'cause the scratchin' noise kept up in a room at the back of the barn, and I wa'n't anxious to disturb the scratcher, whoever he was. But I saw a plenty. There was enough bran-new "antiques" and "genuine" Injun knittin' work in them crates and boxes to stock the "Colonial Exchange" for six weeks, even with better trade than we'd had.

I'd seen all I wanted to in that room, so I tiptoed into the other. A feller was in there, standin' back to me, and hard at work. He was sandpaperin' the polish off a mahogany sewin' table; the kind Mrs. Burke Smythe called a "find," and had in her best front parlor as an example of what our great-granddads used to make, and we wa'n't capable of in these cheap and shoddy days. There was another "find" on the floor side of him, a chair layin' on its side. Pasted on the under side of the seat was a paper label with "Grand Rivers Furniture Manufacturing Company" printed on it. I judged that the hand of Time hadn't got to work on that chair yet, but it would as soon as it had antiqued the table.

I watched the mellowin' influence gettin' in its licks—much as twenty year passed over that table in the three minutes I stood there—and then I spoke.

"Hello, shipmate!" says I. "You're busy, ain't you?"

He jumped as if I'd stuck a sail needle in him, the table tipped over with a bang, and he swung around and faced me. And I'm blessed if he wa'n't that Armenian critter; the one that the clerk had talked to—the "last survivor of the peddlin' crew."

I was expectin' 'most anything to happen, and I was kind of hopin' it would. My fists sort of shut of themselves. But it didn't happen. I knew the feller; but, as luck would have it, he didn't recognize me. He swallered hard a couple of times, and then he says, pretty average ugly:

"Vat d'ye want?"

"Oh, nothin'," says I. "I just drove over with the doctor, and I cruised 'round the premises a little, that's all. You must do a good business here. Make this stuff yourself?"

"No," he snapped.

I could see that he was dyin' to chuck me out, and didn't dast to. I picked up the chair and looked at it.

"Humph!" I says. "Grand Rivers Company, hey? Buy of them, do you?"

"Yes," says he.

"And this?" I took a centerpiece out of one of the boxes. "This come from Grand Rivers, too?"

"No," says he. "Boston. Is dere anything else you vant to know?"

"Guess not. You the sick man?"

"No; mine brudder."

"Your brother, hey? Let's see. I wonder if I don't know him. Kind of tall and thin, ain't he?"

He sniffed contemptuous.

"No," says he, "he's short and fat."

"Beg your pardon," says I, "guess I was mistook. Well, I must be gettin' back to the buggy; the doctor's prob'ly waitin' for me. Good day, mister."

He never said good-by; but I saw him watchin' me all the way to the gate. I climbed into the buggy, and set there till he went back into the barn; then I got down and hurried to the front of the house. The door wa'n't fastened, and I went in. I met the doctor in the hall. He was some surprised to see me there.

"Hello, Doc!" says I. "Where's your patient?"

"In there," says he, pointin' to the door astern of him. "But—"

"How's he gettin' along?" I wanted to know.

"Why, he's better," he says. "He's practically all right. I wanted him to get up and walk, but he wouldn't."

"Wouldn't, hey?" says I. "Humph! Well, maybe he wouldn't walk for you; but I'll bet I can make him fly."

Before he could stop me, I flung that door open and walked into that room. The sufferer from fallin' packin' boxes was settin' in one chair with his foot in another. I drew off, and slapped him on the shoulder hard as I could.

"Hello, Sol Uncas Mohicans!" I sung out. "How's genuine antique lamp mats these days?"

For about two seconds he just set there and looked at me, set and glared, with his mouth open. Then he let out a scream like a scared woman, jumped out of that chair, and made for the kitchen door, lame foot and all. I headed him off, and he turned and set sail for the one I'd come in at. He reached the front hall just ahead of me; but my boot caught him at the top step and helped him some. He never stopped at the gate, but went head-first into the woods whoopin' anthems.

The sandpaperin' chap came runnin' out of the barn, and I took after him; but he didn't wait to see what I had to say. He dove for the woods on his side. We had the premises to ourselves, and I went back and picked up the doctor, who'd been upset by the "child of the forest" on his way to the ancestral tall timber.

"What—what—what?" gasps the medical man. "For Heaven sakes! Why, he wouldn't try to walk when I asked him to. How did you do that?"

"Easy enough," says I. "'Twas an old-fashioned treatment, but it helps—in some cases. Just layin' on of hands, that's all. Now, Doc, afore you ask another question, let me ask you one. Ain't that critter's name Rose?"

He was consider'ble shook, but he managed to grin a little.

"No," says he, "but you've guessed pretty near it."

Then he told me what the name was.

I rode back to West Ostable with that doctor and took the evenin' train home. Jim Henry was waitin' for me on the store platform when I got out of the depot wagon.

"Well?" he wanted to know. "Did you find him?"

"Humph!" says I. "I did find the lost tribes, a couple of members of 'em, anyway."

"What do you mean by that?" says he.

"Come somewheres where 'tain't so public and I'll tell you."

So we went back into the back room and I told him my yarn. He listened, with his mouth open, gettin' madder and madder all the time.

"Now," says I, endin' up, "the way I look at it is this. I've been thinkin' it out on the cars and I cal'late we'll have to do this way. We ain't crooks—that is, we didn't mean to be—and now we know all our 'antiques' are frauds and our 'Injun curios' made up to Boston, we must either shut up the 'Exchange' or go back to home products. We'll have to keep mum about those we have sold, because most of 'em have been carted out of town and we don't know where to locate the buyers. But, for my part, bein' average honest and meanin' to be square, I feel mighty bad. What do you say?"

He said enough. He felt as bad as I did about stickin' our customers, but what seemed to cut him the most was that somebody had got ahead of him in business.

"Think of it!" says he. "Skipper, we're gold-bricked! Cheated! Faked! Done! Think of it! If I could only get my hands on that—"

"Hold on a minute," says I. "Better think the whole of it while you're about it. We set out to drive those peddlers out of what was their trade. If they was smart enough to turn the tables and make a good profit out of sellin' us the stuff, I don't know as I blame 'em much. It was just tit for tat—or so it seems to me now that I've cooled off."

"Maybe so," says he; "but it hurts my pride just the same. James Henry Jacobs, doctor of sick businesses, beat by a couple of peddlers from Armenia!"

"Hold on again," I says. "I ain't told you their real name yet."

"Their name?" he says. "I know it already. It's Rose."

"Not accordin' to that West Ostable doctor, it ain't. The name they give him was Rosenstein."

He looked at me for a spell without speakin'. Then he smiled, heaved a long breath, and reached over and shook my hand.

"Whew!" says he. "Skipper, I feel better. Richard's himself again. To be beat in a business deal by Roses is one thing—but by Rosensteins is another. You can't beat the Rosensteins in business."

"Not in the secondhand and by-productin' business you can't," says I. "Them lines belong to 'em. We hadn't any right to butt in."

And we both laughed, good and hearty.

"But," says I, after a little, "what'll we do with that curio room, anyway? Give it up?"

"Not much!" says he, emphatic. "I guess we'll have to give up the antiques; but we've got the winter ahead of us, Skipper, and the Ostable County embroidery crop flourishes best in cold weather. We'll start the old ladies knittin' again and have a fairly good-sized stock when the autos commence runnin' once more. Give up the Colonial Pilgrim Mothers? I should say not!"

"All right," I says, dubious. "You may be right, Jim; you generally are. But I'm a little scary of this by-product game. It'll get us into serious trouble, I'm afraid, some day. It's easier to steer one big craft, than 'tis to maneuver a fleet of little ones."

He sniffed, scornful. "As I understand it, Cap'n Zeb," he says, "this business of yours was in a pretty feeble condition when you called me in to prescribe."

"No doubt of that, Jim, but—"

"Yes. And it's a healthy, growin' child now."

"Yes. It sartin is."

"Then, if I was you, I'd take my medicine and be thankful. Time enough to complain when you commence to go into another decline. Ain't that so?"

I didn't answer.

"Isn't it so?" he asked again.

"Maybe," I said; "but it may be a fatal disease next time; and it's better to keep well than to be cured—and a lot cheaper."

He said I was a reg'lar bullfrog for croakin', and hinted that I was in the back row of the primer class so fur's business instinct went. I had a feelin' that he was right, but I had another feelin' that I was right, too. However, there was nothin' to do but keep quiet and wait the next development. Afore Christmas the development landed with both feet.

I'd heard the news twice already that mornin'. Fust at the Poquit House breakfast table, where 'twas served along with the chopped hay cereal and warmed over and picked to pieces, as you might say, all through the b'iled eggs and spider-bread, plumb down to the doughnuts and imitation coffee. Then I'd no sooner got outdoor than Solon Saunders sighted me, and he 'bout ship and beat acrost the road like a porgie-boat bearin' down on a school of fish. He was so excited that he couldn't wait to get alongside, but commenced heavin' overboard his cargo of information while he was in mid-channel.

"Did you hear about the Higgins Place bein' rented, Cap'n Snow?" he sung out. "It's been took for next summer and—"

"Yes, yes, I heard it," says I. "Fine seasonable weather we're havin' these days. Don't see any signs of snow yet, do you?"

If he'd been skipper of a pleasure boat with a picnic party aboard he couldn't have paid less attention to my weather signals.

"It's been hired for an eatin'-house," he says, puffin' and out of breath. "A man by the name of Fred from Buffalo, has hired it, and—"

"Fred, hey?" I interrupted. "Humph! 'Cordin' to the proclamations I heard he cruises under the name of George—Eben George—and he hails from Bangor."

"No, no!" he says, emphatic. "His name's Edgar Fred and it's Buffalo he comes from. Henry Williams told me and he got it from his wife's aunt, Mrs. Debby Baker, and her cousin by marriage told her. She is a Knowles—the cousin is—married one of the Denboro Knowleses—and she got it from Peleg Kendrick's nephew whose stepmother is related to the woman that used to do old Judge Higgins's cookin' when he was alive. So it come straight, you see."

"Yes," I says, "about as straight as the eel went through the snarled fish net. All right. I don't care. How's your rheumatiz gettin' on, Solon?"

I thought that would fetch him, but it didn't. Gen'rally speakin', he'd talk for an hour about his rheumatiz and never skip an ache; but now he was too much interested in the Higgins Place even to catalogue his symptoms.

"It's some better," he says, "since I tried the Electric Ointment out of the newspaper. But, Cap'n Zeb, did you know that this Fred man was goin' to start a swell dinin'-room for automobile folks? He is. He's had all kinds of experience in them lines. He's goin' to have foreign help and a chief Frenchman to do the cookin' and—and I don't know what all."

"I guess that's right," says I. "Well, I don't know what all, either, and I ain't goin' to worry. We'll see what we shall see, as the blind feller said. Hello! there's the minister over there and I'll bet he ain't heard a word about it."

That done the trick. Away he put, all sail set, to give the minister the earache, and I went on down to the store. And there was Jacobs talkin' to a man I'd never seen afore and both of 'em so interested they scarcely noticed me when I come in.

He was a kind of ordinary-lookin' feller at fust sight, the stranger was, sort of a cross between a parson and a circus agent, judgin' by his get-up. Pretty thin, with black hair and a black beard, and dressed all in black except his vest, which was thunder-storm plaid. I'd have cal'lated he was in mournin' if it hadn't been for that vest. As 'twas he looked like a hearse with a brass band aboard. Both him and Jacobs was smokin' cigars, the best ten-centers we carried in stock.

"Mornin'," says I, passin' by 'em. Jim Henry looked up and saw me.

"Ah, Skipper," says he; "glad to see you. Come here. I want to make you acquainted with Mr. Edwin Frank, who is intendin' to locate here in Ostable. Mr. Frank, shake hands with my partner, Cap'n Zebulon Snow."

We shook, the band wagon hearse and me, and I felt as if I was back aboard the old Fair Breeze, handlin' cold fish. Jim Henry went right along explainin' matters.

"Mr. Frank," he says, "has had a long experience in the restaurant and hotel line and he believes there is an openin' for a first-class road-house in this town. He has leased the—"

Then I understood. "Why, yes, yes!" I interrupted. "I know now. You're Mr. Eben Edgar Fred George from Buffalo and Bangor, ain't you?"

Then they didn't understand. When I explained about the boardin'-house talk and Solon Saunders' "straight" news, Jacobs laughed fit to kill and even Mr. Fred George Frank pumped up a smile. But his pumps was out of gear, or somethin', for the smile looked more like a crack in an ice chest than anything human. However, he said he was glad to see me and I strained the truth enough to say I was glad to meet him.

"So you've hired the Higgins Place, Mr. Frank," I went on. "Well, well! And you're goin' to make a hotel of it. If old Judge Higgins don't turn over in his grave at that, he's fast moored, that's all."

I meant what I said, almost. Judge Higgins, in his day, had been one of the big-bugs of the town and his place on the hill was one of the best on the main road. It set 'way back from the street and the view from under the two big silver-leaf trees by the front door took in all creation and part of Ostable Neck, as the sayin' is. The Judge had been dead most eight year now, and, bein' a three times widower without chick nor child, the estate was all tied up amongst the heirs of the three wives and was fast tumblin' to pieces. It couldn't be sold, on account of the row between the owners, but it had been let once or twice to summer folks. To turn it into a tavern was pretty nigh the final come-down, seemed to me.

But Jim Henry Jacobs wa'n't worryin' about come-downs. He never let dead dignity interfere with live business. He didn't shed a tear over the old place, or lay a wreath on Judge Higgins's tomb. No, sir! he got down to the keelson of things in a jiffy.

"Skipper," he says, sweet and plausible as a dose of sugared soothin'-syrup. "Skipper," he says, "Mr. Frank's proposition is to open, not a hotel exactly, but a first-class, up-to-date road-house and restaurant. As progressive citizens of Ostable, as business men, wide-awake to the town's welfare, that ought to interest you and me, on general principles, hadn't it?"

I judged that this was only Genesis, and that Revelation would come later, so I nodded and said I cal'lated that it had—on general principles.

"You bet!" he goes on. "It does interest us. Speakin' personally, I've long felt that there was a place in Ostable for a dinin'-room, run to bag—to attract, I mean—the wealthy, the well-to-do transient trade. Why, just think of it!" he says, warmin' up, "it's winter now. By May or June there'll be a steady string of autos runnin' along this road here, every one of 'em solid full of city people and all hungry. Now, it's a shame to let those good things—I mean hungry gents and ladies, go by without givin' 'em what they want. If I hadn't had so many things on my mind, if the Ostable Store's large and growin' business hadn't took my attention exclusive, I should have ventured a flyer in that direction myself. But never mind that; Mr. Frank here has got ahead of me and the job's in better hands. Mr. Frank is right up to the minute; he's abreast of the times and he—by the way, Mr. Frank, perhaps you wouldn't mind tellin' my partner here somethin' about your plans. Just give him the line of talk you've been givin' me, say."

Mr. Frank didn't mind. He had the line over in a minute and if I'd been cal'latin' that he was a frosty specimen with the water in his talk-b'iler froze, I got rid of the notion in a hurry. He smiled, polite, and begun slow and deliberate, but pretty soon he was runnin' twenty knots an hour. He told about his experience in the eatin'-house line—he'd been everything from hotel manager to club steward—and about how successful he'd been and how big the profits was, and what his customers said about him, and so on. Afore a body had a chance to think this over—or to digest it, long's we're talkin' about eatin'—he was under full steam through Ostable with the Higgins Place loaded to the guards and beatin' all entries two mile to the lap. He'd never seen a better openin'; his experience backed his judgment in callin' it the ideal location and opportunity, and the like of that. He talked his throat dry and wound up, husky but hurrahin', with somethin' like this:

"Cap'n Snow," he says, "you and Mr. Jacobs must understand that I know what I'm talkin' about. This enterprise of mine will be the very highest class. French chef, French waiters, all the delicacies and game in season. A country Delmonico's, that's the dope—ahem! I mean that is the reputation this establishment of ours will have; yes."

I judged that the "dope" had slipped out unexpected and that the miscue jarred him a little mite, for he colored up and wiped his forehead with a red and yellow bordered handkerchief. I was jarred, too, but not by that.

"Establishment of ours?" I says, slow. "You mean yours, of course."

He was goin' to answer, but Jim Henry got ahead of him.

"Sure! of course, Skipper," he says. "That's all right. There!" he went on, gettin' up and takin' me by the arm. "Mr. Frank's got to be trottin' along and we mustn't detain him. So long, Mr. Frank. My partner and I will have some conversation and we'll meet again. Drop in any time. Good day."

I hadn't noticed any signs of Frank's impatience to trot along, but he took the hint all right and got up to go. He said good-by and I was turnin' away, when I see Jim Henry wink at him when they thought I wa'n't lookin'. I was suspicious afore; that wink made me uneasy as a spring pullet tied to the choppin'-block.