I was at the store by quarter of eleven, but the gang of creditors was there to meet me, seven of 'em altogether. Cahoon, the chicken man, and Bangs, the milk man, and Hall, the ice man, and Alpheus, and Caleb Bearse, who'd been supplyin' meat to that road-house, and Peleg Doane, who'd done carpenterin' and repairs on it, and Jeremiah Doane, his brother, who'd painted the repaired places. Seven was all the creditors Perkins could scare up on short notice, though he cal'lated there was more.

"There's one more, anyway," says Bill Bangs. "That dark-complected woman—the one you call the stewardess, Cap'n Zeb—was sick a spell ago and Frank told Doctor Goodspeed he'd be responsible for the bill. I see the doc this mornin' and he's with us. Says he may be down later."

They elected me chairman of the meetin' and we started deliberatin'. The debts amounted to quite a lot, though the Ostable Store's was the biggest. Some was for doin' one thing and some another, but we all agreed we must see Colcord, the lawyer, afore we did much of anything. While we was still pow-wowin', somebody knocked at the door. 'Twas Doctor Goodspeed, on the way to see a patient.

"Well," says he, "how's the consultation comin' on? Judgin' by your faces, I should imagine 'twas a autopsy. Time to take desperate measures, if you asked me. I never did believe that Frank chap was anything but a crook, so I'm not surprised. I'm with you in spirit, boys, though I can't stop. However, here's a couple of pieces of information which may interest you: One is that 'The Sign of the Windmill's' account was overdrawn yesterday at the bank and the bank folks sent notice. T'other is that Lawyer Colcord is out of town for a couple of days, so you can't get him. Otherwise than that, the patient is normal. By, by. Life's a giddy jag of joy, isn't it?"

He grinned and shut the door with a bang. The eight of us looked at each other. Then Alpheus Perkins riz to his feet.

"Humph!" says he. "Account overdrawn, hey? Well, maybe that Windmill ain't made enough to pay its bills, but it's been takin' in consider'ble cash. If it ain't at the bank, where is it? I'm goin' to find out. And if I can't get a lawyer to help me, I'll do without one. That Frank critter's store clothes are wuth somethin', and, if I can't get nothin' more, I'll rip them right off his back. So long, fellers. Keep your ear to the ground and you'll hear somethin' drop."

He headed for the door, but he didn't go alone. The rest of us got there at the same time, and I—well, I wouldn't wonder if 'twas me that opened it. I was desperate, and I've commanded vessels in my time.

Anyhow, 'twas me that led the procession up the front steps of the "Sign of the Windmill" and into the dinin'-room. The two waiters was busy. They had five of the tables set end to end and covered with cloths, and they was layin' plates and knives and forks for a big crowd. 'Twas plain that special customers was expected.

"Mr. Frank in his office?" says I, headin' for the skipper's cabin. The waiters looked at each other and jabbered in some sort of foreign lingo.

"No, sare," says one of 'em. "No, sare. Meester Frank, he is away—out."

"Away out, hey?" says I. "You're wrong, son. We're the ones that are out, but we ain't goin' to be out another cent's wuth. Come on, boys, we'll find him."

You can see I was mighty mad, or I wouldn't have been so reckless. I walked acrost that dinin'-room and flung open the office door. Frank himself wa'n't there, but who should be settin' at his roll-top desk, but the fleshy, dark-complected stewardess woman. She glowered at me, ugly as a settin' hen.

"This is a private room," she snaps.

"I know, ma'am," says I; "but the business we've come on is sort of private, too. Come in, boys."

The seven of 'em come in and they filled that office plumb full. The stewardess woman's black eyes opened and then shut part way. But there was fire between the lashes.

"What do you mean by comin' in here?" says she. "And what do you want?"

The rest of the fellers looked at me, so I answered.

"Ma'am," says I, "we don't want nothin' of you and we're sorry to trouble you. We've come to see Mr. Frank on a matter of business, important business—that is, it's important to us."

"Mr. Frank is out," says she. "You must call again. Good day."

She turned back again to the desk, but none of us moved.

"Out, is he?" says I. "Well then, I cal'late we'll wait till he comes in."

"He is out of town. He won't be in till to-morrer," she snaps.

I looked 'round at the rest of the crowd. Every one of 'em nodded.

"Well, then, ma'am," I says, "I cal'late we'll stay here and wait till to-morrer."

That shook her. She got up from the desk and turned to face us. If I'm any judge of a temper she had one, and she was holdin' it in by main strength.

"You may tell me your business," she says. "I am Mr. Frank's—er—secretary."

So I told her. "We've waited for our money long as we can," says I. "None of us are well-off and every one of us needs what's owin' him. We've called and we've wrote. Now we're goin' to stay here till we're paid. Of course, ma'am, I realize 'tain't none of your affairs, and we ain't goin' to make you any more trouble than we can help. We'll just set down on the piazza or in the dinin'-room or somewheres and wait for your boss, that's all."

I said that, 'cause I didn't want her to think we had anything against her personal. I cal'lated 'twould smooth her down, but it didn't. She looked as if she'd like to murder us, every livin' soul.

"You get out of here!" she screamed, her hands openin' and shuttin'. "You get right out of here this minute!"

"Yes, ma'am," says I, "we'll get out of your office, of course. Further'n that you'll have to excuse us. We're goin' to stay right in this house till we see Mr. Frank."

"I'll put you out!" she sputtered. "I'll have the waiters put you out."

I thought of them two puny lookin' waiters and, to save me, I couldn't help smilin'. You'd think she'd have seen the ridic'lous side of it, too, but apparently she didn't, for she bust right through between Alpheus and me and rushed into the dinin'-room.

"Boys," says I, to the crowd, "maybe we'd better step out of here. We may need more room."

She was in the dinin'-room talkin' foreign language in a blue streak to the waiters. They was lookin' scared and spreadin' out their hands and hunchin' their shoulders.

"Ma'am," says I, "if I was you I wouldn't do nothin' foolish. We ain't goin' and we won't be put out, but, on the other hand, we won't make any fuss. We'll just set down here and wait for the boss, that's all. Set down, boys."

So all hands come to anchor on chairs around that dinin'-room and grinned and looked silly but determined. The stewardess glared at us some more and then rushed off upstairs. In a minute she was back with her hat on.

"You wait!" says she. "You just wait! I'll put you in prison! I'll—Oh—" The rest of it was French or Italian or somethin', but we didn't need an interpreter. She shook her fists at us and run down the front steps and away up the road.

"Well, gents all," says I, "man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble. To-day we're here and to-morrer we're in jail, as the sayin' is. Anybody want to back out? Now's the accepted time."

Nobody backed. The two waiters went on with their table settin' and we set and watched 'em. 'Twas the queerest Sunday mornin' ever I put in. By and by Alpheus got uneasy and wandered away out towards the kitchen. In a few minutes back he comes, b'ilin' mad.

"Say, fellers," he sung out. "Do you know what's goin' on here? There's a party of thirty folks comin' in automobiles for dinner. They're gettin' the dinner ready now. And if we don't stop 'em, they'll be fed with our stuff, the grub we've never got a cent for. I don't know how you feel, but I've got ten dollar's wuth of clams and lobsters in this eatin'-house that ain't goin' to be used unless I get my pay for 'em. You can do as you please, but I'm goin' to stay in that kitchen and watch them lobsters and things."

And out he put, headed for the kitchen. The rest of us looked at each other. Then Caleb Bearse rose to his feet.

"Well," says he, determined, "there's a lot of chops and roastin' beef and steaks out aft here that belong to me. None of them go to feed auto folks unless I get my pay fust."

And he started for the kitchen. Then up gets Ed Cahoon and follers suit.

"I've got six or eight fowl and some eggs aboard this craft," he says. "I cal'late I'll keep 'em company."

The rest of us never said nothin', but I presume likely we all thought alike. Anyhow, inside of three minutes we was all out in that kitchen and facin' as mad a chief cook and bottle washer as ever hailed from France or anywheres else. You see, 'twas time to put the lobsters and clams and all the rest of the truck on the fire and we wa'n't willin' to see 'em put there.

The chief or "chef," or whatever they called him, fairly hopped up and down. The madder he got the less English he talked and the less everybody else understood. Bill Bangs done most of the talkin' for our side and he had the common idea that to make foreigners understand you must holler at 'em. Some of the other fellers put in their remarks to help along, all hollerin' too, and such a riot you never heard outside of a darky camp-meetin'. While the exercises was at their liveliest the telephone bell rung. After it had rung five times I went into the other room to answer it. When I got back to that kitchen I got Alpheus to one side and says I:

"Al," I says, "this thing's gettin' more interestin' every minute. That telephone call was from the man that's ordered the big dinner here to-day. There's thirty-two in his party and they've got as far as Cohasset Narrows already. They'll be here in an hour and a half. He 'phoned just to let me know they was on the way."

"Humph!" says he. "What did he say when you told him there wouldn't be no dinner?"

"He didn't say nothin'," says I, "because I didn't tell him. The wire was a bad one and he couldn't hear plain, so he lost patience and rung off. Said I could tell him whatever I wanted to say when him and his party got here. I don't want to tell him anything. You can explain to thirty-two hungry folks that there's nothin' doin' in the grub line, if you want to—I don't."

"Humph!" he says again. "I ain't hankerin' for the job. What had we better do, Cap'n Zeb, do you think?"

"Well," says I, "I cal'late we'd better shorten sail and haul out of the race, for a spell, anyhow. At any rate we'd better clear out of this kitchen and leave that chef and the rest to get the dinner. I know it's our stuff that'll go to make that dinner, but I don't see's we can help it. A few dollars more won't break us more'n we're cracked already."

But he waved his hand for me to stop. "No question of a few dollars is in it. It's no use," he says, solemn; "you're too late. The Frenchman's quit."

"Quit?" says I.

"Um-hm," says he. "Bill Bangs told him that we fellers had took charge of this road-house and he and the rest of the kitchen help quit right then and there. They're out in the barn now, holdin' counsel of war, I shouldn't wonder. Bill seems to think he's done a great piece of work, but I don't."

I didn't either; and, after I'd hot-footed it to the barn and tried to pump some reason and sense into that chef and his gang, I was surer of it than ever. They wouldn't listen to reason, not from us. They wanted to see the boss, meanin' Mr. Frank. He was the one that had hired 'em and they wouldn't have anything to say to anybody else.

I come back to the kitchen and found the boys all settin' round lookin' pretty solemn. My joke about the jail wa'n't half so funny as it had been. Bill Bangs, who'd been the most savage outlaw of us all, was the meekest now.

"Say, Cap'n," he says to me, nervous like, "hadn't we better clear out and go home? I don't want to see them auto people when they get here. And—and I'm scared that that stewardess has gone after the sheriff."

"I presume likely that's just where she's gone," says I.

"Wh-what'll we do?" says he.

"Don't know," says I. "But I do know that the time for backin' out is past and gone. We started out to be pirates and now it's too late to haul down the skull and cross-bones. We've got to stand by our guns and fight to the finish, that's all I see. If the rest of you have got anything better to offer, I, for one, would be mighty glad to hear it."

Everybody looked at everybody else, but nobody said anything. 'Twas a glum creditors' meetin', now I tell you. We set and stood around that kitchen for ten minutes; then we heard voices in the dinin'-room.

"Heavens and earth!" sings out Ed Cahoon. "Who's that? It can't be the automobile gang so soon!"

It wa'n't. 'Twas a parcel of women. You see, some of the crowd had told their wives about the counsel at the store and that, more'n likely, we'd pay a visit to the "Sign of the Windmill." Church bein' over, they'd come to hunt us up. There was Alpheus's wife, and Cahoon's, and Bangs's, and Bearse's, and Jerry Doane's daughter, and Mary Blaisdell. They was mighty excited and wanted to know what was up. We told 'em, but we didn't hurrah none while we was doin' it.

"Well," says Matildy Bangs, "I must say you men folks have made a nice mess of it all. William Bangs, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. What'll I do when you're in state's prison? How'm I goin' to get along, I'd like to know! You never think of nobody but yourself."

Poor Bill was about ready to cry, but this made him mad. "Who would I think of, for thunder sakes!" he sung out. "I'm the one that's goin' to be jailed, ain't I?"

Then Mary Blaisdell took me by the arm. Her eyes were sparklin' and she looked excited.

"Cap'n Snow," she whispered, "come here a minute. I want to speak to you. I have an idea."

"Lord!" says I, groanin', "I wish I had. What is it?"

What do you suppose 'twas? Why, that we, ourselves, should get up the dinner for the auto folks. Every woman there could cook, she said, and so could some of the men. We'd seized the stuff for the dinner already. It was ours, or, at any rate, it hadn't been paid for.

"We can get 'em a good dinner," says she. "I know we can. And, if that Frank doesn't come back until you have been paid, you can take that much out of his bills. If he does come no one will be any worse off, not even he. Let's do it."

I looked at her. As she said, we wouldn't be any worse off, and we might as well be hung for old sheep as lamb. The auto folks would be better off; they'd have some kind of a meal, anyhow.

We had a grand confab, but, in the end, that's what we done. Every one of them women could cook plain food, and Mrs. Cahoon was the best cake and pie maker in the county. We divided up the job. All hands had somethin' to do, includin' me, who undertook a clam chowder, and Bill Bangs, who split wood and lugged water and cussed and groaned about state's prison while he was doin' it.

The last thing was ready and the last plate set when the autos, six of 'em, purred and chugged up to the front door. We expected Frank, or the stewardess, or the constable, or all three of 'em, any minute, but they hadn't showed up. The dinner crowd piled in and set down at the tables and the head man of 'em, the one who was givin' the party, come over to see me. And who should he turn out to be but the stout man I'd met at the store. The one who had told me he'd been waitin' for a chance to get even with Frank. I don't know which was the most surprised to meet each other in that place, he or I.

"Hello!" says he. "What are you doin' here? You joined the Forty Thieves? Where's the boss robber?"

I told him the boss was out; that there was some complications that would take too long to explain.

"But, at any rate," says I, "you're meal's ready and that's the main thing, ain't it?"

"Yes," says he, "it is. I've got a crowd of New York men—business associates of mine and their wives—down for the week end and I wanted to give 'em a Cape dinner. I never would have come here, but the Denboro place is full up and couldn't take us in. I hope the dinner is a better one than the last I had in this place."

I told him not to expect too much, but to set and be thankful for whatever he got. He didn't understand, of course, but he set down and we commenced servin' the dinner.

We started in with Little Neck quahaugs and followed them up with my clam chowder. Then we jogged along with bluefish and hot biscuit and creamed potatoes. After them come the lobsters and corn and such. Eat! You never see anybody stow food the way those New Yorkers did.

In the middle of the lobster doin's I bent over my fleshy friend and asked him if things was satisfactory. He looked up with his mouth full.

"Great Scott!" says he. "Cap'n, this is the best feed I've had since I first struck the Cape, and that was ten years ago. What's happened to this hotel? Is it under new management?"

I didn't feel like grinnin', but I couldn't help it.

"Yes," says I, "it is—for the time bein'."

The final layer we loaded that crowd up with was blueberry dumplin' and they washed it down with coffee. Then the fat man—his name was Johnson—hauled out cigars and the males lit and started puffin'. I went out to the kitchen to see how things was goin' there.

Mary Blaisdell, with a big apron tied over her Sunday gown, was washin' dishes. Her sleeves was rolled up, her hair was rumpled, and she looked pretty enough to eat—at least, I shouldn't have minded tryin'.

"How was it?" she asked. "Are they satisfied?"

"If they ain't they ought to be," says I. "And to-morrer the dyspepsy doctors'll do business enough to give us a commission. But where's our old college chum, the chef, and the waiters and all?"

"They're in the barn," says she. "They tried to come in here and make trouble, but Mr. Perkins wouldn't let 'em. He drove 'em back to the barn again. But they're dreadfully cross."

"I shouldn't wonder," I says. "Well, goodness knows what'll come of this, Mary, but—"

Bill Bangs interrupted me. He come tearin' out of the dinin'-room, white as a new tops'l, and his eyes pretty close to poppin' out of his head.

"My soul!" he panted. "Oh, my soul, Cap'n Zeb! They're comin'! they're comin'!"

"Who's comin'?" I wanted to know.

"Why, Mr. Frank, and that stewardess! And John Bean, the constable, is with 'em. What shall I do? I'll have to go to jail!"

He was all but cryin', like a young one. I left him to his wife, who, judgin' by her actions, was cal'latin' to soothe him with a pan of hot water, and headed for the front porch. However, I was too late. I hadn't any more than reached the dinin'-room, where all the comp'ny was still settin' at the tables, than in through the front door marches Mr. Edwin Frank of Pittsburg, and the stewardess, and John Bean, the constable. The band had begun to play and 'twas time to face the music.

Frank looked around at the crowd at the tables, at Mrs. Cahoon, and Alpheus, and the rest who'd done the waitin'; and then at me. His face was fire red and he was ugly as a shark in a weir net.

"Humph!" says he. "What does this mean? Snow, what high-handed outrage have you committed on these premises?"

I held up my hand. "Shh!" says I, tryin' to think quick and save a scene; "Shh, Mr. Frank!" I says. "If you'll come into your private cabin I'll explain best I can. Somebody had to get dinner for this crowd. Your Frenchmen wouldn't work, so we did. All we've used is our grub, that which ain't been paid for, and—"

His teeth snapped together and he was so mad he couldn't speak for a second. The stewardess was as mad as he was, but it took more'n that to keep her quiet.

"Fred," says she—and even then, upset as I was, I noticed she didn't call him by the name he give Jacobs and me—"Fred, have him arrested. He's the one that's responsible for it all. Officer, you do your duty. Arrest that Snow there! Do you hear?"

She was pointin' to me. Poor old Bean hadn't arrested anybody for so long that he'd forgot how, I cal'late. All he did was stammer and look silly.

"Cap'n Zeb," he says, "I—I'm dreadful sorry, but—but—"

Then he was interrupted. A big, tall, gray-haired chap, who was settin' about amidships of the table got to his feet.

"Just a minute, Officer," says he, quiet, and never lettin' go of his cigar, "just a minute, please. The—er—lady and gentleman you have with you are old acquaintances of mine. Hello, Francis! I'm very glad to see you. We've missed you at the Conquilquit Club. This meetin' is unexpected, but not the less pleasant."

He was talkin' to the Frank man. And the Frank man—well, you should have seen him! The red went out of his face and he almost flopped over onto the floor. The stewardess went white, too, and she grabbed his arm with both hands.

"My Lord!" she says, in a whisper like, "it's Mr. Washburn!"

"Correct, Hortense," says the gray-haired man. "You haven't forgotten me, I see. Flattered, I'm sure."

For just about ten seconds the three of 'em looked at each other. Then Frank made a jump for the door and the woman with him. They was out and down the steps afore poor old Bean could get his brains to workin'.

"Stop 'em!" shouts Washburn. "Officer, don't let 'em get away!"

But they'd got away already. By the time we'd reached the porch they was in the buggy they'd come in and flyin' down the road in a cloud of dust.

I wiped my forehead.

"Well!" says I, "well!"

Johnson pushed through the excited bunch and took the gray-haired feller by the arm.

"Say, Wash," he says, "you're havin' too good a time all by yourself. Let us in on it, won't you? Your friends are goin' some; no use to run after them. Who are they?"

Washburn knocked the ashes from his cigar and smiled. He'd been cool as a no'thwest breeze right along.

"Well," he says, "the masculine member used to be called Fred Francis. He was steward of the Conquilquit Country Club on Long Island for some time. He cleared out a year ago with a thousand or so of the Club funds, and we haven't been able to trace him since. He was a first-class steward and sharp as a steel trap—but he was a crook. The woman—oh, she went with him. She is his wife."