The strawberry festival and the “tempest” were, of course, the subjects most discussed at the breakfast table next morning. Lute monopolized the conversation, a fact for which I was thankful, for it enabled me to dodge Dorinda's questions as to my own adventures. I did not care to talk about the latter. My feelings concerning them were curiously mixed. Was I glad or sorry that Fate had chosen me to play once more the role of rescuer of a young female in distress? That my playing of the role had altered my standing in Mabel Colton's mind I felt reasonably sure. Her words at parting with me rang true. She was grateful, and she had shaken hands with me. Doubtless she would tell her father the whole story and he, too, in common decency, would be grateful to me for helping his daughter. But, after all, did I care for gratitude from that family? And what form would that gratitude take? Would Colton, like Victor Carver, offer to pay me for my services? No, hardly that, I thought. He was a man of wide experience and, if he did offer payment, it would be in some less crude form than a five dollar bill.

But I did not want payment in any form. I did not want condescension and patronizing thanks. I did not want anything—that was it. Up to now, the occupants of the big house and I had been enemies, open and confessed. I had, so far as possible, kept out of their way and hoped they would keep out of mine. But now the situation was more complicated. I did not know what to expect. Of course there was no chance of our becoming friends. The difference in social position, as they reckoned it, made that too ridiculous to consider as a possibility, even if I wished it, which I distinctly did not. But something, an interview, awkward and disagreeable for both sides, or a patronizing note of thanks, was, at the very least, certain to follow the happenings of the previous night. I wished I had gone home when the Coltons first came to the festival. I wished I had not promised Taylor that I would attend that festival. I wished—I wished a great many things. The thought of young Carver's public snubbing before his friends was my one unmixed satisfaction. I rather imagined that he was more uncomfortable than I was or could be.

Lute crowed vaingloriously over his own good judgment in leaving for home early.

“I don't know how 'twas,” he declared. “Somethin' seemed to tell me we was in for a turrible tempest. I was settin' talkin' with Alvin Baker and eatin' my second sasser of berries, when—”

“SECOND sasser?” interrupted Dorinda, sharply. “Where'd you get money for two sassers? I gave you thirty cents when you started for that festival. It cost you fifteen to get inside the gate, and Matildy Dean told me the church folks was cal'latin' to charge fifteen for a helpin' of berries and cream. And you had two sassers, you say. Who paid for the second one?”

Her husband swallowed half a cup of coffee before replying. Then his reply had nothing to do with the question.

“I don't know how 'twas,” he went on. “I just had the feelin', that's all. Sort of a present—presentuary, I guess, come over me. I looked up at the sky and 'twas gettin' black, and then I looked to the west-ard and I see a flash of lightnin'. 'Nothin' but heat lightnin',' says Alvin. 'Heat lightnin' nothin'!' says I, 'I tell you—”

“Who paid for that second sasser of berries?” repeated his wife, relentlessly.

“Why now, Dorindy—”

“Who paid for 'em? If 'twas Alvin Baker you ought to be ashamed of yourself, spongin' on him for your vittles.”

“Alvin! Good land! did you ever know him to pay for anything he didn't have to?”

“Never mind what I know. Did you get trusted for 'em? How many times have I told you—”

“I never got trusted. I ain't that kind. And I didn't sponge 'em, neither. I paid cash, right out of my own pocket, like a man.”

“You did! Um-hm. I want to know! Well then—MAN, where did the cash in that pocket come from?”

Lute squirmed. “I—I—” he stammered.

“Where did it come from? Answer me.”

“Well—well, Dorindy, you see—when you sent me up to the store t'other day after the brown sugar and—and number 50 spool cotton you give me seventy-five cents. You remember you did, yourself.”

“Yes, and I remember you said there was a hole in your pocket and you lost the change. I ain't likely to forget it, and I shouldn't think you'd be.”

“I didn't forget. By time! my ears ain't done singin' yet. But that shows how reckless you talk to me. I never lost that change at all. I found it afterwards in my vest, so all your jawin' was just for nothin'. Ros, she ought to beg my pardon, hadn't she? Hadn't she now?”

Dorinda saved me the trouble of answering.

“Um-hm!” she observed, dryly. “Well, I'll beg my own pardon instead, for bein' so dumb as not to go through your vest myself. So THAT'S where the other fifteen cents come from! I see. Well, you march out to the woodpile and chop till I tell you to quit.”

“But, Dorindy, I've got one of my dyspepsy spells. I don't feel real good this mornin'. I told you I didn't.”

“Folks that make pigs of themselves on stolen berries hadn't ought to feel good. Exercise is fine for dyspepsy. You march.”

Lute marched, and I marched with him as far as the back yard. There I left him, groaning before the woodpile, and went down to the boat house.

The Comfort's overhauling was complete and I had launched her the week before. Now she lay anchored at the edge of the channel. For the want of something more important to do I took down my shot gun and began to polish its already glittering barrels.

Try as I might I could not get the memory of my adventure in the “tempest” out of my head. I reviewed it from end to end, thinking of many things I might have done which, in the light of what followed, would have been better and more sensible. If, instead of leaving the coachman, I had remained to help him with the frightened horse, I should have been better employed. Between us we could have subdued the animal and Miss Colton might have ridden home. I wondered what had become of Jenkins and the horse. I wondered if the girl knew I carried her through the brook. Victor had said the bridge was down; she must know. I wondered what she thought of the proceeding; probably that splashing about with young ladies in my arms was a habit of mine.

I told myself that I did not care what she thought. I resolved to forget the whole affair and to focus my attention upon cleaning the gun. But I could not forget. I waded that brook a dozen times as I sat there. I remembered every detail; how still she lay in my arms; how white her face looked as the distant lightning flashes revealed it to me; how her hair brushed my cheek as I bent over her. I was using a wad of cotton waste to polish the gun barrel, and I threw it into a corner, having the insane notion that, in some way, the association of ideas came from that bunch of waste. It—the waste—was grimy and anything but fragrant, as different from the dark lock which the wind had blown against my face as anything well could be, but the hurry with which I discarded it proves my imbecility at that time. Confound the girl! she was a nuisance. I wanted to forget her and her family, and the sulphurous personage to whose care I had once consigned the head of the family apparently took a characteristic delight in arranging matters so that I could not.

The shot gun was, at last, so spotless that even a pretense of further cleaning was ridiculous. I held it level with my eye and squinted through the barrels.

“Don't shoot,” said a voice from the doorway; “I'll come down.”

I lowered the gun, turned and looked. “Big Jim” Colton was standing there, cigar in mouth, cap on the back of his head and both hands in his pockets, exactly as he had appeared in that same doorway when he and I first met. The expected had happened, part of it at least. He had come to see me; the disagreeable interview I had foreseen was at hand.

He nodded and entered without waiting for an invitation.

“Morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” said I, guardedly. I wondered how he would begin the conversation. Our previous meeting had ended almost in a fight. We had been fighting by proxy ever since. I was prepared for more trouble, for haughty condescension, for perfunctory apology, for almost anything except what happened. His next remark might have been addressed to an acquaintance upon whom he had casually dropped in for a friendly call.

“That's a good looking gun you've got there,” he observed. “Let's see it.”

I was too astonished to answer. “Let's look at it,” he repeated, holding out his hand.

Mechanically I passed him the gun. He examined it as if he was used to such things, broke it, snapped it shut, tried the locks with his thumb and handed it back to me.

“Anything worth shooting around here?” he asked, pulling the armchair toward him and sitting.

I think I did not let him see how astonished I was at his attitude. I tried not to.

“Why yes,” I answered, “in the season. Plenty of coots, some black duck, and quail and partridge in the woods.”

“That so! Peters, that carpenter of mine, said something of the sort, I remember, but I wouldn't believe him under oath. I could shoot HIM with more or less pleasure, but there seems to be no open session for his species. Where's your launch?”

“Out yonder.” I pointed to the Comfort at her moorings. He looked, but made no comment. I rose and put the gun in the rack. Then I returned to my chair. He swung around in his seat and looked at me.

“Well,” he said, grimly, but with a twinkle in his eye, “the last time you and I chatted together you told me to go to the devil.”

This was quite true and I might have added that I was glad of it. But what would be the use? I did not answer at all.

“I haven't gone there yet,” he continued. “Came over here instead. Got dry yet?”

“Dry?”

“Yes. You were anything but dry when I saw you last night. Have many such cloudbursts as that in these parts?”

“Not many. No.”

“I hope not. I don't want another until I sell that horse of mine. The chap who stuck me with him is a friend of mine. He warranted the beast perfectly safe for an infant in arms to drive and not afraid of anything short of an earthquake. He is a lovely liar. I admire his qualifications in that respect, and hope to trade with him again. He bucks the stock market occasionally.”

He smiled as he said it. There was not the slightest malice in his tone, but, if I had been the “friend,” I should have kept clear of stocks for awhile.

“What became of the horse?” I asked.

“Ran away again. Jenkins had just got back into the carriage when another one of those thunder claps started more trouble. The horse ran four miles, more or less, and stopped only when the wheels got jammed between two trees. I paid nine hundred dollars for that carriage.”

“And the coachman?”

“Oh, he lit on his head, fortunately, and wasn't hurt. Spent half the night trying to find a phone not out of commission but failed. Got home about four o'clock, leading the horse. Paine—”

“Yes?”

“Of course you know what I've come here for. I'm much obliged to you.”

“That's all right. You're welcome.”

“Maybe I am, but I am obliged, just the same. Not only for the help you gave Mabel—my daughter—last night, but for that business in the bay the other afternoon.”

So she had told him the whole story. Remembering her last words, as I left her in the hall, I had rather imagined she would.

“That didn't amount to anything,” I said, shortly.

“Why, yes, it did. It might have amounted to a whole lot. I asked Peters some questions about the tides out here and, from what he said, I judge that being stuck on the shoals in a squall might not be altogether a joke. Mabel says you handled the affair mighty well.”

I did not answer. He chuckled.

“How did young Carver enjoy playing second fiddle?” he asked. “From what I've seen of him he generally expects to lead the band. Happy, was he?”

I remained silent. He smiled broadly.

“He isn't any too happy this morning,” he went on. “That young man won't do. I never quoted him within twenty points of par, but Mabel seemed to like him and her mother thought he was the real thing. Mrs. C. couldn't forget that his family is one of the oldest on the list. Personally I don't gamble much on families; know a little about my own and that little is enough. But women are different. However, family or not, he won't do. I should tell him so myself, but I guess Mabel will save me the trouble. She's got a surprising amount of common-sense, considering that she's an only child—and who her parents are. By the way, Paine, what did Carver say when you put him ashore?”

“He—he said—oh, nothing of importance.”

“Yes, I know that. I listened to his explanations last night. But did he say anything?”

“Why, he offered to pay me for my work.”

“Did he? How much?”

“I did not wait to find out.”

“And you haven't heard from him since?”

I hesitated.

“Have you?” he repeated.

“Well, I—I received a note from him next day.”

“Humph! Offering apologies?”

“No.”

“Sent you money, didn't he?”

I looked at him in surprise. “Did he tell you?” I asked.

“No, nobody told me. I'm only trying to find out whether or not I have lost all my judgment of human nature since I struck this sand heap. He did send you money then. How much?”

“Mr. Colton, I—”

“Come now! How much?”

“Well—he sent me five dollars.”

“No! he didn't!”

“I am telling you the truth.”

“Yes,” slowly, “I know you are. I've got that much judgment left. Sent you five dollars, did he. And you sent it back.”

“Yes.”

“Any message with it?”

I was tired of being catechized. I had not meant to tell him anything. Now I decided to tell him all. If it angered him, so much the better.

“I sent him word that what I saved wasn't worth the money.”

To my amazement he was not angry. Instead he slapped his knee and laughed aloud.

“Ho! ho!” he shouted. “Humph! Well, that was. . . . I'd like to have seen his face when he got that message. No, that young man won't do. He won't do at all.”

It was not for me to dispute this conclusion, even if I had disagreed with him, which I did not. I said nothing. He rubbed his knee for a moment and then changed the subject.

“How did you happen to be on the Lower Road at that time of the night?” he asked. “I'm mighty glad you were there, of course, but where did you come from?”

“I left the festival rather late and—”

“Festival? Oh, that thing up at the church. I didn't see you there.”

I had taken pains that he should not see me.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he continued, “that you enjoy a thing like that? What in blazes made Mabel want to go I don't see! She and Carver were set on going; and it would be the treat of a lifetime, or words to that effect. I can't see it myself. Of all the wooden headed jays I ever laid eyes on this town holds the finest collection. Narrow and stubborn and blind to their own interests!”

This was more like what I expected from him and I resented it. It may seem odd that I, of all persons, should have taken upon myself the defense of Denboro and its inhabitants, but that is what I did.

“They are no more narrow and stubborn in their way than city people are in theirs,” I declared. “They resent being ordered about as if their opinions and wishes counted for nothing, and I honor them for it.”

“Do, hey?”

“Yes, I do. Mr. Colton, I tell you that you are all wrong. Simply because a man lives in the country it does not follow that he is a blockhead. No one in Denboro is rich, as you would count riches, but plenty of them are independent and ask no help from any one. You can't drive them.”

“Can't I?”

“No, you can't. And if you want favors from men here you must ask for them, not try to bully.”

“I don't want favors. I want to be treated decently, that's all. When I came here I intended doing things to help the town. I should have enjoyed doing it. I told some of them so. Look at the money I've spent. Look at the taxes I'll pay. Why, they ought to be glad to have me here. They ought to welcome me.”

“So they would if you had not behaved as if you were what some of them call you—'Emperor of New York'. I tell you, Mr. Colton, you're all wrong. I know the people here.”

“So? Well, from what I've been able to learn about you, you haven't associated with many of them. You've been playing a little at the high and mighty yourself.”

Chickens do come home to roost. My attitude of indifference and coldness toward my fellow citizens had been misinterpreted, as it deserved to be. George Taylor was right when he said I had made a mistake.

“I have been foolish,” I said, hotly, “but not for the reason you suppose. I don't consider myself any better than the people here—no, nor even the equal of some of them. And, from what I have seen of you, Mr. Colton, I don't consider you that, either.”

Even this did not make him angry. He looked at me as if I puzzled him.

“Say, Paine,” he said, “what in the world are you doing down in a place like this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. You upset my calculations. I thought I spotted you and put you in the class where you belonged when you and I first met. I can usually size up a man. You've got me guessing. What are you doing down here? You're no Rube.”

If he intended this as a compliment I was not in the mood to accept it as such. I should have told him that what I was or was not was no business of his. But he went on without giving me the opportunity.

“You've got me guessing,” he repeated. “You talk like a man. The way you looked out for my daughter last night and the way, according to her story, you handled her and Victor the other afternoon was a man's job. Why are you wasting your life down here?”

“Mr. Colton, I don't consider—”

“Never mind. You're right; that's your affair, of course. But I hate to quit till I have the answer, and nobody around here seems to have the answer to you. Ready to sell me that land yet?”

“No.”

“Going to sell to the public-spirited bunch? Dean and the rest?”

“No.”

“You mean that? All right—all right. Say, Paine, I admire your nerve a good deal more than I do your judgment. You must understand that I am going to close that fool Lane of yours some time or other.”

“Your understanding and mine differ on that point.”

“Possibly, but they'll agree before I'm through. I am going to close that Lane.”

“I think not.”

“I'm going to close it for two reasons. First, because it's a condemned nuisance and ought to be closed. Second, because I make it a point to get what I go after. I can't afford not to. It is doing that very thing that has put me where I am.”

There was nothing to be said in answer to a statement like that. I did not try to answer it.

“Where you're holding down a job like mine,” he continued, crossing his knees and looking out across the bay, “you have to get what you go after. I'm down here and I mean to stay here as long as I want to, but I haven't let go of my job by a good deal. I've got private wires—telegraph and telephone—in my house and I keep in touch with things in the Street as much as I ever did. If anybody tries to get ahead of the old man because they think he's turned farmer they'll find out their mistake in a hurry.”

This seemed to be a soliloquy. I could not see how it applied to me. He went on talking.

“Sounds like bragging, doesn't it?” he said, reading my thoughts as if I had spoken them. “It isn't. I'm just trying to show you why I can't afford not to have my own way. If I miss a trick, big or little, somebody else wins. When I was younger, just butting into the game, there was another fellow trying to get hold of a lead mine out West that I was after. He beat me to it at first. He was a big toad in the puddle and I was a little one. But I didn't quit. I waited round the corner. By and by I saw my chance. He was in a hole and I had the cover to the hole. Before I let him out I owned that mine. It cost me more than it was worth; I lost money on it. But I had my way and he and the rest had found out that I intended to have it. That was worth a lot more than I lost in the mine. Now this Lane proposition is a little bit of a thing; it's picayune; I should live right along if I didn't get it. But because I want it, because I've made up my mind to have it, I'm going to have it, one way or another. See?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “This seems to me like wasting time, Mr. Colton,” I said.

“Then your seeing is away off. Look here, Paine, I'm through fiddling with the deal. I'm through with that undertaker postmaster or any other go-between. I just wanted you to understand my position; that's why I've told you all this. Now we'll talk figures. I might go on bidding, and you'd go on saying no, of course. But I shan't bid. I'll just say this: When you are ready to sell—and I'll put you where you will be some day—”

I rose. “Mr. Colton,” I said, sharply, “you had better not say any more. I'm not afraid of you, and—”

“There! there! there! who said anything about your being afraid? Don't get mad. I'm not—not now. This is a business matter between friends and—”

“Friends!”

“Sure. Business friends. I'm talking to you as I would to any other chap I intended to beat in a deal; there's nothing personal about it. When I get you so you're ready to sell I'll give you five thousand dollars for that strip of land.”

I actually staggered. I said what Lute had said to me.

“You're crazy!” I cried. “Five thousand dollars for that land!”

“Yes. Oh, I know what it's worth. Five hundred is for the land itself. The other forty-five hundred is payment for the privilege of having my own way. Want to close with me now?”

It took me some time to answer. “No,” is a short and simple word, but I found it tremendously difficult to pronounce. Yet I did pronounce it, I am glad to say. After all that I had said before I would have been ashamed to do anything else.

He did not appear surprised at my refusal.

“All right,” he said. “I'm not going to coax you. Just remember that the offer holds good and when you get ready to accept it, sing out. Well!” looking at his watch, “I must be going. My wife will think I've fallen into the bay, or been murdered by the hostile natives. Nerves are mean things to have in the house; you can take my word for that. Good-by, Paine. Thank you again for last night and the rest of it. Mabel will thank you herself when she sees you, I presume.”

He was on his way to the door when I recovered presence of mind sufficient to remember ordinary politeness.

“Your daughter—er—Miss Colton is well?” I stammered. “No ill effects from her wetting—and the shock?”

“Not a bit. She's one of the kind of girls they turn out nowadays. Athletics and all that. Her grandmother would have died probably, after such an upset, but she's as right as I am. Oh . . . er—Paine, next time you go shooting let me know. Maybe I'd like to go along. I used to be able to hit a barn door occasionally.”

He stopped long enough to bite the end from a cigar and strolled away, smoking. I sat down in the armchair. “Five thousand dollars!” . . . “Carver won't do.” . . . “I will have the Lane some time or other.” . . . “Five thousand dollars!” . . . “Next time you go shooting.” . . . “Friends!” . . . “Five thousand dollars!”

Oh, this was a nightmare! I must wake up before it got any worse.