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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Rise of Roscoe Paine, by Joseph C. Lincoln
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The Rise of Roscoe Paine
+
+Author: Joseph C. Lincoln
+
+Release Date: June 3, 2006 [eBook #3137]
+[Most recently updated: January 8, 2023]
+
+Language: English
+
+Produced by: Donald Lainson
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RISE OF ROSCOE PAINE ***
+
+
+
+
+THE RISE OF ROSCOE PAINE
+
+By Joseph C. Lincoln
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+“I'm going up to the village,” I told Dorinda, taking my cap from the
+hook behind the dining-room door.
+
+“What for?” asked Dorinda, pushing me to one side and reaching for the
+dust-cloth, which also was behind the door.
+
+“Oh, just for the walk,” I answered, carelessly.
+
+“Um-hm,” observed Dorinda.
+
+“Um-hm” is, I believe, good Scotch for “Yes.” I have read that it
+is, somewhere--in one of Barrie's yarns, I think. I had never been in
+Scotland, or much of anywhere else, except the city I was born in, and
+my college town, and Boston--and Cape Cod. “Um-hm” meant yes on the
+Cape, too, except when Dorinda said it; then it might mean almost
+anything. When Mother asked her to lower the window shade in the
+bed-room she said “Um-hm” and lowered it. And, five minutes later, when
+Lute came in, loaded to the guards with explanations as to why he had
+forgotten to clean the fish for dinner, she said it again. And the
+Equator and the North Pole are no nearer alike, so far as temperature
+is concerned, than those two “Um-hms.” And between them she had others,
+expressing all degrees from frigid to semi-torrid.
+
+Her “Um-hm” this time was somewhere along the northern edge of Labrador.
+
+“It's a good morning for a walk,” I said.
+
+“Um-hm,” repeated Dorinda, crossing over to Greenland, so to speak.
+
+I opened the outside door. The warm spring sunshine, pouring in, was a
+pleasant contrast and made me forget, for the moment, the glacier at my
+back. Come to think of it, “glacier” isn't a good word; glaciers move
+slowly and that wasn't Dorinda's way.
+
+“What are you going to do?” I asked.
+
+“Work,” snapped Dorinda, unfurling the dust cloth. “It's a good mornin'
+for that, too.”
+
+I went out, turned the corner of the house and found Lute sound asleep
+on the wash bench behind the kitchen. His full name was Luther Millard
+Filmore Rogers, and he was Dorinda's husband by law, and the burden
+which Providence, or hard luck, had ordered her to carry through this
+vale of tears. She was a good Methodist and there was no doubt in
+her mind that Providence was responsible. When she rose to testify in
+prayer-meeting she always mentioned her “cross” and everybody knew that
+the cross was Luther. She carried him, but it is no more than fair to
+say that she didn't provide him with cushions. She never let him forget
+that he was a steerage passenger. However, Lute was well upholstered
+with philosophy, of a kind, and, so long as he didn't have to work his
+passage, was happy, even if the voyage was a rather rough one.
+
+Just now he was supposed to be raking the back yard, but the rake was
+between his knees, his head was tipped back against the shingled wall
+of the kitchen, and he was sleeping, with the sunshine illuminating his
+open mouth, “for all the world like a lamp in a potato cellar,” as his
+wife had said the last time she caught him in this position. She went on
+to say that it was a pity he wouldn't stand on his head when he slept.
+“Then I could see if your skull was as holler as I believe it is,” she
+told him.
+
+Lute heard me as I passed him and woke up. The “potato cellar” closed
+with a snap and he seized the rake handles with both hands.
+
+“I was takin' a sort of observation,” he explained hurriedly. “Figgerin'
+whether I'd better begin here or over by the barn. Oh, it's you, Roscoe,
+is it! Land sakes! I thought first 'twas Dorindy. Where you bound?”
+
+“Up to the village,” I said.
+
+“Ain't goin' to the post-office, be you?”
+
+“I may; I don't know.”
+
+Lute sighed. “I was kind of cal'latin' to go there myself,” he observed,
+regretfully. “Thoph Newcomb and Cap'n Jed Dean and the rest of us
+was havin' a talk on politics last night up there and 'twas mighty
+interestin'. Old Dean had Thoph pretty well out of the race when I
+hauled alongside, but when I got into the argument 'twas different.
+'What's goin' to become of the laborin' men of this country if you have
+free trade?' I says. Dean had to give in that he didn't know. 'Might
+have to let their wives support 'em,' he says, pompous as ever. 'That
+would be a calamity, wouldn't it, Lute?' That wasn't no answer, of
+course. But you can't expect sense of a Democrat. I left him fumin' and
+come away. I've thought of a lot more questions to ask him since and
+I was hopin' I could get at him this mornin'. But no! Dorindy's sot on
+havin' this yard raked, so I s'pose I've got to do it.”
+
+He had dropped the rake, but now he leaned over, picked it up, and rose
+from the wash bench.
+
+“I s'pose I've got to do it,” he repeated, “unless,” hopefully, “you
+want me to run up to the village and do your errand for you.”
+
+“No; I hadn't any errand.”
+
+“Well, then I s'pose I'd better start in. Unless there was somethin'
+else you'd ruther I'd do to-day. If there was I could do this
+to-morrer.”
+
+“To-morrow would have one advantage: there would be more to rake then.
+However, judging by Dorinda's temper this morning, I think, perhaps, you
+had better do it to-day.”
+
+“What's Dorindy doin'?”
+
+“She is dusting the dining-room.”
+
+“I'll bet you! And she dusted it yesterday and the day afore. Do you
+know--” Lute sat down again on the bench--“sometimes I get real worried
+about her.”
+
+“No! Do you?”
+
+“Yes, I do. I think she works too hard. Seems's if sometimes it had kind
+of struck to her brains--work, I mean. She don't think of nothin' else.
+Now take the dustin', for instance. Dustin's all right; I believe in
+dustin' things. But I don't believe in wearin' 'em out dustin' 'em. That
+ain't sense, is it?”
+
+“It doesn't seem like it, that's a fact.”
+
+“You bet it don't! And it ain't good religion, neither. Now take--well,
+take this yard, for instance. What is it that I'm slavin' myself over
+this fine mornin'? Why, rakin' this yard! And what am I rakin'? Why,
+dead leaves from last fall, and straws and sticks and pieces of seaweed
+and such that have blowed in durin' the winter. And what blowed 'em in?
+Why, the wind, sartin! And whose wind was it? The Almighty's, that's
+whose! Now then! if the Almighty didn't intend to have dead leaves
+around why did he put trees for 'em to fall off of? If he didn't want
+straws and seaweed and truck around why did He send them everlastin'
+no'theasters last November? Did that idea ever strike you?”
+
+“I don't know that it ever did, exactly in that way.”
+
+“No. Well, that's 'cause you ain't reasoned it out, same as I have.
+You've got the same trouble that most folks have, you don't reason
+things out. Now, let's look at it straight in the face.” Lute let go of
+the rake altogether and used both hands to illustrate his point. “That
+finger there, we'll say, is me, rakin' and rakin' hard as ever I can.
+And that fist there is the Almighty, not meanin' anything irreverent.
+I rake, same as I'm doin' this mornin'. The yard's all cleaned up.
+Then--zing!” Lute's clenched fist swept across and knocked the
+offending finger out of the way. “Zing! here comes one of the Almighty's
+no'theasters, same as we're likely to have to-morrer, and the consarned
+yard is just as dirty as ever. Ain't that so?”
+
+I looked at the yard. “It seems to be about as it was,” I agreed, with
+some sarcasm. Lute was an immune, so far as sarcasm was concerned.
+
+“Yup,” he said, triumphantly. “Now, Dorindy, she's a good, pious woman.
+She believes the Powers above order everything. If that's so, then ain't
+it sacrilegious to be all the time flyin' in the face of them Powers by
+rakin' and rakin' and dustin' and dustin'? That's the question.”
+
+“But, according to that reasoning,” I observed, “we should neither rake
+nor dust. Wouldn't that make our surroundings rather uncomfortable,
+after a while?”
+
+“Sartin. But when they got uncomfortable then we could turn to and make
+'em comfortable again. I ain't arguin' against work--needful work, you
+understand. I like it. And I ain't thinkin' of myself, you know, but
+about Dorindy. It worries me to see her wearin' herself out with--with
+dustin' and such. It ain't sense and 'tain't good religion. She's my
+wife and it's my duty to think for her and look out for her.”
+
+He paused and reached into his overalls pocket for a pipe. Finding it,
+he reached into another pocket for the wherewithal to fill it.
+
+“Have you suggested to her that she's flying in the face of Providence?”
+ I asked.
+
+Lute shook his head. “No,” he admitted, “I ain't. Got any tobacco about
+you? Dorindy hove my plug away yesterday. I left it back of the clock
+and she found it and was mad--dustin' again, of course.”
+
+He took the pouch I handed him, filled his pipe and absently put the
+pouch in his pocket.
+
+“Got a match?” he asked. “Thanks. No, I ain't spoke to her about it,
+though it's been on my mind for a long spell. I didn't know but you
+might say somethin' to her along that line, Roscoe. 'Twouldn't sound so
+personal, comin' from you. What do you think?”
+
+I shook my head. “Dorinda wouldn't pay much attention to my ideas on
+such subjects, I'm afraid,” I answered. “She knows I'm not a regular
+church-goer.”
+
+Lute was plainly disappointed. “Well,” he said, with a sigh, “maybe
+you're right. She does cal'late you're kind of heathen, though she hopes
+you'll see the light some day. But, just the same,” he added, “it's a
+good argument. I tried it on the gang up to the post-office last night.
+I says to 'em, says I, 'Work's all right. I believe in it. I'm a workin'
+man, myself. But to work when you don't have to is wrong. Take Ros
+Paine,' I says--”
+
+“Why should you take me?” I interrupted, rather sharply.
+
+“'Cause you're the best example I could think of. Everybody knows you
+don't do no work. Shootin' and sailin' and fishin' ain't work, and
+that's about all you do. 'Take Ros,' says I. 'He might be to work. He
+was in a bank up to the city once and he knows the bankin' trade. He
+might be at it now, but what would be the use?' I says. 'He's got enough
+to live on and he lives on it, 'stead of keepin' some poor feller out of
+a job.' That's right, too, ain't it?”
+
+I didn't answer at once. There was no reason why I should be irritated
+because Luther Rogers had held me up as a shining example of the
+do-nothing class to the crowd of hangers-on in a country post-office.
+What did I care for Denboro opinion? Six years in that gossipy village
+had made me, so I thought, capable of rising above such things.
+
+“Well,” I asked after a moment, “what did they say to that?”
+
+“Oh, nothin' much. They couldn't; I had 'em, you see. Some of 'em
+laughed and old Cap'n Jed he hove out somethin' about birds of a feather
+stickin' up for each other. No sense to it. But, as I said afore, what
+can you expect of a Democrat?”
+
+I turned on my heel and moved toward the back gate. “Ain't goin', be
+you?” asked Lute. “Hadn't you better set down and rest your breakfast a
+spell?”
+
+“No, I'm going. By the way, if you're through with that tobacco pouch of
+mine, I'll take it off your hands. I may want to smoke by and by.”
+
+Lute coolly explained that he had forgotten the pouch; it had “gone
+clean out of his head.” However, he handed it over and I left him seated
+on the wash bench, with his head tipped back against the shingles. I
+opened the gate and strolled slowly along the path by the edge of the
+bluff. I had gone perhaps a hundred yards when I heard a shrill voice
+behind me. Turning, I saw Dorinda standing by the corner of the kitchen,
+dust cloth in hand. Her husband was raking for dear life.
+
+I walked on. The morning was a beautiful one. Beside the path, on the
+landward side, the bayberry and beach-plum bushes were in bud, the green
+of the new grass was showing above the dead brown of the old, a bluebird
+was swaying on the stump of a wild cherry tree, and the pines and scrub
+oaks of the grove by the Shore Lane were bright, vivid splashes of color
+against the blue of the sky. At my right hand the yellow sand of the
+bluff broke sharply down to the white beach and the waters of the
+bay, now beginning to ebb. Across the bay the lighthouse at Crow Point
+glistened with new paint and I could see a moving black speck, which I
+knew was Ben Small, the keeper, busy whitewashing the fence beside
+it. Down on the beach Zeb Kendrick was overhauling his dory. In the
+distance, beyond the grove, I could hear the carpenters' hammers on the
+roof of the big Atwater mansion, which was now the property of James
+Colton, the New York millionaire, whose rumored coming to Denboro to
+live had filled the columns of the country weekly for three months. The
+quahaug boats were anchored just inside the Point; a clam digger was
+wading along the outer edge of the sedge; a lobsterman was hauling his
+pots in the channel; even the bluebird on the wild cherry stump had
+a straw in his beak and was plainly in the midst of nest building.
+Everyone had something to do and was doing it--everyone except Lute
+Rogers and myself, the “birds of a feather.” And even Lute was working
+now, under compulsion.
+
+Ordinarily the sight of all this industry would not have affected me. I
+had seen it all before, or something like it. The six years I had spent
+in Denboro, the six everlasting, idle, monotonous years, had had their
+effect. I had grown hardened and had come to accept my fate, at first
+rebelliously, then with more of Lute's peculiar kind of philosophy.
+Circumstances had doomed me to be a good-for-nothing, a gentleman loafer
+without the usual excuse--money--and, as it was my doom, I forced myself
+to accept it, if not with pleasure, at least with resignation. And I
+determined to get whatever pleasure there might be in it. So, when I saw
+the majority of the human race, each with a purpose in life, struggling
+to attain that purpose, I passed them by with my gun or fishing rod
+on my shoulder, and a smile on my lips. If my remnant of a conscience
+presumed to rise and reprove me, I stamped it down. It had no reasonable
+excuse for rising; I wasn't what I was from choice.
+
+But, somehow, on this particular morning, my unreasonable conscience was
+again alive and kicking. Perhaps it was the quickening influence of the
+spring which resurrected it; perhaps Luther's quotation from the remarks
+of Captain Jedediah Dean had stirred it to rebellion. A man may know, in
+his heart, that he is no good and still resent having others say that he
+is, particularly when they say that he and Luther Rogers are birds of a
+feather. I didn't care for Dean's good opinion; of course I didn't! Nor
+for that of any one else in Denboro, my mother excepted. But Dean and
+the rest should keep their opinions to themselves, confound them!
+
+The path from our house--the latter every Denboro native spoke of as
+the “Paine Place”--wound along the edge of the bluff for perhaps three
+hundred yards, then turned sharply through the grove of scrub oaks and
+pitch pines and emerged on the Shore Lane. The Shore Lane was not a
+public road, in the strictest sense of the term. It was really a part of
+my land and, leading, as it did, from the Lower Road to the beach, was
+used as a public road merely because mother and I permitted it to be. It
+had been so used, by sufferance of the former owner, for years, and when
+we came into possession of the property we did not interfere with the
+custom. Land along the shore was worth precious little at that time and,
+besides, it was pleasant, rather than disagreeable, to hear the fish
+carts going out to the weirs, and the wagons coming to the beach for
+seaweed, or, filled with picnic parties, rattling down the Lane. We
+could not see them from the house until they had passed the grove and
+emerged upon the beach, but even the noise of them was welcome. The
+Paine Place was a good half-mile from the Lower Road and there were few
+neighbors; therefore, especially in the winter months, any sounds of
+society were comforting.
+
+I strode through the grove, kicking the dead branches out of my way, for
+my mind was still busy with Luther and Captain Dean. As I came out into
+the Lane I looked across at the Atwater mansion, now the property of the
+great and only Colton, “Big Jim” Colton, whose deals and corners in Wall
+Street supplied so many and such varied sensations for the financial
+pages of the city papers, just as those of his wife and family supplied
+news for the society columns; I looked across, I say, and then I stopped
+short to take a longer look.
+
+I could see the carpenters, whose hammers I had heard, at work upon the
+roof of the barn, now destined to do double duty as a stable and garage.
+They, and the painters and plumbers, had been busy on the premises for
+months. The establishment had been a big one, even when Major Atwater
+owned it, but the new owners had torn down and added and rebuilt until
+the house loomed up like a palace or a Newport villa. A Newport villa
+in Denboro! Why on earth any one should deliberately choose Denboro as a
+place to live in I couldn't understand; but why a millionaire, with
+all creation to select from, should build a Newport villa on the bluff
+overlooking Denboro Bay was beyond comprehension. The reason given in
+the Cape Cod Item was that Mrs. Colton was “in debilitated health,”
+ whatever that is, and had been commanded by her doctors to seek sea air
+and seclusion and rest. Well, there was sea air and rest, not to mention
+seclusion or sand and mosquitoes, for a square mile about the new villa,
+and no one knew that better than I, condemned to live within the
+square. But if Mrs. Colton had deliberately chosen the spot, with malice
+aforethought, the place for her was a home for the feeble minded. At
+least, that was my opinion on that particular morning.
+
+It was not the carpenters who caused me to pause in my walk and look
+across the lane and over the stone wall at my new neighbor's residence.
+What caught my attention was that the place looked to be inhabited. The
+windows were open--fifty or so of them--smoke was issuing from one of
+the six chimneys; a maid in a white cap and apron was standing by the
+servants' entrance. Yes, and a tall, bulky man with a yachting cap
+on the back of his head and a cigar in his mouth was talking with Asa
+Peters, the boss carpenter, by the big door of the barn.
+
+I had not been up to the village for two days, having been employed at
+our boat-house on the beach below the house, getting my motor dory
+into commission for the summer. But now I remembered that Lute had said
+something about the Coltons being expected, or having arrived, and that
+he seemed much excited over it. He would have said more, but Dorinda had
+pounced on him and sent him out to shut up the chickens, which gave
+him the excuse to play truant and take his evening's trip to the
+post-office. It was plain that the Coltons HAD arrived. Very likely the
+stout man with the yachting cap was the mighty “Big Jim” himself. Well,
+I didn't envy him in his present situation. He had my pity, if anything.
+
+Possibly the fact that I could pity some one other than myself helped
+to raise my spirits. At any rate I managed to shake off a little of my
+gloom and tramped on up the Lane, feeling more like a human being and
+less like a yellow dog. Less as I should imagine a yellow dog ought
+to feel, I mean, for, as a matter of fact, most yellow dogs of my
+acquaintance seem to be as happy as their brown or white or black
+relatives. I walked up the Lane, turned into the Lower Road, and headed
+for the village. The day was a gorgeous one, the air bracing as a tonic,
+and my thirtieth birthday was not yet so far astern as to be lost in
+the fog. After all, there were some consolations in being alive and in a
+state of health not “debilitated.” I began to whistle.
+
+A quarter of a mile from the junction of the Shore Lane, on the Lower
+Road, was a willow-shaded spot, where the brook which irrigated Elnathan
+Mullet's cranberry swamp ran under a small wooden bridge. It was there
+that I first heard the horn and, turning, saw the automobile coming from
+behind me. It was approaching at a speed of, I should say, thirty miles
+an hour, and I jumped to the rail of the bridge to let it pass. Autos
+were not as common on the Cape then as they have become since. Now the
+average pedestrian of common-sense jumps first and looks afterwards.
+
+However, I jumped in time, and stood still to watch the car as it went
+by. But it did not go by--not then. Its speed slackened as it
+approached and it came to a halt on the bridge beside me. A big car;
+an aristocratic car; a machine of pomp and price and polish, such as
+Denboro saw but seldom. It contained three persons--a capped and goggled
+chauffeur on the front seat, and a young fellow and a girl in the
+tonneau. They attracted my attention in just that order--first the
+chauffeur, then the young fellow, and, last of all, the girl.
+
+It was the chauffeur who hailed me. He leaned across the upholstery
+beside him and, still holding the wheel, said:
+
+“Say, Bill, what's the quickest way to get to Bayport?”
+
+Now my name doesn't happen to be Bill and just then I objected to the
+re-christening. At another time I might have appreciated the joke and
+given him the information without comment. But this morning I didn't
+feel like joking. My dissatisfaction with the world in general included
+automobilists who made common folks get out of their way, and I was
+resentful.
+
+“I should say that you had picked about as quick a way as any,” I
+answered.
+
+The chauffeur didn't seem to grasp the true inwardness of this brilliant
+bit.
+
+“Aw, what--” he stammered. “Say, what--look here, I asked you--”
+
+Then the young man in the tonneau took charge of the conversation. He
+was a very young man, with blond hair and a silky mustache, and his
+clothes fitted him as clothes have no right to fit--on Cape Cod.
+
+“That'll do, Oscar,” he ordered. Then, turning to me, he said:
+
+“See here, my man, we want to go to Bayport.”
+
+I was not his man, and wouldn't have been for something. The chauffeur
+had irritated me, but he irritated me more. I didn't like him, his
+looks, his clothes, and, particularly, his manner. Therefore, because
+I didn't feel like answering, I showed my independence by remaining
+silent.
+
+“What's the matter?” he demanded, impatiently. “Are you deaf? I say we
+want to go to Bayport.”
+
+A newspaper joke which I had recently read came to my mind. “Very well,”
+ I said, “you have my permission.”
+
+It was a rude thing to say, and not even original. I don't attempt to
+excuse it. In fact, I was sorry as soon as I had said it. It had its
+effect. The young man turned red. Then he laughed aloud.
+
+“Well, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “What have we here? A humorist, I do
+believe! Mabel, we've discovered a genuine, rural humorist. Another
+David Harum, by Jove! Look at him!”
+
+The girl in the tonneau swept aside her veil and looked, as directed.
+And I looked at her. The face that I saw was sweet and refined and
+delicate, a beautiful young face, the face of a lady, born and bred. All
+this I saw and realized at a glance; but what I was most conscious of at
+the time was the look in the dark eyes as they surveyed me from head
+to foot. Indifference was there, and contemptuous amusement; she
+didn't even condescend to smile, much less speak. Under that look my
+self-importance shrank until the yellow dog with which I had compared
+myself loomed as large as an elephant. She might have looked that way at
+some curious and rather ridiculous bug, just before calling a servant to
+step on it.
+
+The young man laughed again. “Isn't it a wonder, Mabel?” he asked. “The
+native wit on his native heath! Reuben--pardon me, your name is Reuben,
+isn't it?--now that you've had your little joke, would you condescend to
+tell us the road which we should take to reach Bayport in the shortest
+time? Would you oblige us to that extent?”
+
+The young lady smiled at this. “Victor,” she said, “how idiotic you
+are!”
+
+I agreed with her. Idiot was one of the terms, the mildest, which I
+should have applied to that young man. I wanted very much to remove him
+from that car by what Lute would call the scruff of the neck. But most
+of all, just then, I wanted to be alone, to see the last of the auto and
+its occupants.
+
+“First turn to the right, second to the left,” I said, sullenly.
+
+“Thank you, Reuben,” vouchsafed the young man. “Here's hoping that your
+vegetables are fresher than your jokes. Go ahead, Oscar.”
+
+The chauffeur threw in the clutch and the car buzzed up the road,
+turning the corner at full speed. There was a loose board projecting
+from the bridge just under my feet. As a member--though an inactive
+one--of the Village Improvement Society I should have trodden it back
+into place. I didn't; I kicked it into the brook.
+
+Then I walked on. But the remainder of my march was a silent one,
+without music. I did not whistle.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+The post-office was at Eldredge's store, and Eldredge's store, situated
+at the corners, where the Main Road and the Depot Road--which is also
+the direct road to South Denboro--join, was the mercantile and social
+center of Denboro. Simeon Eldredge kept the store, and Simeon was also
+postmaster, as well as the town constable, undertaker, and auctioneer.
+If you wanted a spool of thread, a coffin, or the latest bit of gossip,
+you applied at Eldredge's. The gossip you could be morally certain of
+getting at once; the thread or the coffin you might have to wait for.
+
+I scarcely know why I went to Eldredge's that morning. I did not
+expect mail, and I did not require Simeon's services in any one of his
+professional capacities. Possibly Lute's suggestion had some sort of
+psychic effect and I stopped at the post-office involuntarily. At any
+rate, I woke from the trance in which the encounter with the automobile
+had left me to find myself walking in at the door.
+
+The mail was not yet due, to say nothing of having arrived or been
+sorted, but there was a fair-sized crowd on the settees and perched on
+the edge of the counter. Ezra Mullet was there, and Alonzo Black and
+Alvin Baker and Thoph Newcomb. Beriah Doane and Sam Cahoon, who lived
+in South Denboro, were there, too, having driven over behind Beriah's
+horse, on an errand; that is, Beriah had an errand and Sam came along to
+help him remember it. In the rear of the store, by the frame of letter
+boxes, Captain Jedediah Dean was talking with Simeon.
+
+Alvin Baker saw me first and hailed me as I entered.
+
+“Here's Ros Paine,” he exclaimed. “He'll know more about it than anybody
+else. Hey, Ros, how many hired help does he keep, anyhow? Thoph says
+it's eight, but I know I counted more'n that, myself.”
+
+“It's eight, I tell you,” broke in Newcomb, before I could answer.
+“There's the two cooks and the boy that waits on 'em--”
+
+“The idea of having anybody wait on a cook!” interrupted Mullet. “That's
+blame foolishness.”
+
+“I never said he waited on the cooks. I said he waited on them--on the
+family. And there's a coachman--”
+
+“Why do they call them kind of fellers coachmen?” put in Thoph. “There
+ain't any coach. I see the carriages when they come--two freight cars
+full of 'em. There was a open two-seater, and a buckboard, and that
+high-wheeled thing they called a dog-cart.”
+
+Beriah Doane laughed uproariously. “Land of love!” he shouted. “Does the
+dog have a cart all to himself? That's a good one! You and me ain't got
+no dog, Sam, but we might have a couple of cat-carts, hey? Haw! haw!”
+
+Thoph paid no attention to this pleasantry. “There was the dog-cart,” he
+repeated, “and another thing they called the 'trap.' But there wan't any
+coach; I'll swear to it.”
+
+“Don't make no difference,” declared Alvin; “there was a man along that
+SAID he was the coachman, anyhow. And a big minister-lookin' feller
+who was a butler, and two hired girls besides the cooks. That's nine,
+anyhow. One more'n you said, Thoph.”
+
+“And that don't count the chauffeur, the chap that runs the
+automobiles,” said Alonzo Black. “He's the tenth. Say, Ros,” turning to
+me, “how many is there, altogether?”
+
+“How many what?” I asked. It was my first opportunity to speak.
+
+“Why, hired help--servants, you know. How many does Mr. Colton keep?”
+
+“I don't know how many he keeps,” I said. “Why should I?”
+
+The group looked at me in amazement. Thoph Newcomb voiced the general
+astonishment.
+
+“Why should you!” he repeated. “Why shouldn't you, you mean! You're
+livin' right next door to 'em, as you might say! My soul! If I was you I
+cal'late I'd know afore this time.”
+
+“No doubt you would, Thoph. But I don't. I didn't know the Coltons had
+arrived until I came by just now. They have arrived, I take it.”
+
+Arrived! There was no question of the arrival, nor of its being
+witnessed by everyone present, myself and the South Denboro delegates
+excepted. Newcomb and Baker and Mullet and Black began talking all
+together. I learned that the Colton invasion of Denboro was a spectacle
+only equaled by the yearly coming of the circus to Hyannis, or the
+opening of the cattle show at Ostable. The carriages and horses had
+arrived by freight the morning before; the servants and the family on
+the afternoon train.
+
+“I see 'em myself,” affirmed Alonzo. “I was as nigh to 'em as I be to
+you. Mrs. Colton is sort of fleshy, but as handsome a woman as you'd
+want to see. I spoke to her, too. 'It's a nice day,' I says, 'ain't
+it?'”
+
+“What did she say?” asked Newcomb.
+
+“She didn't say nothin'. Engine was makin' such a noise she didn't hear,
+I presume likely.”
+
+“Humph!” sniffed Baker, evidently envious; “I guess she heard you, all
+right. Fellers like you make me tired. Grabbin' every chance to curry
+favor with rich folks! Wonder you didn't tell her you drove a fish-cart
+and wanted her trade! As for me, I'm independent. Don't make no
+difference to me how well-off a person is. They're human, just the same
+as I am, and _I_ don't toady to 'em. If they want to talk they can send
+for me. I'll wait till they do.”
+
+“Hope you've got lots of patience, Alvin,” observed Mullet drily.
+During the hilarity which followed, and while the offended apostle of
+independence was trying to think of a sufficiently cutting reply, I
+walked to the rear of the store.
+
+Our letter box was Number 218, in the center of the rack, and, as I
+approached, I glanced at it involuntarily. To my surprise there was a
+letter in it; I could see it through the glass of the box door. Lute
+had, as I knew, got the mail the previous evening and the morning's mail
+had not yet arrived. Therefore this letter must have been written by
+some one in Denboro and posted late the night before or early that
+morning. It was not the custom for Denboro residents to communicate with
+each other through the medium of the post. They preferred to save the
+two cents stamp money, as a general thing. Bills sometimes came by mail,
+but this was the tenth, not the first, of the month; and, besides, our
+bills were paid.
+
+I reached into my pocket for my keys, unlocked the box and took out the
+letter. The envelope was square, of an expensive quality, and eminently
+aristocratic. It was postmarked Denboro, dated that morning, and
+addressed in a sharp, clear masculine hand unfamiliar to me, to “Roscoe
+Paine, Esq.” The “Esq.” would have settled it, if the handwriting had
+not. No fellow-townsman of my acquaintance would address me, or any
+one else, as Esquire. Misters and Captains were common enough, but
+Esquires--no.
+
+It was a Denboro custom, when one received a mysterious letter, to get
+the fullest enjoyment out of the mystery before solving it. I had known
+Dorinda Rogers to guess, surmise and speculate for ten minutes before
+opening a patent medicine circular. But, though mysteries were uncommon
+enough in my life, I think I should have reached the solution of
+this one in the next second--in fact, I had torn the end from the
+envelope--when I was interrupted.
+
+It was Captain Dean who interrupted me. He had evidently concluded his
+conversation with the postmaster and now was bearing down majestically
+upon me, like a ten thousand ton steamer on a porgie schooner.
+
+“Hey, you--Ros!” he roared. He was at my elbow, but he roared just the
+same. Skipper of a coaster in his early days, he had never outgrown the
+habit of pitching his voice to carry above a fifty-mile gale. “Hey, Ros.
+See here; I want to talk to you.”
+
+I did not want to talk with any one, particularly with him. He was the
+individual who, according to Lute, had bracketed Mr. Rogers and myself
+as birds of a feather, the remark which was primarily responsible for my
+ill humor of the morning. If he had not said that, and if Lute had not
+quoted the saying to me, I might have behaved less like a fool when that
+automobile overtook me, I might not have given that young idiot, whose
+Christian name it seemed was Victor, the opportunity to be smart at my
+expense. That girl with the dark eyes might not have looked at me as if
+I were a worm or a June bug. Confound her! what right had she to look at
+me like that? Victor, or whatever his name was, was a cub and a cad and
+as fresh as the new paint on Ben Small's lighthouse, but he had deigned
+to speak. Whereas that girl--!
+
+No, I did not want to talk with Jedediah Dean. However, he wanted to
+talk to me, and what he wanted he usually got.
+
+Captain Dean was one of Denboro's leading citizens. His parents had been
+as poor as Job's turkey, but Jedediah had determined to get money and
+now he had it. He was reputed to be worth “upwards of thirty thousand,”
+ owned acres and acres of cranberry swamps, and the new house he had just
+built was almost as big as it was ugly, which is saying considerable. He
+had wanted to be a deacon in the church and, though the church was by no
+means so eager, deacon he became. He was an uncompromising Democrat, but
+he had forced himself into the Board of Selectmen, every other member
+a Republican. He was director in the Denboro bank, and it was town talk
+that his most ardent desire at the present time was to see his daughter
+Helen--Nellie, we all called her--married to George Taylor, cashier of
+that bank. As George and Nellie were “keeping company” it seemed likely
+that Captain Jed would be gratified in this, as in all other desires.
+He was a born boss, and did his best to run the town according to his
+ideas. Captain Elisha Warren, who lived over in South Denboro and was
+also a director in the bank, covered the situation when he said: “Jed
+Dean is one of those fellers who ought to have a big family to order
+around. The Almighty gave him only one child and so he adopted Denboro
+and is bossin' that.”
+
+“I want to talk to you, Ros,” repeated Captain Jed. “Come here.”
+
+He led the way to the settee by the calico and dress goods counter. I
+put the unread letter in my pocket and followed him.
+
+“Set down,” he ordered. “Come to anchor alongside.”
+
+I came to anchor.
+
+“How's your mother?” he asked. “Matilda was cal'latin' to go down and
+set with her a spell this afternoon, if she didn't have anything else to
+do--if Matilda didn't, I mean.”
+
+Matilda was his wife. In her husband's company she was as dumb as a
+broken phonograph; when he was not with her she talked continuously,
+as if to get even. A call from Matilda Dean was one of the additional
+trials which made Mother's invalid state harder to bear.
+
+“Course she may not come,” Jedediah hastened to say. “She's pretty busy
+these days. But if she don't have anything else to do she will. I told
+her she'd better.”
+
+“Mother will be charmed,” I said. Captain Jed was no fool and he looked
+at me sharply.
+
+“Um; yes,” he grunted. “I presume likely. You're charmed, too, ain't
+you?”
+
+I was not expecting this. I murmured something to the effect that I was
+delighted, of course.
+
+“Sartin. Well, that's all right. I didn't get you on this settee to
+charm you. I want to talk business with you a minute.”
+
+“Business! With me?”
+
+“Yup. Or it may be business later on. I've been thinkin' about that
+Shore Lane, the one that runs through your land. Us town folks use that
+a whole lot. I cal'late most everybody's come to look at it as a reg'lar
+public road to the beach.”
+
+“Why, yes, I suppose they have,” I said, puzzled to know what he was
+driving at. “It is a public road, practically.”
+
+“No, 'tain't, neither. It's a private way, and if you wanted to you
+could shut it off any day. A good many folks would have shut it off
+afore this.”
+
+“Oh, I guess not.”
+
+“I guess yes. I'd shut it off myself. I wouldn't have Tom, Dick and
+Harry drivin' fish wagons and tip carts full of seaweed through my
+premises free gratis for nothin'.”
+
+“Why?” I asked. “What harm does it do?”
+
+“I don't know as it does any. But because a tramp sleepin' on my front
+piazza might not harm the piazza, that's no reason why I'd let him sleep
+there.”
+
+I laughed. “The two cases aren't exactly alike, are they?” I said. “The
+land is of no value to us at present. Mother and I are glad to have the
+Lane used, if it is a convenience, as I suppose it is.”
+
+“It's that, sartin. Ros, who owns that land the Lane runs through--you
+or your mother?”
+
+“It is in my name,” I said.
+
+“Um-hm. Well, would you sell it?”
+
+“Sell it! Sell that strip of sand and beach grass! Who would buy it?”
+
+“I don't know as anybody would. I just asked if you'd sell it, that's
+all.”
+
+“Perhaps I would. I presume I should, if I had the chance.”
+
+“Ain't had any chance yet, have you?”
+
+“What do you mean by that?”
+
+“Oh, nothin', nothin'! Well, you just think it over. If you decide you
+would sell it and get so fur as fixin' a price on it, let me know, will
+you?”
+
+“Captain, what in the world do you want of that land? See here! you
+don't want to shut off the Shore Lane, do you?”
+
+“What in time would I want to shut it off for? I use it as much as
+anybody, don't I?”
+
+“Then I don't see--”
+
+“Maybe there ain't nothin' TO see. Only, if you decide to sell, let me
+know. Yes, and don't sell WITHOUT lettin' me know. Understand?”
+
+“No, I don't.”
+
+“Well, you understand enough, I cal'late. All I want you to do is to
+promise not to sell that land the Lane's on without speakin' to me fust.
+Will you promise that?”
+
+I considered for a moment. “Yes,” I said, “I'll promise that. Though I
+can't imagine what you're driving at.”
+
+“You don't need to. Maybe I'm just drivin' blind; I hope I am. That's
+all I wanted to talk about,” rising from the settee. “Oh, by the way,”
+ he added, “your neighborhood's honored just now, ain't it? The King of
+New York's arrived, they tell me.”
+
+“King of New York? Oh! I see; you mean the Coltons.”
+
+“Sartin. Who else? Met his Majesty yet?”
+
+“No. Have you?”
+
+“I met him when he was down a month ago. Sim Eldredge introduced me
+right here in the store. 'Mr. Colton,' says Sim, proud but humble, so
+to speak, 'let me make you acquainted with one of our selectmen, Cap'n
+Dean. Cap'n, shake hands with Mr. Colton of New York.' We shook, and I
+cal'late I'd ought to have kept that hand in a glass case ever since.
+But, somehow or other, I ain't.”
+
+“What sort of a chap is Colton?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, all right of his kind, I guess. In amongst a gang of high financers
+like himself he'd size up as a pretty good sport, I shouldn't wonder.
+And he was polite enough to me, I suppose. But, darn him, I didn't like
+the way he looked at me! He looked as if--as if--well, I can't tell you
+how he looked.”
+
+“You don't need to,” I said, brusquely. “I know.”
+
+“You do, hey? He ain't looked at you, has he? No, course he ain't! You
+said you hadn't met him.”
+
+“I've met others of his kind.”
+
+“Yes. Well, I'm a hayseed and I know it. I'm just a countryman and he's
+a millionaire. He'll be the big show in this town from now on. When he
+blows his nose seven-eighths of this community 'll start in workin' up a
+cold in the head.”
+
+He turned on his heel and started to go.
+
+“Will you?” I asked, slily.
+
+He looked back over his shoulder. “I ain't subject to colds--much,” he
+snapped. “But YOU better lay in a supply of handkerchiefs, Ros.”
+
+I smiled. I knew what was troubling him. A little tin god has a pleasant
+time of it, no doubt, until the coming of the eighteen carat gold idol.
+Captain Jed had been boss of Denboro--self-appointed to that eminent
+position, but holding it nevertheless--and to be pushed from his
+perch by a city rival was disagreeable. If I knew him he would not be
+dethroned without a fight. There were likely to be some interesting and
+lively times in our village.
+
+I could understand Dean's dislike of Colton, but his interest in the
+Shore Lane was a mystery. Why should he wish to buy that worthless strip
+of land? And what did he mean by asking if I had chances to sell it?
+Still pondering over this puzzle, I walked toward the front of the
+store, past the group waiting for the mail, where the discussion
+concerning the Coltons was still going on, Thoph Newcomb and Alvin Baker
+both talking at once.
+
+“You ask Ros,” shouted Alvin, pounding the counter beside him. “Say,
+Ros, Newcomb here seems to think that because a feller comes from the
+city and is rich that that gives him the right to order the rest of us
+around as if we was fo'mast hands. He says--”
+
+“I don't neither!” yelled Thoph. “What I say is that money counts,
+and--”
+
+“You do, too! Ros, do YOU intend to get down on your knees to them
+Coltons?”
+
+I laughed and went on without replying. I left the store and strolled
+across the road to the bank, intending to make a short call on George
+Taylor, the cashier, my most intimate acquaintance and the one person in
+Denboro who came nearest to being my friend.
+
+But George was busy in the directors' room, and, after waiting a few
+moments in conversation with Henry Small, the bookkeeper, I gave it up
+and walked home, across the fields this time; I had no desire to meet
+more automobilists.
+
+Dorinda had finished dusting the dining room and was busy upstairs.
+I could hear the swish-swish of her broom overhead. I opened the door
+leading to Mother's bedroom and entered, closing the door behind me.
+
+The curtains were drawn, as they always were on sunny days, and the room
+was in deep shadow. Mother had been asleep, I think, but she heard my
+step and recognized it.
+
+“Is that you, Boy?” she asked. If I had been fifty, instead of
+thirty-one, Mother would have called me “Boy” just the same.
+
+“Yes, Mother,” I said.
+
+“Where have you been? For a walk? It is a beautiful morning, isn't it.”
+
+Her only way of knowing that the morning was a beautiful one was that
+the shades were drawn. She had not seen the sunlight on the bay, nor the
+blue sky; she had not felt the spring breeze on her face, or the green
+grass beneath her feet. Her only glimpses of the outside world were
+those which she got on cloudy or stormy days when the shades were raised
+a few inches and, turning her head on the pillow, she could see beneath
+them. For six years she had been helpless and bedridden in that little
+room. But she never complained.
+
+I told her that I had been uptown for a walk.
+
+“Did you meet any one?” she asked.
+
+I said that I had met Captain Dean and Newcomb and the rest. I said
+nothing of my encounter with the motor car.
+
+“Captain Jed graciously informed me that his wife might be down to sit
+with you this afternoon,” I said. “Provided she didn't have anything
+else to do; he took pains to add that. You mustn't see her, of course.”
+
+She smiled. “Why not?” she asked. “Matilda is a little tiresome at
+times, but she means well.”
+
+“Humph! Mother, I think you would make excuses for the Old Harry
+himself. That woman will talk you to death.”
+
+“Oh, no! Not as bad as that. And poor Matilda doesn't talk much at home,
+I'm afraid.”
+
+“Her husband sees to that; I don't blame him. By the way, the Captain
+had a queer bee in his bonnet this morning. He seems to be thinking of
+buying some of our property.”
+
+I told her of Jedediah's interest in the Shore Lane and his hint
+concerning its possible purchase. She listened and then said
+thoughtfully:
+
+“What have you decided to do about it, Roscoe?”
+
+“I haven't decided at all. What do you think, Mother?”
+
+“It seems to me that I shouldn't sell, at least until I knew his reason
+for wanting to buy. It would be different if we needed the money, but,
+of course, we don't.”
+
+“Of course,” I said, hastily. “But why not sell? We don't use the land.”
+
+“No. But the Denboro people need that Lane. They use it a great deal.
+If it were closed it would put many of them to a great inconvenience,
+particularly those who get their living alongshore. Every one in Denboro
+has been so kind to us. I feel that we owe them a debt we never can
+repay.”
+
+“No one could help being kind to you, Mother. Oh! I have another
+piece of news. Did you know that our new neighbors, the Coltons, have
+arrived?”
+
+“Yes. Dorinda told me. Have you met any of them?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Dorinda says Mrs. Colton is an invalid. Poor woman! it must be hard
+to be ill when one has so much to enjoy. Dorinda says they have a very
+pretty daughter.”
+
+I made no comment. I was not interested in pretty daughters, just then.
+The memory of the girl in the auto was too fresh in my mind.
+
+“Did you go to the post-office, Roscoe?” asked Mother. “I suppose there
+were no letters. There seldom are.”
+
+Then I remembered the letter in my pocket. I had forgotten it
+altogether.
+
+“Why, yes, there was a letter, a letter for me. I haven't read it yet.”
+
+I took the envelope from my pocket and drew out the enclosure. The
+latter was a note, very brief and very much to the point. I read it.
+
+“Well, by George!” I exclaimed, angrily.
+
+“What is it, Roscoe?”
+
+“It appears to be a summons from what Captain Jed called the King of New
+York. A summons to appear at court.”
+
+“At court?”
+
+“Oh, not the criminal court. Merely the palace of his Majesty. Just
+listen.”
+
+This was the letter:
+
+
+Roscoe Paine, Esq.
+
+Dear Sir:
+
+I should like to see you at my house this--Thursday--forenoon, on a
+matter of business. I shall expect you at any time after ten in the
+morning.
+
+Yours truly,
+
+JAMES W. COLTON.
+
+
+“From Mr. Colton!” exclaimed Mother. “Why! what can he want of you?”
+
+“I don't know,” I answered. “And I don't particularly care.”
+
+“Roscoe!”
+
+“Mother, did you ever hear such a cool, nervy proposition in your life?
+He wants to see me and he orders me to come to him. Why doesn't he come
+to me?”
+
+“I suppose he didn't think of it. He is a big man in New York and he has
+been accustomed to having people come at his convenience. It's his way
+of doing things, I suppose.”
+
+“Then I don't like the way. This is Denboro, not New York. He will
+expect me at any time after ten, will he? Well, as Mullet said to Alvin
+Baker just now at the post-office, I hope he has lots of patience. He'll
+need it.”
+
+“But what can he want of you?”
+
+“I don't know. Wants to look over his nearest jay neighbor, I should
+imagine, and see what sort of a curio he is. He thinks it may be
+necessary to put up barbed wire fences, I suppose.”
+
+“Roscoe, don't be narrow-minded. Mr. Colton's ways aren't ours and we
+must make allowances.”
+
+“Let him make a few, for a change.”
+
+“Aren't you going to see him?”
+
+“No. At least not until I get good and ready.”
+
+Dorinda came in just then to ask Mother some questions concerning
+dinner, for, though Mother had not seen the dining room since that day,
+six years ago, when she was carried from it to her bedroom, she kept
+her interest in household affairs and insisted on being consulted on all
+questions of management and internal economy. I rose from my chair and
+started toward the door.
+
+“Are you going, Roscoe?” asked Mother.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“Oh, just out of doors; perhaps to the boat-house.”
+
+“Boy.”
+
+“Yes, Mother?”
+
+“What is the matter? Something has gone wrong; I knew it as soon as you
+came in. What is it?”
+
+“Nothing. That is, nothing of any consequence. I'm a little out of sorts
+to-day and that man's letter irritates me. I'll get over it. I'll be
+back soon. Good-by, Mother.”
+
+“Good-by, Boy.”
+
+I went out through the dining room and kitchen, to the back yard, where,
+seating myself on Lute's favorite resting place, the wash bench, I lit
+my pipe and sat thinking, gloomily thinking.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+It is a dreadful thing to hate one's own father; to hate him and be
+unable to forgive him even though he is dead, although he paid for his
+sin with his life. Death is said to pay all debts, but there are some
+it cannot pay. To my father I owed my present ambitionless, idle,
+good-for-nothing life, my mother's illness, years of disgrace, the loss
+of a name--everything.
+
+Paine was my mother's maiden name; she was christened Comfort Paine. My
+own Christian name is Roscoe and my middle name is Paine. My other name,
+the name I was born with, the name that Mother took when she married,
+we dropped when the disgrace came upon us. It was honored and respected
+once; now when it was repeated people coupled it with shame and crime
+and dishonor and broken trust.
+
+As a boy I remember myself as a spoiled youngster who took the luxuries
+of this world for granted. I attended an expensive and select private
+school, idled my way through that somehow, and entered college, a
+happy-go-lucky young fellow with money in my pocket. For two-thirds
+of my Freshman year--which was all I experienced of University life--I
+enjoyed myself as much as possible, and studied as little. Then came the
+telegram. I remember the looks of the messenger who brought it, the cap
+he wore, and the grin on his young Irish face when the fellow sitting
+next me at the battered black oak table in the back room of Kelly's
+asked him to have a beer. I remember the song we were singing, the crowd
+of us, how it began again and then stopped short when the others saw the
+look on my face. The telegram contained but four words: “Come home at
+once.” It was signed with the name of my father's lawyer.
+
+I presume I shall never forget even the smallest incident of that night
+journey in the train and the home-coming. The lawyer's meeting me at the
+station in the early morning; his taking care that I should not see the
+newspapers, and his breaking the news to me. Not of the illness or death
+which I had feared and dreaded, but of something worse--disgrace. My
+father was an embezzler, a thief. He had absconded, had run away, like
+the coward he was, taking with him what was left of his stealings. The
+banking house of which he had been the head was insolvent. The police
+were on his track. And, worse and most disgraceful of all, he had not
+fled alone. There was a woman with him, a woman whose escapades had
+furnished the papers with sensations for years.
+
+I had never been well acquainted with my father. We had never been
+friends and companions, like other fathers and sons I knew. I remember
+him as a harsh, red-faced man, whom, as a boy, I avoided as much as
+possible. As I grew older I never went to him for advice; he was to me a
+sort of walking pocket-book, and not much else. Mother has often told
+me that she remembers him as something quite different, and I suppose it
+must be true, otherwise she would not have married him; but to me he was
+a source of supply coupled with a bad temper, that was all. That I was
+not utterly impossible, that, going my own gait as I did, I was not a
+complete young blackguard, I know now was due entirely to Mother. She
+and I were as close friends as I would permit her to be. Father had
+neglected us for years, though how much he had neglected and ill-treated
+her I did not know until she told me, afterward. She was in delicate
+health even then, but, when the blow fell, it was she and not I who bore
+up bravely and it was her pluck and nerve, not mine, which pulled us
+through that dreadful time.
+
+And it was dreadful. The stories and pictures in the papers! The
+rumors, always contradicted, that the embezzler had been caught! The
+misrepresentation and lies and scandal! The loss of those whom we had
+supposed were friends! Mother bore them all, wore a calm, brave face
+in public, and only when alone with me gave way, and then but at rare
+intervals. She clung to me as her only comfort and hope. I was sullen
+and wrathful and resentful, an unlicked cub, I suspect, whose complaints
+were selfish ones concerning the giving up of my college life and its
+pleasures, and the sacrifice of social position and wealth.
+
+Mother had--or so we thought at the time--a sum in her own name which
+would enable us to live; although not as we had lived by a great deal.
+We took an apartment in an unfashionable quarter of the city, and thanks
+to the lawyer--who proved himself a real and true friend--I was given
+a minor position in a small bank. Oddly enough, considering my former
+life, I liked the work, it interested me, and during the next few years
+I was made, by successive promotions, bookkeeper, teller, and, at last,
+assistant cashier. No news came from the absconder. The police had lost
+track of him, and it seemed probable that he would never be heard of
+again. But over Mother and myself hung always the dread that he might
+be found and all the dreadful business revived once more. Mother never
+mentioned it, nor did I, but the dread was there.
+
+Then came the first breakdown in Mother's health which necessitated her
+removal to the country. Luther and Dorinda Rogers were distant relatives
+of our friend, the lawyer. They owned the little house by the shore at
+Denboro and the lawyer had visited them occasionally on shooting and
+fishing trips. They were in need of money, for, as Dorinda said: “We've
+got two mouths in this family and only one pair of hands. One of the
+mouths is so big that the hands can't fill it, let alone the mouth that
+belongs to THEM.” Mother--as Mrs. Paine, a widow--went there first as
+a boarder, intending to remain but a few months. Dorinda took to her at
+once, being attracted in the beginning, I think, by the name. “They call
+you Comfort Paine,” she said, “and you are a comfort to everybody else's
+pain. Yet you ain't out of pain a minute scurcely, yourself. I never see
+anything like it. If 'twan't wicked I'd say that name was give you by
+the Old Scratch himself, as a sort of divilish joke. But anybody can see
+that the Old Scratch never had anything in common with you, even a hand
+in the christenin'.”
+
+Dorinda was very kind, and Lute was a never-ending joy in his peculiar
+way. Mother would have been almost happy in the little Denboro home,
+if I had been with her. But she was never really happy when we were
+separated, a condition of mind which grew more acute as her health
+declined. I came down from the city once every month and those Sundays
+were great occasions. The Denboro people know me as Roscoe Paine.
+
+For a time Mother seemed to be holding her own. In answer to my
+questions she always declared that she was ever so much better. But
+Doctor Quimby, the town physician, looked serious.
+
+“She must be kept absolutely quiet,” he said. “She must not be troubled
+in any way. Worry or mental distress is what I fear most. Any sudden bad
+news or shock might--well, goodness knows what effect it might have. She
+must not be worried. Ros--” after one has visited Denboro five times in
+succession he is generally called by his Christian name--“Ros, if you've
+got any worries you keep 'em to yourself.”
+
+I had worries, plenty of them. Our little fortune, saved, as we thought,
+from the wreck, suffered a severe shrinkage. A considerable portion
+of it, as the lawyers discovered, was involved and belonged to the
+creditors. I said nothing to Mother about this: she supposed that we
+had a sufficient income for our needs, even without my salary. Without
+telling her I gave up our city apartment, stored our furniture, and took
+a room in a boarding-house. I was learning the banking business, was
+trusted with more and more responsibility, and believed my future was
+secure. Then came the final blow.
+
+I saw the news in the paper when I went out to lunch. “Embezzler and His
+Companion Caught in Rio Janeiro. He Commits Suicide When Notified of
+His Arrest.” These headlines stared at me as I opened the paper at the
+restaurant table. My father had shot himself when the police came. I
+read it with scarcely more than a vague feeling of pity for him. It was
+of Mother that I thought. The news must be kept from her. If she should
+hear of it! What should I do? I went first of all to the lawyer's
+office: he was out of town for the day. I wandered up and down the
+streets for an hour. Then I went back to the bank. There I found a
+telegram from Doctor Quimby: “Mrs. Paine very ill. Come on first train.”
+ I knew what it meant. Mother had heard the news; the shock which the
+doctor dreaded had had its effect.
+
+I reached Denboro the next morning. Lute met me at the station. From his
+disjointed and lengthy story I gathered that Mother had been “feelin'
+fust-rate for her” until the noon before. “I come back from the
+post-office,” said Lute, “and I was cal'latin' to read the newspaper,
+but Dorindy had some everlastin' chore or other for me to do--I believe
+she thinks 'em up in her sleep--and I left the paper on the dinin'-room
+table and went out to the barn. Dorindy she come along to boss me, as
+usual. When we went back to the house there was Mrs. Comfort on the
+dinin'-room floor--dead, we was afraid at fust. The paper was alongside
+of her, so we judge she was just a-goin' to read it when she was took.
+The doctor says it's a paralysis or appleplexy or somethin'. We carried
+her into the bedroom, but she ain't spoke sence.”
+
+She did not speak for weeks and when she did it was to ask for me.
+She called my name over and over again and, if I left her, even for a
+moment, she grew so much worse that the doctor forbade my going back to
+the city. I obtained a leave of absence from the bank for three months.
+By that time she was herself, so far as her reason was concerned, but
+very weak and unable to bear the least hint of disturbance or worry. She
+must not be moved, so Doctor Quimby said, and he held out no immediate
+hope of her recovering the use of her limbs. “She will be confined to
+her bed for a long time,” said the doctor, “and she is easy only when
+you are here. If you should go away I am afraid she might die.” I did
+not go away. I gave up my position in the bank and remained in Denboro.
+
+At the end of the year I bought the Rogers house and land, moved a
+portion of our furniture down there, sold the rest, and resigned myself
+to a period of idleness in the country. Dorinda I hired as housekeeper,
+and when Dorinda accepted the engagement she threw in Lute, so to speak,
+for good measure.
+
+And here I have been ever since. At first I looked upon my stay in
+Denboro as a sort of enforced vacation, which was to be, of course, only
+temporary. But time went on and Mother's condition continued unchanged.
+She needed me and I could not leave her. I fished and, shot and sailed
+and loafed, losing ambition and self-respect, aware that the majority of
+the village people considered me too lazy to earn a living, and
+caring little for their opinion. At first I had kept up a hit or miss
+correspondence with one or two of my associates in the bank, but after
+a while I dropped even this connection with the world. I was ashamed
+to have my former acquaintances know what I had become, and they,
+apparently, were quite willing to forget me. I expected to live and die
+in Denboro, and I faced the prospect with indifference.
+
+The summer people, cottagers and boarders, I avoided altogether and my
+only friend, and I did not consider him that, was George Taylor, the
+Denboro bank cashier. He was fond of salt-water and out-door sports and
+we, occasionally enjoyed them together.
+
+Thanks to the lawyer, our names had been scarcely mentioned in the
+papers at the time of my father's death. No one in the village knew our
+identity or our story. And, because I knew that Mother would worry if
+she were told, I kept from her the fact that our little income was but
+half of what it had been. Our wants were few, and if my clothes were no
+longer made by the best tailors, if they were ready-made and out-of-date
+and lacked pressing, they were whole, at all events, because Dorinda was
+a tip-top mender. In fact, I had forgotten they were out-of-date until
+the sight of the immaculately garbed young chap in the automobile
+brought the comparison between us to my mind.
+
+But now, as I sat on the wash-bench, thinking of all this, I looked down
+at my baggy trousers and faded waistcoat with disgust. One of the surest
+signs of the loss of self-respect is a disregard of one's personal
+appearance. I looked like a hayseed--not the independent countryman who
+wears old clothes on week days from choice and is proudly conscious of
+a Sunday suit in the closet--but that other variety, the post-office and
+billiard-room idler who has reached the point of utter indifference, is
+too shiftless to care. Captain Jed was not so far wrong, after all--Lute
+Rogers and I were birds of a feather in more ways than one.
+
+No wonder that girl in the auto had looked at me as if I were something
+too contemptible for notice. Yet I hated her for that look. I had
+behaved like a boor, of course. Because I was a failure, a country
+loafer with no prospect of ever being anything else, because I could
+not ride in automobiles and others could--these were no good reasons
+for insulting strangers more fortunate than I. Yet I did hate that girl.
+Just then I hated all creation, especially that portion of it which
+amounted to anything.
+
+I took the letter from my pocket and read it again. “I should like
+to see you . . . on a matter of business.” What business could “Yours
+truly, James W. Colton” have with me? And Captain Jed also had talked
+business. I supposed that I had given up business long ago and for good;
+now, all at once, it seemed to be hunting me. Well, all the hunting
+should be on its side.
+
+At another time I might have treated the great Colton's “summons to
+court” as a joke. I might, like Mother, have regarded the curtness
+of the command and its general tone of taking my prompt obedience for
+granted as an expression of the Wall Street magnate's habit of mind,
+and nothing more. He was used to having people jump when he snapped his
+fingers. But now it made me angry. I sympathized with Dean and Alvin
+Baker. The possession of money did not necessarily imply omnipotence.
+This was Cape Cod, not New York. His Majesty might, as Captain Jed put
+it, have blown his Imperial nose, but I, for one, wouldn't “lay in a
+supply of handkerchiefs”--not yet.
+
+I heard a rustle in the bushes and, turning my head, saw Lute coming
+along the path. He was walking fast--fast for him, that is--and seemed
+to be excited. His excitement, however, did not cause him to forget
+prudence. He looked carefully about to be sure his wife was not in
+sight, before he spoke.
+
+“Dorindy ain't been here sence I've been gone, has she?” was his first
+question.
+
+“I guess not,” said I. “She has been in the house since I got back. But
+I don't know how long you've been gone.”
+
+“Only a few minutes. I--I just stepped over 'cross the Lane for a jiffy,
+that's all. Say, by time; them Coltons must have money!”
+
+“That's a habit of millionaires, I believe.”
+
+“Hey? What do you mean by that? If they didn't have money they couldn't
+be millionaires, could they? How'd you like to be a millionaire, Ros?”
+
+“I don't know. I never tried.”
+
+“By time! I'D like to try a spell. I've been over lookin' 'round their
+place. You never see such a place! Why, their front doorstep's big as
+this yard, pretty nigh.”
+
+“Does it have to be raked?” I asked.
+
+“Raked! Whoever heard of rakin' a doorstep?”
+
+“Give it up! But it does seem to me that I have heard of raking a yard.
+I think Dorinda mentioned that, didn't she?”
+
+Lute looked at me: then he hurried over and picked up the rake which
+was lying near the barn, a pile--a very small pile--of chips and leaves
+beside it.
+
+“When did she mention it?” he asked.
+
+“A week ago, I think, was the first time. She has referred to it
+occasionally since. She was mentioning it to you when I went up town
+this morning. I heard her.”
+
+Lute looked relieved. “Oh, THEN!” he said. “I thought you meant lately.
+Well, I'm rakin' it, ain't I? Say, Ros,” he added, eagerly, “did you
+go to the post-office when you was uptown? Was there a letter there for
+you?”
+
+“What makes you think there was?”
+
+“Asa Peters' boy, the bow-legged one, told me. The chauffeur, the feller
+that pilots the automobiles, asked him where the post-office was and he
+see the address on the envelope. He said the letter was for you. I told
+him he was lyin'--”
+
+“What in the world did you tell him that for?” I interrupted. I had
+known Lute a long time, but he sometimes surprised me, even yet.
+
+“'Cause he is, nine times out of ten,” replied Lute, promptly. “You
+never see such a young-one for dodgin' the truth. Why, one time he told
+his grandmother, Asa's ma, I mean, that--”
+
+“What did he say about the letter?”
+
+“Said 'twas for you. And the chauffeur said Mr. Colton told him to mail
+it right off. 'Twan't for you, was it, Ros?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“It WAS! Well, by time! What did a man like Mr. Colton write to you
+about?”
+
+Among his other lackings Lute was conspicuously short of tact. This was
+no time for him to ask me such a question, especially to emphasize the
+“you.”
+
+“Why shouldn't he write to me?” I asked, tartly.
+
+“But--but HIM--writin' to YOU!”
+
+“Humph! Even a god stoops once in a while. Read your mythology, Lute.”
+
+“Hey? Say, look here, what are you swearin' about?”
+
+“Swearing? Oh, that's all right. The god I referred to was a heathen
+one.”
+
+“Well, it's a good thing Dorindy didn't hear you; she's down on
+swearin', heathen or any other kind. But what did Mr. Colton write to
+you for?”
+
+“He says he wants to see me.”
+
+“See you? What for?”
+
+“Don't know. Perhaps he wants to borrow money.”
+
+“Borrow--! I believe you're crazy!”
+
+“No, I'm tolerably sane. There! there! don't look at me like that.
+Here's his letter. Read it, if you want to.”
+
+Lute's fingers were so eager to grasp that letter that they were all
+thumbs. He dropped it on the grass, picked it up with as much care as if
+it was a diamond, and holding it a foot from his nose--he had broken
+his spectacles and was afraid to ask Dorinda for the money to have them
+repaired--he spelt it out to the last word.
+
+“Well, by time!” he exclaimed, when he had finished. “He wants to see
+you at his house this forenoon! And--and--why, the forenoon's all but
+gone now! What are you settin' here for?”
+
+“Well, I thought I should enjoy watching you rake the yard. It is a
+pleasure deferred so far.”
+
+“Watchin' me--! Roscoe Paine, you are out of your head! Ain't you goin'
+to see him?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“You AIN'T!”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Ros Paine, have you jined in with them darn fools uptown?”
+
+“Who's swearing now? What fools do you mean?”
+
+“Darn ain't swearin'. Dorindy herself says that once in a while. I mean
+Alvin Baker, and Jed Dean and the rest of 'em. They was goin' on about
+Mr. Colton last night; said THEY wan't goin' to run at his beck and
+call. I told 'em, says I, 'You ain't had the chance. You'll run fast
+enough when you do.'”
+
+“Did you say that to Captain Jed?”
+
+“No-o. I said it to Alvin, but old Jed's just as bad. He's down on
+anybody that's got more'n he has. But Ros, you ain't foolish enough to
+side with Jed Dean. Just think! Here's Mr. Colton, richer'n King Solomon
+and all his glory. He's got servants and butlers and bonds and cowpons
+and horses and teams and automobiles and--”
+
+I rose from the wash bench.
+
+“I know what he's got, Lute,” I interrupted. “And I know what he hasn't
+got.”
+
+“What? Is there anything he ain't got?”
+
+“He hasn't got me--not yet. If he wants to see me he may. I expect to be
+at home for the next day or two.”
+
+“You don't mean you expect a millionaire like him to come cruisin' after
+YOU! Well, by time! I think I see him!”
+
+“When you do, let me know,” I said. “I should like to be prepared.”
+
+“Well,--by--time!” said Lute, by way of summing up. I ate dinner with
+Dorinda. Her husband did not join us. Dorinda paid a visit to the back
+yard and, seeing how little raking had been done, announced that until
+the job was finished there would be “no dinner for some folks.” So she
+and I ate and Lute raked, under protest, and vowing that he was so faint
+and holler he cal'lated to collapse 'most any time.
+
+After the meal was finished I went down to the boathouse. The boathouse
+was a little building on the beach at the foot of the bluff below the
+house. It was a favorite resort of mine and I spent many hours there.
+My eighteen foot motor launch, the Comfort, the one expensive luxury I
+allowed myself and which I had bought second-hand two years before,
+was jacked up in the middle of the floor. The engine, which I had taken
+apart to clean, was in pieces beside it. On the walls hung my two shot
+guns and my fishing rod. Outside, on the beach, was my flat-bottomed
+skiff, which I used for rowing about the bay, her oars under the
+thwarts. In the boathouse was a comfortable armchair and a small shelf
+of books, novels for the most part. A cheap clock and a broken-down
+couch, the latter a discard from the original outfit of the cottage,
+made up the list of furniture.
+
+My idea in coming to the boathouse was to continue my work with the
+engine. I tried it for a half hour or so and then gave it up. It did not
+interest me then. I shut the door at the side of the building, that by
+which I had entered--the big double doors in front I had not opened at
+all--and, taking a book from the shelf, stretched myself on the couch to
+read.
+
+The book I had chosen was one belonging to the Denboro Ladies' Library;
+Miss Almena Doane, the librarian, had recommended it highly, as a “real
+interesting story, with lots of uplifting thoughts in it.” The thoughts
+might be uplifting to Almena, but they did not elevate my spirits. As
+for the story--well, the hero was a young gentleman who was poor but
+tremendously clever and handsome, and the heroine had eyes “as dark and
+deep as starlit pools.” The poor but beautiful person met the pool-eyed
+one at a concert, where he sat, “his whole soul transfigured by the
+music,” and she had been “fascinated in spite of herself” by the look on
+his face. I read as far as that and dropped the book in disgust.
+
+After that I must have fallen asleep. What awakened me was a knock
+on the door. It was Lute, of course. Probably mother wanted me for
+something or other, and Dorinda had sent her husband to hunt me up.
+
+The knock was repeated.
+
+“Come in,” I said, sleepily.
+
+The door opened and in came, not Lute, but a tall, portly man, with a
+yachting cap on the back of his gray head, and a cigar in his mouth. He
+looked at me as I lay on the couch and I lay on the couch and looked at
+him.
+
+“Afternoon,” he said, curtly. “Is your name Paine?”
+
+I nodded. I was waking rapidly, but I was too astonished to speak.
+
+“Roscoe Paine?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, mine's Colton. I sent you a letter this morning. Did you get it?”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+I sat up on the couch. Mr. Colton knocked the ashes from his cigar,
+waited an instant, and then repeated his question.
+
+“Did you get my letter?” he asked.
+
+“Yes,” I said.
+
+“Oh, you did. I was afraid that man of mine might have forgotten to mail
+it.”
+
+“No, I got it. Won't you--er--won't you sit down?” He pulled the
+armchair toward him and sat down. I noticed that he had a habit of doing
+things quickly. His sentences were short and to the point and he spoke
+and acted like one accustomed to having his own way. He crossed his
+knees and looked about the little building.
+
+“It is a pleasant day,” I observed, for the sake of saying something.
+He did not seem to hear me, or, if he did, he was not interested in the
+weather. For my part I found the situation embarrassing. I knew what his
+next question would be, and I did not know how to answer. Sure enough,
+he asked it.
+
+“I wrote you to come over to my place this forenoon,” he said. “You
+didn't come.”
+
+“No. I--”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+Here was the issue joined. Here, if ever, was the opportunity to assert
+my independence a la Jed Dean and Alvin Baker. But to assert it now,
+after he had done the unexpected, after the mountain had come to
+Mahomet, seemed caddish and ridiculous. So I temporized, weakly.
+
+“I didn't read your letter until about noon,” I said.
+
+“I see. Well, I waited until two o'clock and then I decided to hunt you
+up. I called at your house. The woman there said you were down here.
+Your mother?”
+
+“No.” My answer was prompt and sharp enough this time. It was natural,
+perhaps, that he should presume Dorinda to be my mother, but I did not
+like it.
+
+He paid absolutely no attention to the tone of my reply or its curtness.
+He did not refer to Dorinda again. She might have been my wife or my
+great-aunt for all he cared.
+
+“This your workshop?” he asked, abruptly. Then, nodding toward the
+dismembered engine, “What are you? a boat builder?”
+
+“No, not exactly.”
+
+“What's the price of a boat like that?” indicating the Comfort with a
+kick in her direction.
+
+“About two hundred and fifty dollars, I believe,” I answered.
+
+“You believe! Don't you know?”
+
+“No. I bought that boat second-hand.”
+
+He did not refer to the boat again; apparently forgot it altogether. His
+next move was to rise and turn toward the door. I watched him, wondering
+what was going to happen next. He had a habit of jumping from one
+subject to another which was bewildering.
+
+“What's that fellow doing off there?” he asked, suddenly.
+
+I looked where he was pointing.
+
+“That is Zeb Kendrick,” I answered. “He's raking for quahaugs.”
+
+“Raking for what hogs?”
+
+“Quahaugs. What you New Yorkers call clams.”
+
+“Oh! Sell 'em, does he?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Tell him to call at my house next time you see him. And for heaven's
+sake tell him to come to the servants' door. Don't you people down here
+have any servants' doors to your houses? There have been no less than
+fifty peddlers on my porch since yesterday and my butler will die of
+apoplexy if it keeps on. He's a good one, for a wonder, and I don't want
+to lose him.”
+
+I made no reply to this observation and he did not seem to expect any.
+He watched Zeb rake for a moment and then he turned back to me.
+
+“Can you come over to my house now?” he asked.
+
+I was not expecting this and again I did not have an answer ready.
+
+“Can you?” he went on. “I've got a business deal to make with you and
+I'd rather make it there. I've got a lot of carpenters and painters
+at work and they ask me ten questions a minute. They are unnecessary
+questions but if I don't answer them the fellows are sure to make some
+fool mistake or other. They need a governess. If you'll come over with
+me I'll be in touch with them and you and I can talk just as well. Can
+come, can't you?”
+
+I did not know what to say. I wanted to say no, that if he had any
+business with me it could be discussed in that boathouse. I did not like
+his manner, yet I had a feeling that it was his usual one and that he
+had not meant to be rude. And I could think of no good reason for not
+going with him.
+
+“You can come, can't you?” he repeated.
+
+“I suppose I can. But--”
+
+“Of course if you're too busy to leave--”
+
+I remembered the position he had found me in and I rather think I had
+turned red. He did not smile, but there was a sort of grim twinkle in
+his eyes.
+
+“I'll come,” I said.
+
+“Much obliged. I won't keep you long. Come on.”
+
+He led the way and I followed, rebellious, and angry, not so much with
+him as with myself. I wished now that I had gone over to the Colton
+place when I first received the summons to court, instead of making
+proclamations of defiance to mother and Lute Rogers. This seemed such
+a complete backdown. As we passed the house I saw Lute peering from the
+barn. I devoutly hoped he might not see me, but he did. His mouth opened
+and he stared. Then, catching my eye, he winked triumphantly. I wanted
+to punch his head.
+
+The King of New York walked briskly on in silence until we were just at
+the edge of the grove by the Shore Lane. Then he stopped and turned to
+me.
+
+“You own all this land, don't you?” he asked.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Humph! Get a good view from here.”
+
+I admitted that the view was good. At that particular point it embraced
+nearly the whole of the bay in front, and a large portion of the village
+at the side.
+
+He waved his hand toward the cluster of houses.
+
+“There are eighteen hundred people in this town, they tell me,” he said.
+“Permanent residents, I mean. What do they all do?”
+
+“Do?”
+
+“Yes. How do they get a living? They must get it somehow. In the regular
+summer resorts they squeeze it out of the city people, I know that. But
+there aren't so many cottagers and boarders here. What do you all do for
+a living?”
+
+I told him that most of masculine Denboro fished or farmed or kept
+store.
+
+“Which do you do?” he asked. “You said you weren't a boat-builder.”
+
+“I'm not doing anything at present,” I replied, shortly.
+
+“Out of a job?”
+
+“You might call it that. Is this a part of the business you wished to
+see me about, Mr. Colton?”
+
+I was boiling inwardly and a little of the heat was expressed in my
+tone. I don't know whether he took the hint or merely lost interest in
+the subject. At any rate his reply was a brief “No,” and we continued
+our walk.
+
+As we reached the Shore Lane he paused again, and I thought he was about
+to speak. He did not, however, and we crossed the boundary line of my
+property and entered the Colton grounds. As we drew nearer to the house
+I was surprised to see how large it was. When the Atwaters owned it
+I was an occasional caller there, for old Major Atwater was fond of
+shooting and sometimes borrowed my decoys. But, since it changed hands,
+I had not been nearer to it than the Lane. With the new wing and the
+other additions it was enormous. It fairly reeked of money, though, so
+far as I was a judge, the taste shown in rebuilding and decorating was
+good. We turned the corner, where Asa Peters, the head carpenter, came
+hurrying up. Asa looked surprised enough to see me in company with his
+employer and regarded me wonderingly. “Mr. Colton,” he said, “I wanted
+to ask you about them skylights.” I stepped back out of hearing, but I
+inferred from Colton's actions that the question was another one of the
+“unnecessary” ones he had so scornfully referred to in the boathouse.
+
+“Jackass!” he exclaimed, as he rejoined me. I judged he was classifying
+Asa, but, if so, he did not trouble to lower his voice. “Come on,
+Paine,” he added, and we passed a long line of windows, hung with costly
+curtains, and stepped up on a handsome Colonial portico before two big
+doors.
+
+The doors were opened by an imposing personage in dark blue and brass
+buttons, who bowed profoundly before Colton and regarded me with
+condescending superiority. This personage, whom I recognized, from
+Alvin's description, as the “minister-lookin'” butler, led us through
+a hall about as large as our sitting-room, dining-room and kitchen
+combined, but bearing no other resemblance to these apartments, and
+opened another door, through which, bowing once more, he ushered us.
+Then he closed the door, leaving himself, to my relief, outside. It had
+been a long time since I was waited upon by a butler and I found this
+specimen rather overpowering.
+
+The room we were in was the library, and, though it was bigger and far
+more sumptuous than the library I remembered so well as a boy, the sight
+of the books in their cases along the walls gave me a feeling almost of
+homesickness. My resentment against my millionaire neighbor increased.
+Why should he and his have everything, and the rest of us be deprived of
+the little we once had?
+
+Colton seated himself in a leather upholstered chair and waved his hand
+toward another.
+
+“Sit down,” he said. He took a cigar from his pocket. “Smoke?” he asked.
+
+I was a confirmed smoker, but I was not going to smoke one of his
+cigars--not then.
+
+“No thank you,” said I. He did not comment on my refusal, but lit the
+cigar himself, from the stump of his former one. Then he crossed his
+legs and proceeded, with characteristic abruptness, to his subject.
+
+“Paine,” he began, “you own this land next to me, you say. Your property
+ends at the fence this side of that road we just crossed, doesn't it?”
+
+“It ends where yours begins,” I announced.
+
+“Yes. Just this side of that road.”
+
+“Of the Shore Lane. It isn't a road exactly.”
+
+“I don't care what you call it. Road or lane or cow-path. It ends
+there?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And it IS your land? It belongs to you, personally, all of it, free and
+clear?”
+
+“Why--yes; it does.” I could not see what business of his my ownership
+of that land might be.
+
+“All right. I asked that because, if it wasn't yours, if it was tied up
+or mortgaged in any way, it might complicate matters. But it isn't.”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Good! Then we can get down to brass tacks and save time. I want a piece
+of that land.”
+
+I looked at him.
+
+“You want--?” I repeated, slowly.
+
+“I want a strip of your land. Want to buy it, of course. I don't expect
+you to give it to me. What's it worth, by the acre, say?”
+
+I did not answer. All at once I was beginning to see a light. Captain
+Jed Dean's mysterious conversation at the post-office was beginning to
+lose some of its mystery.
+
+“Well?” asked Colton, impatiently. Then, without waiting longer, he
+added:
+
+“By the way, before you name a figure, answer me one more question. That
+road--or lane, or whatever it is--that is yours, too? Doesn't belong to
+the town?”
+
+The light was growing more brilliant. I could see breakers ahead.
+
+“No,” I replied, slowly. “It is a private way. It belongs to me.”
+
+“Good! Well, what's that land of yours worth by the acre?”
+
+I shook my head. “I scarcely know,” I said. “I've never figured it that
+way.”
+
+“I don't care how you figure it. Here, let's get down to a business
+proposition. I want to buy a strip of that land from the Lower
+Road--that's what you call the one above here, isn't it?--to the beach.
+The strip I want is about three hundred feet wide, for a guess. It
+extends from my fence to the other side of that grove by the bluff. What
+will you sell it for?”
+
+The breakers were close aboard. However, I dodged them momentarily.
+
+“Why do you want to buy?” I asked.
+
+“For reasons.”
+
+“I should think you had land enough already.”
+
+“I thought I had, but it seems I haven't. Well, what's your price for
+that strip?”
+
+“Mr. Colton, I--I'm afraid--”
+
+“Never mind that. I suppose you're afraid you'll make the price too low.
+Now, see here, I'm a busy man. I haven't time to do any bargaining.
+Name your price and, if it's anywhere within reason, we won't haggle.
+I expect to pay more than anyone else would. That's part of my fine
+for being a city man and not a native. Gad! the privilege is worth the
+money. I'll pay the fine. What's the price?”
+
+“But why do you want to buy?”
+
+“For reasons of my own, I tell you. They haven't anything to do with
+your selling.”
+
+“I'm not so sure.”
+
+“What do you mean by that?”
+
+“That strip takes in the Shore Lane, Mr. Colton.”
+
+“I know it.”
+
+“And, if you buy, I presume the Lane will be closed.”
+
+He looked at me, surprised, and, I thought, a little annoyed.
+
+“Well?” he said; “suppose it is?”
+
+“But it will be, won't it?”
+
+“You bet your life it will! What of it?”
+
+“Then I don't know that I care to sell.”
+
+He leaned back in his chair.
+
+“You don't care to sell!” he repeated, slowly. “What the devil do you
+mean by that?”
+
+“What I said. And, besides, Mr. Colton, I--”
+
+He interrupted me.
+
+“Why don't you care to sell?” he demanded. “The land is no good to you,
+is it?”
+
+“Not much. No.”
+
+“Humph! Are you so rich that you've got all the money you want?”
+
+I was angry all through. I rose from my chair.
+
+“Good day, Mr. Colton,” I said.
+
+“Here!” he shouted. “Hold on! Where are you going?”
+
+“I can't see that there is any use of our talking further.”
+
+“No use? Why--There! there! sit down. It's none of my business how rich
+you are, and I beg your pardon. Sit down. Sit down, man, I tell you!”
+
+I sat down, reluctantly. He threw his cigar, which had gone out, into
+the fireplace and lit another.
+
+“Say,” he said, “you surprise me, Paine. What do you mean by saying you
+won't sell that land? You don't know what I'll pay for it yet.”
+
+“No, I don't.”
+
+“Then how do you know you won't sell it? I never had anything
+yet--except my wife and family--that I wouldn't sell for a price. Look
+here! I haven't got time to do any Down-East horse-jockeying. I'll make
+you an offer. I'll give you five hundred dollars cash for that strip of
+land. What do you say?”
+
+I didn't say anything. Five hundred dollars was a generous offer. I
+couldn't help thinking what Mother and I might do with that five hundred
+dollars.
+
+“What do you say?” he repeated.
+
+I answered, Yankee fashion, with another question. “Mr. Colton,” I
+asked, “why do you want to close that Shore Lane?”
+
+“Because I do. What difference does it make to you why I want to close
+it?”
+
+“That Lane has been used by Denboro people for years. It is almost a
+public necessity.”
+
+He puffed twice on his cigar before he spoke again. When he did it was
+in a different tone.
+
+“I see,” he said. “Humph! I see. Paine, does the town pay you rent for
+the use of that road?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Has it been bidding to buy it?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Is any one else after it?”
+
+“No-o. I think not. But--”
+
+“You THINK not. That means you're not sure. You've had a bite somewhere.
+Somebody has been nibbling at your hook. Well, they've got to bite quick
+and swallow some to get ahead of me. I want that road closed and I'm
+going to have it closed, sooner or later. I'd prefer it sooner.”
+
+“But why do you want to close it?”
+
+Before he could answer there came a knock at the door. The butler
+appeared.
+
+“I beg your pardon, sir--” he began. His master cut him short.
+
+“Tell 'em to wait,” he ordered. “I can't see any one now, Johnson. If it
+is that damned carpenter he can wait.”
+
+“It isn't the carpenter, sir,” explained Johnson. “It's Mrs. Colton,
+sir. She wishes to know if you have bought that road. She says three of
+those 'orrid fishcarts have gone by in the last hour, sir, and they are
+making her very nervous. That's all, sir.”
+
+“Tell her I've bought it,” snapped the head of the house. “Get out.”
+
+The butler obeyed orders. Colton turned to me.
+
+“You heard that, Paine,” he said. “That's my reason, the principal one.
+I bought this place principally on account of Mrs. Colton's health. The
+doctors said she needed quiet and rest. I thought she could have them
+here--God knows the place looked forsaken enough--but it appears she
+can't. Whenever she or I sit on the veranda or at a window we have to
+watch a procession of jays driving smelly fish carts through that lane
+of yours, or be stared at by a gang of countrymen hanging over the
+fence. It's a nuisance. It is bad enough for me or my daughter and our
+guests, but it will be the ruination of my wife's nerves, and I can't
+stand for that. You see the position I'm in. You heard what I told that
+butler. I said I had bought the road. You wouldn't make me a liar, would
+you? I'll give you five hundred for that bunch of sand. You couldn't get
+more for it if you sold it by the pound, like tea. Say yes, and close
+the deal.”
+
+I shook my head.
+
+“I understand your position, Mr. Colton,” I said, “but I can't say yes.
+Not now, at any rate.”
+
+“Why not? Isn't five hundred enough?”
+
+“It's a good offer.”
+
+“Then why not accept it?”
+
+“Because, if I were certain that I wanted to sell, I could not accept
+any offer just now.”
+
+“Why not? See here! are you afraid the town will be sore because the
+road is closed?”
+
+“It would be a great inconvenience to them.”
+
+“It's a greater one to me as it is. Can you afford to be a
+philanthropist? Are you one of those public-spirited citizens we read
+about?”
+
+He was sneering now, and my anger, which had lessened somewhat when he
+spoke of his wife's ill health, was rising again.
+
+“Are you?” he repeated.
+
+“I don't know as to that. But, as I said a while ago, Mr. Colton, I
+couldn't sell that land to you now.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Because, if there were no other reason, I promised not to sell it
+without telling another person first.”
+
+He threw down his cigar and stood up. I rose also.
+
+“I see,” he said, with sarcasm. “I knew there was something beside
+public spirit. You think, by hanging off and playing me against this
+other sucker, you can get a higher price. Well, if that's the game, I'll
+keep him busy.”
+
+He took out his watch, glanced at it, and thrust it back into his
+pocket.
+
+“I've wasted time enough over this fool thing,” he declared. “Now that I
+know what the game is we'll talk to the point. It's highway robbery, but
+I might have expected to be robbed. I'll give you six hundred for that
+land.”
+
+I did not answer. I was holding my temper by main strength and I could
+not trust myself to speak.
+
+“Well?” he sneered. “That shakes your public spirit some, hey? What do
+you say?”
+
+“No,” I answered, and started for the door.
+
+“What!” he could hardly believe his ears. “By the Lord Harry! the fellow
+is crazy. Six hundred and fifty then, you infernal robber.”
+
+“No.”
+
+“NO! Say, what in thunder do you mean?”
+
+“I mean that you may go to the devil,” I retorted, and reached for the
+door knob.
+
+But before my fingers touched it there was the sound of laughter and
+voices in the hall. The knob was turned from without. I stepped back and
+to one side involuntarily, as the door opened and into the library
+came, not the butler, but a young lady, a girl in an automobile coat and
+bonnet. And, following her, a young man.
+
+“Father,” said the young lady, “Johnson says you've bought that horrid
+road. I'm so glad! When did you do it?”
+
+“Congratulations, Mr. Colton,” said the young man. “We just passed a
+cart full of something--seaweed, I believe it was--as we came along with
+the car. Oscar had to slow down to squeeze by, and we certainly were
+swept by ocean breezes. By Jove! I can smell them yet. I--”
+
+The young lady interrupted him.
+
+“Hush, Victor,” she said. “I beg your pardon, Father. I thought you were
+alone. Victor, we're intruding.”
+
+The open door had partially screened me from the newcomers. But Colton,
+red and wrathful, had not ceased to glare in my direction and she,
+following his gaze, saw me. She did not recognize me, I think--probably
+I had not made sufficient impression upon her mind even for casual
+remembrance--but I recognized her. She was the girl with the dark eyes,
+whose look of contemptuous indifference had so withered my self-esteem.
+And her companion was the young chap who, from the tonneau of the
+automobile that morning, had inquired the way to Bayport.
+
+The young man turned lazily. “Are we?” he said. “I--What! Why, Mabel,
+it's the humorist!”
+
+Then she recognized me. I could feel the blood climbing from my toes
+to the roots of my hair. I was too astonished and chagrined to speak or
+even move, though I wanted to move very much indeed. She looked at me
+and I at her. Then she turned coldly away.
+
+“Come, Victor,” she said.
+
+But Victor was his own blase self. It took more than a trifle to shake
+his calm. He laughed.
+
+“It's the humorist,” he repeated. “Reuben, how are you?”
+
+Colton regarded the three of us with amazement.
+
+“What?” he began. “Mabel, do you--”
+
+But I had recovered my powers of locomotion. I was on my way out of that
+library.
+
+“Here!” shouted Colton. “Stop!”
+
+I did not stop. Feeling as I did at that moment it would have been
+distinctly unpleasant for the person who tried to stop me. The girl was
+in my way and, as I approached, she drew her skirts aside. No doubt
+it was my imagination which made her manner of doing it seem like an
+insult, but, imagination or reality, it was the one thing necessary to
+clench my resolution. Now when she looked at me I returned the look with
+interest. I strode through the doorway and across the hall. The butler
+would have opened the outer door for me, but I opened it myself to the
+imminent danger of his dignified nose. As I stepped from the portico I
+heard behind me a roar from Big Jim Colton and a shout of laughter from
+Victor.
+
+I walked home at top speed. Only once did I look back. That was just as
+I was about to enter the grove on the other side of the Shore Lane. Then
+I turned and saw, at the big window at the end of the “Newport villa,”
+ a group of three staring in my direction: Colton, his daughter and that
+cub Victor. The distance was too great to see the expression of their
+faces, but I knew that two of them, at least, were laughing--laughing at
+me.
+
+I did not laugh.
+
+Lute was waiting for me by the gate and ran to meet me. He was wild with
+excitement.
+
+“He came after you, didn't he?” he cried, grabbing at my coat sleeve.
+“You went over to his house with him, didn't you! I see you and at fust
+I couldn't scurcely believe it. What did he want? What did he say?”
+
+I did not answer. He ran along beside me, still clinging to my sleeve.
+
+“What did he want?” he repeated. “What did he say to you? What did you
+say to him? Tell a feller, can't you?”
+
+“I told him to go to the devil,” I answered, savagely.
+
+Lute let go of my sleeve.
+
+“You--you--By time, you're stark loony!” he gasped; and collapsed
+against the gate post.
+
+I went into the house, up the back stairs to my room, and shut the door.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+So she was his daughter. I might have guessed it; would have guessed
+it if I had possessed the commonest of common-sense. I might have known
+that the auto was Colton's. No other machine was likely to be traveling
+on the Lower Road at that season of the year. She was the pretty
+daughter of whom Dorinda had spoken to Mother. Well, she was pretty
+enough; even I had to admit that. But I admitted it grudgingly. I hated
+her for her beauty and fine clothes and haughty arrogance. She was the
+incarnation of snobbishness.
+
+But to be made twice ridiculous even by the incarnation of snobbishness
+was galling. She was to be my next-door neighbor; we were likely to
+meet almost anywhere at any time. When I thought of this and of the two
+meetings which had already taken place I swore at the blue and white
+water-pitcher on my bureau because it did not contain water enough to
+drown me. Not that I would commit suicide on her account. She would not
+care if I did and certainly I did not care whether she would care or
+not; but if I were satisfactorily dead I probably should not remember
+what a fool I had made of myself, or Fate had made of me.
+
+Why had I not got out of that library before she came? Oh, if not, why
+hadn't I stayed and told her father, in her hearing, and with dignity,
+just what I thought of him and his remarks to me? But no; I had run
+away. She--or that Victor--would tell of the meeting at the bridge, and
+all my independence and the rest of it would be regarded as of a piece
+with that, just the big-headed “smartness” of a country boor. In their
+eyes I was a nuisance, that was all. A disagreeable one, perhaps, like
+the Shore Lane, but a nuisance, one to laugh at and forget--if it could
+not be gotten rid of.
+
+Why had I gone with Colton at all? Why hadn't I remained at the
+boathouse and there told the King of New York to go to the mischief? or
+words to that effect. But I had, at all events, told him that. In spite
+of my chagrin I could not help chuckling as I thought of it. To tell Big
+Jim Colton to go to the devil was, in its way, I imagined, a privilege
+enjoyed by few. It must have shaken his self-satisfaction a trifle.
+Well, after all, what did I care? He, and his whole family--including
+Victor--had my permission to migrate in that direction and I wished Old
+Nick joy of their company.
+
+Having derived this much satisfaction from my reflections, I went
+downstairs. Dorinda was setting the table for supper. She looked at me
+as I came in.
+
+“Been visitin', I hear,” she observed, wiping an imaginary speck from
+the corner of a plate with her “afternoon” apron.
+
+“Yes,” said I.
+
+“Um-hm,” said Dorinda. “Have a good time?”
+
+I smiled. “I had an interesting one,” I told her.
+
+“Um-hm, I judged so, from what Lute said.”
+
+“Where is Lute?”
+
+“Out in the barn, beddin' down the horse. That is, I told him to do
+that, but his head was so full of you and what you told him you said to
+Mr. Colton that I shouldn't be surprised if he's bedded down the hens
+and was huntin' in the manger for eggs.”
+
+“Lute thinks I've gone crazy,” I observed.
+
+“Um-hm. He was all for fetchin' the doctor right off, but I told him I
+cal'lated we could bear with your ravin's for a spell. Did you say what
+he said you said?”
+
+“I'm afraid I did.”
+
+“Um-hm. Well, it didn't do any good, did it?”
+
+“Good? What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean he didn't obey orders--Colton, that is.”
+
+“He hadn't when I left.”
+
+“I thought not. I never saw any good come from profane language yet;
+and, besides, judgin' from what I hear about the way that Colton man
+lives, and what he does on Sundays and all, he'll make the port you sent
+him to when his time comes. All you need is patience.”
+
+I laughed, and she began sorting the plated spoons. We had silver ones,
+but Dorinda insisted on keeping those to use when we had company. In
+consequence we used them about twice a year, when the minister came.
+
+“Of course,” she said, “I ain't askin' you what happened over there or
+why he wanted to see you. But I give you fair warnin' that, if I don't,
+Lute will. Lute's so stuffed with curiosity that he's li'ble to bust the
+stitches any minute.”
+
+“I'll tell you both, at supper,” I said.
+
+“Um-hm,” said Dorinda. “Well, I can wait, and Lute'll have to. By
+the way,” she added, seeing me about to enter Mother's room, “if it's
+anything too unpleasant I wouldn't worry Comfort with it. She'll want to
+know, of course, but I'd sort of smooth the edges.”
+
+Mother did want to know, and I told her, “smoothing the edges” all I
+could. I omitted my final order to “Big Jim” and I said nothing whatever
+about his daughter. Mother seemed to think I had done right in refusing
+to sell, though, as usual, she was ready to make allowances for the
+other side.
+
+“Poor woman,” she said, “I suppose the noise of the wagons and all that
+are annoying to any one with weak nerves. It must be dreadful to be in
+that condition. I am so sorry for her.”
+
+She meant it, too. But I, remembering the Colton mansion, what I had
+seen of it, and contrasting its splendor with the bare necessity of
+that darkened bedroom, found it hard to spare pity for the sufferer from
+“nerves.”
+
+“You needn't be,” I said, bitterly. “I imagine she wouldn't think of
+you, if the conditions were reversed. I doubt if she thinks of any one
+but herself.”
+
+“You shouldn't say that, Roscoe. You don't know. You have never met
+her.”
+
+“I have met the rest of the family. No, Mother, I think you needn't be
+sorry for that woman. She has everything under the sun. Whereas you--”
+
+“Hush! hush! There is one thing she hasn't got. She hasn't a son like
+you, Boy.”
+
+“Humph! That must be a terrible deprivation. There! there! Mother, I
+won't be disagreeable. Let's change the subject. Did Matilda Dean come
+to see you this afternoon?”
+
+“No. I presume she was too busy. But, Roscoe, it is plain enough why
+Captain Dean spoke to you about the Lane at the office this morning. He
+must have heard, somehow, that Mr. Colton wished to buy it.”
+
+“Yes. Or, if he didn't hear just that, he heard enough to make him guess
+the rest. He is pretty shrewd.”
+
+“You promised him you wouldn't sell without telling him beforehand.
+Shall you tell him of Mr. Colton's offer?”
+
+“If he asks me, I shall, I suppose.”
+
+“I wonder what he will do then. Do you suppose he will try to persuade
+the Selectmen to buy the Lane for the town?”
+
+“I don't know. I shouldn't wonder.”
+
+“It will be harder to refuse the town's offer.”
+
+“Yes. Although the town can't afford to pay Colton's prices. I believe
+that man would have raised his bid to a thousand, if I had let him. As a
+matter of business and nothing else, I suppose I am foolish not to push
+the price as high as possible and then sell. The land is worthless to
+us.”
+
+“I know. But this isn't just a matter of business, is it? And we DON'T
+need the money. We're not rich, but we aren't poor, are we, Boy.”
+
+“No. No, of course not. But, Mother, just see what I could do--for
+you--with a thousand dollars. Why, there are so many little things,
+little luxuries, that you need.”
+
+“I had rather not get them that way. No, Roscoe, I wouldn't sell to Mr.
+Colton. And I think I wouldn't sell to the town either.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Well, because we don't have to sell, and selling to either party would
+make ill-feeling. I should--of course I'm only a woman; you are a man
+and know much more about such things than I--but why not let matters
+stay just as they are? The townspeople can use the Lane, just as they
+have always done, and, as I told you before, every one has been so kind
+to us that I like to feel we are doing a little in return. Let them use
+the Lane, without cost. Why not?”
+
+“What do you think the Coltons would say to that?”
+
+“Perhaps they don't understand the real situation. The next time you see
+Mr. Colton you could explain more fully; tell him what the Lane means to
+the town, and so on. I'm sure he would understand, if you told him that.
+And then, if the sight of the wagons was too annoying, he could put up
+some kind of a screen, or plant a row of fir trees by the fence. Don't
+you think so?”
+
+I imagined the great man's reply to such a suggestion. However, I
+did not express my thoughts. I told Mother not to worry, I was sure
+everything would be all right, and, as Dorinda called me to supper, I
+went into the dining-room.
+
+Lute was waiting for me at the table, and Dorinda, after taking the
+tray into Mother's room, joined us. Lute was so full of excitement and
+curiosity that he almost forgot to eat, a miracle of itself and made
+greater by the fact that he did not ask a single question until his wife
+asked one first. Then he asked three in succession. Dorinda, who was
+quite as curious as he but would not have shown it for the world,
+stopped him at the beginning of the fourth.
+
+“There! there!” she said, sharply, “this is supposed to be a meal, not a
+parrot shop, and we're humans, not a passel of birds on a telegraph wire
+all hollerin' at once. Drink your tea and stop your cawin', Lute Rogers.
+Ros'll tell us when he gets ready. What DID Mr. Colton want of you,
+Roscoe?”
+
+I told them as much of the interview at the Coltons' as I thought
+necessary they should know. Lute kept remarkably quiet, for him, until
+I named the figure offered by the millionaire. Then he could hold in no
+longer.
+
+“Five hundred!” he repeated “Five hundred DOLLARS for the Shore Lane!
+Five--”
+
+“He raised it to six hundred and fifty before I left,” I said.
+
+“SIX hundred! Six hundred--and FIFTY! For the Shore Lane! Six hun--”
+
+“Sshh! shh!” cut in Dorinda. “You sound like Sim Eldredge sellin'
+somethin' at auction. DO be quiet! And you told him, Roscoe--?”
+
+“I told you what I told him,” I said.
+
+“Um-hm. I ain't forgot it. Be quiet, Lute. Well, Roscoe, I cal'late you
+know your own affairs best, but, judgin' from some hints Matildy Dean
+hove out when she was here this afternoon, I don't believe you've heard
+the last from that Shore Lane.”
+
+“Matilda Dean!” I repeated. “Why, Mother said Matilda wasn't here
+to-day.”
+
+“Um-hm. Well, she was here, though Comfort didn't know it. I took pains
+she shouldn't. Matildy come about three o'clock, in the buggy, along
+with Nellie. Nellie was doin' the drivin', of course, and her mother
+was tellin' her how, as usual. I don't wonder that girl is such a
+meek, soft-spoken kind of thing. Between her pa's bullyin' and her ma's
+tongue, it's a wonder she's got any spirit left. It would be a mercy if
+George Taylor should marry her and take her out of that house. Matildy
+had a new book on Spiritu'lism and she was figgerin' to read some of it
+out loud to Comfort, but I headed her off. I know _I_ wouldn't want to
+be all stirred up about 'tests' and 'materializations' and such, and so
+I told her Comfort was asleep.”
+
+“She wasn't asleep, neither,” declared Lute. “What did you tell such a
+whopper as that for? You're always sailin' into me if I stretch a yarn
+the least mite. Why, last April Fool Day you give me Hail Columby for
+jokin' you about a mouse under the kitchen table. Called me all kinds of
+names, you did--after you got down off the table.”
+
+His wife regarded him scornfully. “It's pretty hard to remember which IS
+that partic'lar day with you around,” she said. “I'd told Comfort she'd
+ought to take a nap and if she wan't takin' it 'twan't my fault. I wan't
+goin' to have her seein' her granddad's ghost in every corner. But,
+anyhow, Matildy made a little call on me, and, amongst the million other
+things she said, was somethin' about Cap'n Jed hearin' that Mr. Colton
+was cal'latin' to shut off that Lane. Matildy hinted that her husband
+and the Selectmen might have a little to say afore 'twas closed. If
+that's so I guess you may hear from him as well as the Colton man,
+Roscoe.”
+
+“Perhaps,” I said. I could see no use in repeating my conversation with
+Captain Jed.
+
+Dorinda nodded.
+
+“Goin' to tell the town to go--where you sent the other one?” she asked,
+dryly.
+
+“I don't know.”
+
+“Humph! Well,” with some sarcasm, “it must be fine to be in a position
+where money's no object. I never tried it, myself, but it sounds good.”
+
+I did not answer.
+
+“Um-hm,” she said. “Well, anyhow it looks to me--Lute, you keep
+still--as if there was goin' to be two parties in Denboro afore this
+Lane business is over. One for the Coltons and one against 'em. You'll
+have to take one side or the other, won't you, Roscoe?”
+
+“Not necessarily.”
+
+“Goin' to set on the fence, hey?”
+
+“That's a good place TO sit, isn't it?”
+
+Dorinda smiled, grimly.
+
+“If it's the right kind of a fence, maybe 'tis,” she observed.
+“Otherwise the pickets are liable to make you uncomf'table after a
+spell, I presume likely.”
+
+I went out soon after this, for my evening smoke and walk by the bluff.
+As I left the dining-room I heard Lute reiterating his belief that I
+had gone crazy. Colton had said the same thing. I wondered what Captain
+Jed's opinion would be.
+
+Whether it was another phase of my insanity or not, I don't know, but
+I woke the next morning in pretty good spirits. Remembrance of the
+previous day's humiliations troubled me surprisingly little. They did
+not seem nearly so great in the retrospect. What difference did it make
+to me what that crowd of snobs did or said or thought?
+
+However, there was just enough bitterness in my morning's review of
+yesterday's happenings to make me a little more careful in my dress. I
+did not expect to meet my aristocratic neighbors--I devoutly wished it
+might be my good luck never to meet any of them again--but in making
+selections from my limited wardrobe I chose with more thought than
+usual. Dorinda noticed the result when I came down to breakfast.
+
+“Got your other suit on, ain't you,” she observed.
+
+“Yes,” said I.
+
+“Goin' anywheres special?”
+
+“No. Down to the boathouse, that's all.”
+
+“Humph! I don't see what you put those blue pants on for. They're awful
+things to show water spots. Did you leave your brown ones upstairs?
+Um-hm. Well, I'll get at 'em some time to-day. I noticed they was
+wearin' a little, sort of, on the bottoms of the legs.”
+
+I had noticed it, too, and this reminder confirmed my suspicions that
+others had made the same observations.
+
+“I'll try and mend 'em this afternoon,” went on Dorinda, “if I can find
+time. But, for mercy's sake, don't spot those all up, for I may not get
+time, and then you'd have to wear your Sunday ones.”
+
+I promised, curtly, to be careful, and, after saying good morning to
+Mother, I went down to the boathouse and set to work on the engine. It
+was the only thing in the nature of work that I had to do, but, somehow
+or other, I did not feel like doing it any more than I had the day
+before. A little of my good spirits were wearing off, like the legs of
+my “other” trousers, and after an hour of intermittent tinkering I
+threw down the wrench and decided to go for a row. The sun was shining
+brightly, but the breeze was fresh, and, as my skiff was low in the
+gunwale and there was likely to be some water flying, I put on an old
+oilskin “slicker” and sou-wester before starting.
+
+I had determined to row across the bay over to the lighthouse, and ask
+Ben Small, the keeper, if there were any signs of fish alongshore. The
+pull was a long one, but I enjoyed every stroke of it. The tide was
+almost full, just beginning to ebb, so there was scarcely any current
+and I could make a straight cut across, instead of following the
+tortuous channel. My skiff was a flat bottomed affair, drawing very
+little, but in Denboro bay, at low tide, even a flat-bottomed skiff has
+to beware of sand and eel-grass.
+
+Small was busy whitewashing, but he was glad to see me. If you keep a
+lighthouse, the average lighthouse, you are glad to see anybody. He put
+his brush into the pail and insisted on my coming to the house, because
+“the old woman,” his wife, would want to hear “all the sewin' circle
+news.” “It's the biggest hardship of her life,” said Ben, “that she has
+to miss sewin' circle when the bay ices in. Soon's it clears she's at me
+to row her acrost to the meetin's. I've took her to two this spring,
+but she missed the last one, on account of this whitewashin', and she's
+crazy to know who's been talked about now. If anything disgraceful has
+happened for the land sakes tell her; then she'll he more reconciled.”
+
+I had nothing disgraceful to tell, but Mrs. Small was glad to see
+me, nevertheless. She brought out doughnuts and beach-plum jelly and
+insisted on my sampling both, the doughnuts because they were just made
+and she “mistrusted” there was too much flour in them, and the jelly
+because it was some she had left over and she wanted to see if I thought
+it was “keepin'” all right. After this, Ben took me out to see his
+hens, and then we walked to the back of the beach and talked fish. The
+forenoon was almost gone when I got back to the skiff. The tide had
+ebbed so far that the lightkeeper and I had to pull the little boat
+twenty feet to launch her.
+
+“There!” said Ben, “now you're afloat, ain't you. Cal'late you'll have
+to go way 'round Robin Hood's barn to keep off the flats. I forgot about
+the tide or I wouldn't have talked so much. Hello! there's another craft
+about your size off yonder. Somebody else out rowin'. Two somebodys. My
+eyes ain't as good for pickin' em out as they used to be, but one of 'em
+IS a female, ain't it?”
+
+I looked over my shoulder, as I sat in the skiff and saw, out in the
+middle of the bay, another rowboat with two people in it.
+
+“That ain't a dory or a skiff,” shouted Ben, raising his voice as
+I pulled away from him. “Way she sets out of water I'd call her a
+lap-streak dingy. If that feller's takin' his girl out rowin' he'll have
+to work his passage home against this tide . . . Well, so long, Ros.
+Come again.”
+
+I nodded a goodby, and settled down for my long row, a good deal longer
+this time on account of the ebb. There was water enough on this side of
+the bay, but on the village side the channel made a wide detour and
+I should be obliged to follow it for nearly a mile up the bay, before
+turning in behind the long sand bar which made out from the point beyond
+my boathouse.
+
+The breeze had gone down, which made rowing easier, but the pull of the
+tide more than offset this advantage. However, I had mastered that tide
+many times before and, except that the delay might make me late for
+dinner, the prospect did not trouble me. I swung into the channel and
+set the skiff's bow against the current. Then from the beach I had just
+left I heard a faint hail. Turning my head, I saw Ben Small waving his
+arms. He was shouting something, too, but I was too far away to catch
+the words.
+
+The lightkeeper continued to shout and wave. I lifted an oar to show
+that he had my attention. He recognized the signal, and began pointing
+out over the water astern of me. I looked where he was pointing. I could
+not see anything out of the ordinary. Except for my own skiff and the
+gulls, and the row boat with the two persons in it there was nothing
+astir on the bay. But Ben kept on waving and pointing. At last I decided
+that it must be the row boat he was pointing at. I stopped rowing and
+looked.
+
+The row boat was a good distance off and its occupants were but specks.
+Now one of the specks stood up and waved its arms. So far as I could
+see, the boat was drifting; there were no flashes of sunlight on wet
+blades to show that the oars were in use. No, it was drifting, and, as I
+looked, it swung broadside on. The standing figure continued to wave its
+arms.
+
+Those people must be in trouble of some sort, I decided, and it was
+evident that Small thought so, too. There could no imminent danger
+threaten for, on a day like this, with no sea running, there was nothing
+to fear in the bay. If, however, they should drift out of the bay it
+might be unpleasant. And they certainly were drifting. I resigned myself
+to the indefinite postponement of my dinner, swung the skiff about, and
+pulled as hard as I could in the direction of the row boat.
+
+With the tide to help me I made good progress, but, even at that, it
+took me some time to overtake the drifting craft. She was, as Ben had
+said, a lap-streaked, keel-bottomed dingy--good enough as a yacht's
+tender or in deep water, but the worst boat in the world to row about
+Denboro bay at low tide. Her high rail caught what breeze there was
+blowing and this helped to push her along. However, I got within easy
+hailing distance after a while and called, over my shoulder, to ask what
+was the matter.
+
+A man's voice answered me.
+
+“We've lost an oar,” he shouted. “We're drifting out to sea. Lend us a
+hand, will you?”
+
+“All right,” I answered. “I'll be there in a minute.”
+
+Within the minute I was almost alongside. Then I turned, intending to
+speak again; but I did not. The two persons in the dingy were Victor--I
+did not know his other name--and Mabel Colton.
+
+I was wearing the oilskin slicker and had pulled down the brim of
+my sou'wester to keep the sun from my eyes; therefore they had not
+recognized me before. And I, busy at the oars and looking over my
+shoulder only occasionally, had not recognized them. Now the recognition
+was mutual. Miss Colton spoke first.
+
+“Why, Victor!” she said, “it is--”
+
+“What?” asked her companion. Then, looking at me, “Oh! it's you, is it?”
+
+I did not answer. Luck was certainly against me. No matter where I went,
+on land or water, I was fated to meet these two.
+
+Victor, apparently, was thinking the same thing. “By Jove!” he observed;
+“Mabel, we seem destined to . . . Humph! Well? Will you give us a hand?”
+
+The most provoking part of it was that, if I had known who was in that
+rowboat, I could have avoided the encounter. Ben Small could have gone
+to their rescue just as well as I. However, here I was, and here they
+were. And I could not very well go away and leave them, under the
+circumstances.
+
+Victor's patience was giving way.
+
+“What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Aren't you going to help us?
+We'll pay you for it.”
+
+I pulled the skiff a little closer and, drawing in my oars, turned and
+picked up the slack of my anchor rope.
+
+“Here,” I said, brusquely; “catch this line and I'll tow you.”
+
+I tossed him the loop of rope and he caught it.
+
+“What shall I do with it?” he asked.
+
+“Hold it, just as it is, for the present. What became of your other
+oar?”
+
+“Lost it overboard.”
+
+“Why didn't you throw over your anchor and wait where you were?”
+
+I think he had not thought of the anchor, but he did not deign to
+explain. Instead he began pulling on the rope and the two boats drew
+together.
+
+“Don't do that,” I said. “Wait.”
+
+I untied the rope, where it was made fast to the skiff's bow, and with
+it and the anchor in my hands, scrambled aft and wedged the anchor under
+the stern thwart of the little craft.
+
+“Now,” I said, “you can pull in the slack until you get to the end. Then
+make it fast to your bow somewhere.”
+
+I suppose he did his best to follow instructions, but the rope was a
+short one, the end jerked loose suddenly and he went backward in a heap.
+I thought, for an instant, that he was going overboard and that mine
+would be the mixed pleasure of fishing him out.
+
+Miss Colton gave a little scream, which changed to a ripple of laughter.
+I might have laughed, too, under different circumstances, but just now I
+did not feel like it. Besides, the rope, having flown out of his hands,
+was in the water again and the two boats were drifting apart.
+
+“What did you do that for?” demanded the fallen one, scrambling to his
+knees. I heard a sound from the dingy's stern as if the young lady was
+trying to stifle her merriment. Victor, doubtless, heard it, too.
+
+“Where are you going?” he sputtered, angrily. “Give me that rope.”
+
+I gave it to him, literally gave it, for I pulled alongside and put the
+end in his hands.
+
+“Tie it in the bow of your boat,” I said. He did so. I drew in the slack
+until a fair towing length remained and made it fast. While he was busy
+I ventured to glance at Miss Colton. Her eyes were snapping with fun
+and she seemed to be enjoying the situation. But, catching my look, her
+expression changed. She turned away and looked indifferently out to sea.
+
+I swung the skiff's bow around.
+
+“Where do you want to go?” I asked.
+
+Victor answered. “Back to Mr. Colton's landing,” he said. “Get as much
+of a move on as you can, will you? I'll make it worth your while.”
+
+I was as anxious to get there as he was. I did not care for a quarrel,
+and I knew if he continued to use that tone in his remarks to me I
+should answer as I felt. I pulled with all my strength, but against the
+tide towing was hard work.
+
+Victor sat on the amidships thwart of the dingy, with his back to me.
+But Miss Colton, seated in the stern, was facing me and I could not help
+looking at her. She did not look at me, or, if she did, it was as if I
+were merely a part of the view; nothing to be interested in, one way or
+the other.
+
+She was beautiful; there was no doubt of that. Prettier even, in the
+blue and white boating costume and rough-and-ready white felt hat, than
+she had seemed when I saw her in the auto or her father's library. She
+represented the world that I had lost. I had known girls like her. They
+had not as much money as she, perhaps, but they were just as well-bred
+and refined, and almost as pretty. I had associated with them as an
+equal. I wondered what she would say, or think, if she knew that.
+Nothing, probably; she would not care enough to think at all. It did
+not matter to me what she thought; but I did wish I had not put on those
+fool oilskins. I must look more like a country longshoreman than ever.
+
+If I had any doubts about it they were dispelled when I had rowed the
+two boats up the bay until we were abreast the Colton mansion. Then
+Victor, who had been talking in a low tone with his fellow passenger in
+the dingy, looked at the distant shore and, over his shoulder, at me.
+
+“Here!” he shouted. “Where are you going? That's the landing over
+there.”
+
+“I know,” I answered. “But we shall have to go around that flat. We
+can't cross here.”
+
+“Why? What's the reason we can't?”
+
+“Because there isn't water enough. We should get aground.”
+
+He stood up to look.
+
+“Nonsense!” he said. “There's plenty of water. I can't see any flat, or
+whatever you call it.”
+
+“It's there, though you can't see it. It is covered with eelgrass and
+doesn't show. We shall have to go a half mile further before we turn
+in.”
+
+“A half mile! Why, confound it! it's past one o'clock now. We haven't
+any time to waste.”
+
+“I'm sorry, but we can't cross yet. And, if I were you, I shouldn't
+stand up in that boat.”
+
+He paid no attention to this suggestion.
+
+“There are half a dozen boats, bigger than these, by the landing,” he
+declared. “There is water enough for them. What are you afraid of? We
+haven't any time to waste, I tell you.”
+
+I did not answer. Silence, on my part, was the safest thing just then. I
+continued rowing up the bay.
+
+Miss Colton spoke to him and he sat down, a proceeding for which I was
+thankful. They whispered together for a moment. Then he turned to me.
+
+“See here,” he said; “this lady and I have an appointment. We must get
+ashore. Go straight in. If you're afraid I'll take the risk. If there is
+any danger I'll pay for that, too.”
+
+There was no question of risk. It was a certainty. I knew that channel.
+
+“We can't cross here,” I said, shortly.
+
+“Why, confound you--”
+
+“Victor!” cautioned Miss Colton.
+
+“Hush, Mabel! This is ridiculous. You and I saw two boats go straight
+out from the beach this morning. We went out that way ourselves. Here
+you--Paine, or whatever your name is--we've had enough of this. I've
+hired you to take us ashore, and I want to go there and not a half mile
+in another direction. Will you do as I tell you?”
+
+When the dingy and the other boats crossed the flat the tide had been
+hours higher, of course; but I was in no mood to explain--to him.
+
+“No,” I said, shortly.
+
+“You won't? Then you give me an oar and I'll row the rest of the way
+myself.”
+
+There were only two oars in the skiff, but I could get on perfectly well
+with one. And it would serve him beautifully right to let him go. But
+there was the girl. I hesitated.
+
+“Give me that oar,” he repeated, angrily. “You won't? Then, by Jove,
+I'll do without it. Stop! Stop where you are! do you understand. We
+don't require your services any longer.”
+
+He turned and began untying the tow line. I stopped rowing.
+
+Miss Colton looked troubled.
+
+“Victor!” she cried. “What are you doing?”
+
+“I know what I'm doing. Can't you see this fellow's game? The longer the
+row the higher his price, that's all. He can't work me. I've seen his
+kind before. Don't be frightened. If we can't do anything else we can
+anchor and wait until they see us from the house.”
+
+Idiot! At that point the channel was deep and the bottom soft mud. I
+doubted if his anchor would touch and, if it did, I knew it would not
+hold. I backed water and brought the skiff alongside the dingy, the rail
+of which I seized and held.
+
+“Keep off!” ordered Victor, still fumbling with the rope. “We don't want
+your help.”
+
+I wasted no breath on him. I addressed my remarks to the girl.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said, “will you listen to me, please. You can't anchor
+here because your anchor will not hold. And you can't cross that flat at
+this stage of the tide. I can give you an oar, of course, but it won't
+do any good. My oars are too light and small for your boat. Unless you
+wish to drift back where you were, or beyond, you must let me tow you
+around the head of this flat.”
+
+I don't know what answer she might have made. None, perhaps; although I
+am sure she was listening. But Victor, who had succeeded in untying the
+tow line, cut in ahead of her.
+
+“Mabel,” he warned, “don't pay any attention to him. Didn't your father
+tell us what he was? There!” throwing the end of the rope overboard
+and addressing me; “now, you may clear out. We've done with you.
+Understand?”
+
+I looked at Miss Colton. But I might as well have looked at an iceberg.
+I slid one of my oars over into the dingy.
+
+“There you are,” I said, grimly. “But I warn you that you're in for
+trouble.”
+
+I let go of the rail and the boats fell apart. Victor seized the
+borrowed oar with a triumphant laugh.
+
+“Your bluff wouldn't work, would it, Reuben,” he sneered. “I'll send you
+the oar and your pay later. Now, Mabel, sit tight. I'll have you ashore
+in fifteen minutes.”
+
+He began rowing toward the weed-covered flat. I said nothing. I
+was furiously angry and it was some moments before I recovered
+self-possession sufficiently to get my remaining oar over the skiff's
+stern and, by sculling, hold her against the tide. Then I watched and
+waited.
+
+It was not a long wait. Victor was in difficulties almost from the
+beginning. The oar belonging to the dingy was a foot longer than the one
+I had given him and he zig-zagged wildly. Soon he was in the edge of the
+eelgrass and “catching crabs,” first on one side, then on the other.
+The dingy's bow slid up on the mud. He stood up to push it off, and the
+stern swung around. Getting clear, he took a fresh start and succeeded
+only in fouling again. This time he got further into the tangle before
+he grounded. The bow rose and the stern settled. There was a mighty
+splashing, as Victor pushed and tugged, but the dingy stuck fast. And
+there she would continue to stick for four hours unless I, or some one
+else, helped her off.
+
+I did not want to help. In fact, I looked all up and down the bay before
+I made a move. But it was dinner time and there was not another soul
+afloat. More than that, I noticed, as I had not noticed before, that
+brown clouds--wind clouds--were piling up in the west, and, if I was
+anything of a prophet, we would have squalls and dirty weather long
+before those four hours were over. And the dingy, in that position, was
+not safe to face a blow. No, as the small boys say, it was “up to me.” I
+wished it was not, but it was.
+
+So again I went to the rescue, but this time in an entirely different
+frame of mind. My anger and resentment had settled to a cold
+determination, and this trip was purely business. I was not at a
+disadvantage now, as I had been when I first met that girl and her
+friend, in “Big Jim” Colton's library. I was master of this situation
+and master I intended to be.
+
+I sculled the skiff straight in to the edge of the flat, at a point
+where the bank sloped sharply to deep water. I threw over my anchor,
+shortened the rope and made it fast. Then I stepped out into water above
+my shoe tops and waded toward the dingy. The water was icy cold, but I
+did not know it at the time.
+
+I splashed through the eelgrass. Victor saw me coming and roared an
+angry protest. He was still trying to push the boat off with an oar.
+
+“Here!” he shouted. “You keep away. We don't want you.”
+
+I did not care what he wanted. I splashed alongside the dingy and looked
+at her and the position she was in. My mind was made up instantly.
+
+“You'll never get her off if you both stay aboard,” I said. “Let the
+lady move amidships and you get out and wade.”
+
+He glared at me as if I were as crazy as Colton or Lute had declared me
+to be. Then he laughed contemptuously.
+
+“You go back where you came from,” he ordered. “I'm running this.”
+
+“Yes, I've noticed that. Now I'll state the facts as plainly as I can.
+This boat is fast aground in the mud, the tide is still going out, and
+there are squalls coming. She must be got off or there may be danger.
+You can't get her off until she is lightened. Will you get out and
+wade?”
+
+He did not answer; instead he continued to push with the oar. I turned
+to the girl.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said, “I must ask you to stand up. Be careful when you
+rise.”
+
+She made no move, nor did she reply. The look she gave me was enough.
+
+“You must stand up,” I repeated, firmly. “Either your--this
+gentleman--must get out, as I tell him to, or I shall have to carry you
+to my skiff. We haven't any time to spare.”
+
+She gazed at me in blank astonishment. Then the color flamed in her
+cheeks and her eyes flashed.
+
+“We don't wish your help,” she said, icily.
+
+“I'm sorry, but that makes no difference. I--”
+
+Victor whirled on me, the oar in his hands. I thought for an instant he
+was going to strike me with it.
+
+“You blackguard!” he shouted. “Will you go away?”
+
+I looked at him and then at her. It had to be done, and my mind was made
+up to do it. I waded in until the water was almost to my knees, and I
+was abreast the stern of the stranded boat.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said, “I am going to carry you to my skiff. Are you
+ready?”
+
+“You--Why!--” she breathed.
+
+I stooped, lifted her in my arms, and ploughed through the weeds and
+water. The mud was soft and my feet sank into it. She struggled.
+
+“You must keep still,” I said, sharply, “or I shall drop you.”
+
+She gasped, but she stopped struggling. From behind me I heard a roar of
+rage from Victor.
+
+I carried her to the anchored skiff and, plunging in still deeper,
+seated her on the stern thwart.
+
+“Sit there, please, and don't move,” I said. “I shall be back as soon as
+I've got your boat afloat.”
+
+I waded back to the dingy. Victor was frantic, but he did not disturb
+me. The worst of my unpleasant job was over.
+
+“Now sit down,” I ordered. “Do you hear me? Sit down and sit still.”
+
+“You--you--” he stammered.
+
+“Because if you don't sit down,” I continued serenely, “you're likely to
+tumble overboard. I'm going to push this boat off.”
+
+The first push helped to make up his mind. He sat, involuntarily. I
+pushed with all my might and, slowly and jerkily, the dingy slid off
+the shoal. But there were others all about. With one hand on the bow
+I guided her between them and to the edge of the channel. Then, wading
+along the slippery bank, I brought her to the skiff. My passenger had
+been making remarks in transit, but I paid no attention to them.
+
+I made the rope fast for towing, took my oar from the dingy, pulled up
+the skiff's anchor and climbed aboard.
+
+“Sit where you are,” I said to Victor. “Miss Colton, please keep as
+still as possible.”
+
+I ventured to look at her as I said this, but I looked but once. All the
+way home I kept my gaze fixed on the bottom boards of the skiff.
+
+I made the landing just in time. In fact, the squall struck before I was
+abreast the Colton place. The channel beyond the flat, which we had so
+lately left, was whipped to whitecaps in a moment and miniature breakers
+were beating against the mud bank where the dingy had grounded.
+
+Under the high bluff it was calm enough. The tide was too low to make
+use of the little wharf, so I beached the skiff and drew the towed
+boat in by the line. I offered to assist Miss Colton ashore, but she,
+apparently, did not see my proffered hand. Victor scrambled out by
+himself. No one said anything. I untied the rope and pulled it in. Then
+I prepared to push off.
+
+“Here!” growled Victor. “Wait a minute.”
+
+I looked up. He was standing at the edge of the water, with one hand in
+his pocket. Miss Colton was behind him.
+
+“Well?” I asked.
+
+“I haven't paid you yet,” he said, sullenly. “How much?”
+
+“What do you mean?” I asked. I knew, of course, but it pleased me to
+make him say it.
+
+“Why, how much for towing us in? What's your price? Come, hurry up.”
+
+“I haven't any price. I'm not in the salvage business.”
+
+“Not--Say, don't bargain. What's your price, I ask you?”
+
+“Nothing, of course. Very glad to have been of assistance.”
+
+I took up my oars.
+
+“Here!” he shouted. “Stop! hold on! Confound you! do you suppose we
+don't intend to pay you for this?”
+
+I shook my head. “It has been a pleasure,” I said, sweetly. “Good day.”
+
+I rowed off, but all the way down to my boathouse I smiled contentedly.
+I had seen the look on Mabel Colton's face. I rather thought I had
+evened the account between us; at least I had reduced the balance a
+trifle. This time it was not I who appeared ridiculous.
+
+Dorinda saw me when I entered the kitchen. Her hands were upraised.
+
+“My soul and body!” she exclaimed. “LOOK at them pants! LOOK at 'em! And
+I ain't had time to put a needle to your other ones yet!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+The rain, which I expected would follow the squall, did not come until
+late that night, and it was still falling heavily the next morning.
+It was a warm rain, however, and, after breakfast, I walked up to the
+village. I said nothing, even to Mother, about the happenings in the
+bay, and Dorinda, who had asked many sarcastic questions concerning the
+state of my blue trousers--if I had “mistook 'em for a bathin' suit” and
+the like--seemed satisfied with my hurried explanation that I had gotten
+overboard. “Though how you fell in feet fust,” she observed, “I don't
+see.” She had mended my brown pair, sitting up until after two to do so.
+
+Lute informed me that he had been up to the post-office. “Everybody's
+talkin' about them Coltons,” he declared. “I see their automobile last
+night, myself. The Colton girl, she come into the store. My! she's a
+stunner, ain't she! Sim waited on her, himself, and gave her the mail.
+She wanted to buy some cheese--for a rabbit, she said. I never heard of
+feeding a rabbit on cheese, did you, Ros?”
+
+“No,” I replied, laughing. It was not worth while to explain.
+
+“Nor nobody else, but her! I guess,” continued Lute, “likely she was
+just jokin'. Anyhow, Sim was all out of cheese, but he had some nice
+print butter, just in. She didn't want no butter, though.”
+
+“Humph!” sniffed Dorinda. “Did Sim Eldredge cal'late she wanted to feed
+the rabbit butter? Was the Colton girl alone?”
+
+“No. There was a young feller with her; the one that's visitin' 'em.
+Carver his name is--Victor Carver. Did you ever hear such a name in your
+life? Afore I'd name a child of mine Victor!”
+
+“Um-hm. Well, I wouldn't waste time worryin' about that, if I was you.
+Look here, Lute Rogers, you didn't say anything about Roscoe's talk with
+Mr. Colton, did you?”
+
+“No, no! no, no! Course I didn't.”
+
+“You sure?”
+
+“Yes. 'Taint likely I would, would I? Cap'n Jed was on hand, as usual,
+and he was full of questions, but he didn't get anything out of me.
+'What did Colton say to Ros?' he says. 'How do I know what he said?'
+says I. 'I wan't there, was I?' 'Where was you that forenoon?' he says.
+'Forenoon!' says I, 'that shows how much you know about it. 'Twas three
+o'clock in the afternoon.' Oh, I had the laugh on him!”
+
+Dorinda looked at me and shook her head.
+
+“It's too bad, Roscoe,” she said. “But I was afraid of it as soon as I
+found he'd sneaked off to the post-office. I cal'late it's all over town
+by now.”
+
+“What do you mean by that?” Lute's dignity was outraged. “All over town!
+I never told him nothin'.”
+
+“No. Only that Ros and Mr. Colton were together and 'twas three o'clock
+in the afternoon. And goodness knows how much more! DO be quiet! Seems
+sometimes as if I should lose patience with you altogether. Is this
+Carver the Colton girl's young man? Are they engaged?”
+
+“I don't know. I guess he's keepin' company with her, by the looks. I
+got as nigh to 'em as I could, but I didn't hear much they said. Only,
+just as they was goin' out, he said somethin' about goin' for a little
+spin in the car. She said no, her father would want his letters. Carver,
+he said, why not send Oscar home--that's the chauffeur, you know--with
+the letters, and he'd run the car himself. She kind of laughed, and said
+she guessed not, she'd taken one trip with him already that day and she
+didn't believe she cared for another. He seemed kind of put out about
+it, I thought.”
+
+I had been feeling rather provoked at Lute for giving Captain Jed the
+information concerning my interview with Colton; but, somehow, this
+other bit of news restored my good humor. When I started for the village
+I did not take the short cut across the fields, but followed my regular
+route, the path by the bluff and the Shore Lane. I was no longer fearful
+of meeting my new neighbors. The memory of the happenings in the bay was
+a delightful solace to my wounded self-respect. I chuckled over it as
+I walked through the dripping pines of the little grove. No matter how
+contemptuously indifferent that girl might pretend to be she would
+not forget what had taken place; that she had been obliged to obey my
+orders; that I had carried her to that skiff; that I had saved her from
+a danger--not a great danger, and against her will, of course--but saved
+her nevertheless. She was under an obligation to me; she could not help
+herself. How that must gall her. I remembered the look on her face as I
+rowed away. Sweet was revenge. And Victor--Victor was a joke.
+
+When I reached the Lane I looked over at the Colton mansion. The rain
+had given the carpenters and painters an enforced holiday, and, except
+for the chauffeur, whom I could see through the open door of the garage,
+there was no one in sight. I think I was a little disappointed. If “Big
+Jim” had appeared and hailed me with another offer for the land I should
+not have dodged. I was ready for him. But neither he, or any one else,
+appeared and I walked on.
+
+At the Corners, Sim Eldredge shouted to me from the platform of his
+store.
+
+“Hi, Ros!” he shouted. “You! Ros Paine! come here a minute, will you?”
+
+I did not want to see him. I had intended avoiding the post-office
+altogether. But I crossed to the platform.
+
+“Say, Ros,” he asked eagerly, “what's this about you and Mr. Colton?”
+
+I was annoyed.
+
+“What do you mean?” I asked.
+
+“Why, you know, don't you? He come to see you and you went to see him
+over to his house. You had a reg'lar argument, I understand. About the
+Shore Lane, wan't it?”
+
+“Who told you that?” I inquired, sharply.
+
+“Why, nobody told me, exactly. Lute Rogers and Cap'n Jed was here last
+night and they got a-goin' as usual. The Cap'n does love to stir up
+Lute, and he commenced hintin' about somethin' of the kind. I don't know
+as they was hints, either, but Lute thought they was.”
+
+He grinned. I understood.
+
+“I see,” I said. “Well, what did Lute say?”
+
+“I suppose he'd say he never said a word, but after he'd gone there was
+a kind of general sentiment that Colton wanted to buy the Shore Lane
+land off you, and that you and he had some words about it. Anyhow, you
+didn't sell the land, did you?”
+
+“Suppose I did, or didn't; what of it?”
+
+“Why, nothin', nothin'. Only, I tell you, Ros--” he looked carefully
+about to make sure no one was listening; “I tell you; it's just this
+way. I can understand how you feel about it. You know Dean and some of
+the others are sore on Mr. Colton 'cause he's got more money than they
+have, and they want to make all the trouble for him they can. Jed's got
+an idea that he's after that Lane, to close it off, and he's stirrin' up
+sentiment against its bein' closed. He's talkin' about the town buyin'
+it. Now of course I know your position. You want to get just as high a
+price as you can afore you sell.”
+
+“That's my position, is it?”
+
+“It would be the position of any sensible man, wouldn't it? I don't
+blame you. Now, what I wanted to say was this.” He bent forward and
+lowered his voice to a whisper. “Why don't you let me handle this thing
+for you? I can do it better'n you. I see Cap'n Jed every night, you
+might say. And I see consider'ble of Mr. Colton. He knows I'm postmaster
+in this town and sort of prominent. All the smart folks ain't in the
+Board of Selectmen. I'll keep you posted; see? You just set back and
+pretend you don't want to sell at all. Colton, he'll bid and Jed and
+his gang'll bid. I'll tell each what the other bids, and we'll keep her
+jumpin'. When we get to the last jump, we'll sell--and not afore. Of
+course Mr. Colton 'll get it, in the end.”
+
+“Oh, he will! What makes you think so?”
+
+“What makes me think so? Don't be foolish. Ain't he a millionaire? How
+can Denboro stand up against a millionaire? I tell you, Ros, it's money
+counts in this world, and it pays to stand in with them that's got it.
+I'm goin' to stand in with Mr. Colton. But I'll pretend to stand in with
+Dean just as much. I can help a whole lot. Why, I shouldn't wonder if,
+between us, we could get--er--er--I don't know how much, for that land.
+What do you say?”
+
+I smiled. “It's very kind of you, Sim, to be willing to go to so much
+trouble on my account,” I observed. “I didn't know there was such
+disinterested kindness in Denboro.”
+
+Sim seemed a bit put out. “Why,” he stammered, “I--I--of
+course I presumed likely you'd be willin' to pay me a little
+commission--or--or--somethin'. I thought I might be a sort of--er--agent
+for you. I've handled consider'ble real estate in my time--and--you see
+what I mean, don't you?”
+
+“Yes,” I said, drily; “I see. Well, Sim, if I decide to engage an agent
+I'll let you know. Good morning.”
+
+“But, hold on, Ros! I--”
+
+I did not “hold on.” I walked across the road and entered the bank.
+Alvin Baker met me in the vestibule. He seized my hand and shook it
+violently.
+
+“I declare,” he exclaimed, “it does me good to shake hands with a feller
+that's got the grit you have. It does so! We're all proud of you.”
+
+“Much obliged, Alvin, I'm sure. But why?”
+
+He winked and nudged me with his elbow.
+
+“You know why, all right,” he whispered. “Wouldn't sell him the land,
+would you? Tell me: Did he make you a real bid for it? Lute as much as
+said he did.”
+
+For a person who had told nothing, Lute seemed to have “as much as said”
+ a good many things. I shook my head.
+
+“So you think I shouldn't sell the land?” I asked.
+
+“Course you shouldn't--not to him. Ain't there such things as public
+spirit and independence? But I'll tell you somethin' more, Ros,”
+ mysteriously. “You may have a chance to sell it somewhere else.”
+
+“Indeed?”
+
+“Yes, sir-ee! indeed! There's other public-spirited folks in Denboro as
+well as you. I know who they be and I stand in with 'em pretty close,
+too. I'm goin' to help you all I can.”
+
+“That's very kind of you, Alvin.”
+
+“No, no. I'm glad to do it. Shan't charge you nothin', neither.”
+
+“That's kinder still.”
+
+“No, 'tain't. . . Hold on a minute, Ros. Don't go. As I say, I'm goin'
+to work tooth and nail to get the town to buy that Lane property of
+yours. I'll stick out for you're gettin' a good price for it. I'll use
+all my influence.”
+
+“Thank you.”
+
+“You needn't thank me. It's a matter of principle. We'll show these city
+folks they ain't the whole ship, cargo and all. . . . Hold on a second
+more. Ros, I--er--I wonder if you'd do a little favor for me.”
+
+“What is it, Alvin?”
+
+“Why, it's this way. I've got a note here in the bank; put it there when
+I bought the power engine for my cat-boat. Hundred and fifty dollars,
+'tis. You're a pretty good friend of George Taylor, cashier here, and I
+was wonderin' if you'd mind puttin' in a word with him about my gettin'
+it renewed when it comes due. Just tell him you think I'm all right, and
+a good risk, or somethin' like that.”
+
+I could not help smiling. Alvin seemed to find encouragement in the
+smile.
+
+“George thinks consider'ble of you,” he said. “And Captain Jed--he's one
+of the directors--he will, too, now that you've stood up to Colton. Just
+put in a word for me, will you? And don't forget I'm a friend of yours,
+and I'm strong for your gettin' a good, fair price from the town.
+Remember that, won't you?”
+
+“I won't forget, Alvin. Good-by.”
+
+I left him and went into the bank. Henry Small, the bookkeeper, was at
+his desk. I walked over to speak to him, but he, looking up from his
+figures, spoke first. There was, or so it seemed to me, a different note
+in his greeting. It was more hearty, I thought. Certainly he regarded me
+with a new and curious interest.
+
+“Morning, Ros,” he said. “Well, how are you these days?”
+
+I answered that I was well, and was moving on but he detained me.
+
+“Lively times ahead, hey,” he whispered.
+
+“What sort of times?” I asked.
+
+He winked. “I guess you know, if anybody does,” he observed. “All right,
+you'll have good friends on your side. I ain't saying anything, of
+course, but I'm on, all right.”
+
+He winked again. I walked back to the cashier's window. Taylor had,
+evidently, seen me talking with the bookkeeper, for he was standing by
+the little gate, waiting for me.
+
+“Hello, Ros,” he said. “Glad to see you. Come in.”
+
+George Taylor was a type of smart country boy grown to manhood in
+the country. His tone, like his manner, was sharp and quick and
+businesslike, but he spoke with the Down-East twang and used the Cape
+phrases and metaphors. He was younger than I, but he looked older, and,
+of late, it had seemed to me that he was growing more nervous. We shook
+hands.
+
+“Glad to see you,” he said again. “I was hoping you'd drift in. I
+presumed likely you might. Sit down.”
+
+I took the proffered chair. He looked at me with much the same curious
+interest that Small had shown.
+
+“We've been hearing about you,” he said. “You've been getting yourself
+talked about.”
+
+I mentally cussed Lute once more for his loquacity.
+
+“I'll break the fellow's neck,” I declared, with emphasis.
+
+He laughed. “Don't do that yet awhile,” he said. “The market is in bad
+enough shape as it is. If his neck was broke the whole of Wall Street
+would go to pot.”
+
+“Wall Street? What in the world has Lute got to do with Wall Street?”
+
+“Lute! Oh, I see! Yes, Lute's been doing considerable talking, but it
+ain't his neck I mean. Say, Ros, what did you do to him, anyway? You
+stirred him up some, judging by what he said to me.”
+
+“Who said? What?”
+
+“Why, Colton. He was in here yesterday. Opened what he called a
+household account; that was his main business. But he asked about you,
+along with it.”
+
+This explained some things. It was clear now why Small had appeared so
+interested. “Oh!” I said.
+
+“You bet he did. Wanted to know if I knew you, and what you were, and so
+on. I told him I knew you pretty well. 'What sort of a fellow is he?
+A damn fool?' he asked. I strained the truth enough to say you were a
+pretty good fellow and a long ways from that kind of a fool, according
+to my reckoning. 'Umph!' says he. 'Is he rich?' I told him I guessed you
+wan't so rich that you got round-shouldered lugging your money. 'Why?'
+says I, getting curious. 'Have you met him, Mr. Colton? If you have you
+ought to have sized him up yourself. I always heard you were a pretty
+fair judge.' He looked at me kind of funny. 'I thought I was,' says he,
+'but you seem to raise a new variety down here.' Then I guess he thought
+he'd said enough. At any rate, he walked off. What did you and he say to
+each other, Ros?”
+
+I did not answer immediately. When I did the answer was non-committal.
+“Oh, we had a business interview,” I said.
+
+He nodded. “Well,” he observed, “I suppose it's your affair and not
+mine. But, I tell you this, Ros: if it's what I suppose it is, it'll be
+everybody's affair pretty soon.”
+
+“You think so, do you?”
+
+“I know so. Cap'n Jed's a fighter and he is on the war path. The two
+sides are lining up already. Whichever way you decide you'll make
+enemies, of course.”
+
+I shrugged my shoulders. The prospect of enemies, more or less, in
+Denboro, did not trouble me.
+
+“But you'll have to decide,” he went on, “who you'll sell to.”
+
+“Or not sell at all,” I suggested.
+
+“Can you afford to do that? There'll be money--a whole lot of money--in
+this before it's over, if I know the leaders on both sides. You've got
+the whip-hand. There'll be money in it. Can you afford to let it slip?”
+
+I did not answer. Suddenly his expression changed. He looked haggard and
+care-worn.
+
+“By the Almighty,” he said, between his teeth, and without looking at
+me, “I wish I had your chance.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Oh, nothing, nothing. . . . How's your mother nowadays?”
+
+I told him that my mother was much as usual, and we talked of various
+things.
+
+“By the way,” he said, “I've got some news for you. Nothing surprising.
+I guess all hands have seen it coming. I'm engaged to be married.”
+
+“Good!” said I, with as much heartiness as I could answer; marriage did
+not interest me. “Congratulations, George. Nellie Dean, of course.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I'm glad for you. And for her. She'll make you a good wife, I'm sure.”
+
+He drew a long breath. “Yes,” he said slowly, “Nellie's a good girl.”
+
+“When is the--what do they call it? the happy event to take place?”
+
+“In the fall some time, if all goes well. I hope it will.”
+
+“Humph! Yes, I should think you might hope as much as that. Why
+shouldn't it go well?”
+
+“Hey? Oh, of course it will!” He laughed and rose from his chair as
+several men came into the bank. “I'll have to leave you, Ros,” he said.
+“There's a directors' meeting this morning. They're coming now.”
+
+As I passed out of the gate and through the group of directors I noticed
+that they also regarded me with interest. Two, men from neighboring
+towns whom I scarcely knew, whispered to each other. Captain Elisha
+Warren shook hands with me and inquired concerning Mother. The last of
+the group was Captain Jedediah Dean, and he touched me on the shoulder.
+
+“Ros,” he whispered, “you're all right. Understand? I say you're all
+right.”
+
+“Thanks,” I answered, briefly.
+
+“I heard about it,” he whispered. “Ase Peters said the Grand Panjandrum
+was cranky as a shark with the toothache all day yesterday. You must
+tell me the yarn when we get together. I missed you when I called just
+now, but I'll be down again pretty soon. You won't lose nothin' by this.
+So long.”
+
+As I came down the bank steps Sim Eldredge called across the road.
+
+“Good-by, Ros,” he shouted. “Come in again next time you're up street.”
+
+In all my period of residence in Denboro I had never before been treated
+like this. People had never before gone out of their way to shake hands
+with me. No one had considered it worth while to ask favors of me.
+Sim and Alvin were not to be taken seriously, of course, and both were
+looking after their own pocketbooks, but their actions were straws
+proving the wind to be blowing in my direction. I thought, and smiled
+scornfully, that I, all at once, seemed to have become a person of some
+importance.
+
+But my scorn was not entirely sincere. There was a certain gratification
+in the thought. I might pretend--I had pretended--that Denboro opinion,
+good or bad, was a matter of complete indifference to me. I had assumed
+myself a philosopher, to whom, in the consciousness of right, such
+trifles were of no consequence. But, philosophy or not, the fact
+remained that I was pleased. People might dislike me--as that lofty
+Colton girl and her father disliked me, though they could dislike me
+no more than I did them--but I could compel them to respect me. They
+already must think of me as a man. And so on--as I walked home through
+the wet grass. It was all as foolish and childish and ridiculous as it
+well could be. I deserved what was coming to me--and I got it.
+
+For, as I came down the Lane, I met Oscar, the chauffeur, and a
+companion, whom I judged to be a fellow servant--the coachman, I learned
+afterwards--walking in the direction of the village. The rain had
+ceased, but they wore natty raincoats and caps and had the city air of
+smartness which I recognized and envied, even in them. The footpath was
+narrow, but they apparently had no intention of stepping to one side,
+so I made way for them. They whispered together as they approached and
+looked at me curiously as we passed. A few steps further on I heard them
+both burst out laughing. I caught the words, from Oscar, “fool Rube” and
+“the old man'll make him look--” I heard no more, but as I turned into
+the grove I saw them both looking after me with broad grins on their
+faces.
+
+Somebody has said that there is nothing harder to bear than the contempt
+and ridicule of servants. For one thing, you cannot resent it without a
+loss of dignity, and, for another, you may be perfectly sure that theirs
+is but the reflection of their employers' frame of mind. This encounter
+shook my self-satisfaction more than a little. It angered me, but it did
+more than that; it brought back the feeling I had when I left the Colton
+library, that my defiance was not, after all, taken seriously. That I
+was regarded by Colton as just what Oscar had termed me, a “fool Rube.”
+ When George Taylor told me of the great man's questions concerning my
+foolishness, I accepted the question as a tribute to my independence.
+Now I was not so sure.
+
+Dorinda met me at the door.
+
+“You've had two callers,” she said.
+
+“So? Who were they?”
+
+“One of 'em was Cap'n Jed. He drove down just after you left. He come to
+see you about that land, I cal'late.”
+
+“Oh, yes. I remember he told me he missed me this morning. So he came
+here?”
+
+“Um-hm. Him and me had a little talk. He seemed to know consider'ble
+about your rumpus with Mr. Colton.”
+
+“How did he know?”
+
+“He wouldn't say, but I wouldn't wonder if he got a lot from Ase Peters.
+Ase and he are pretty thick; he's got a mortgage on Ase's house, you
+know. And Ase, bein' as he's doin' the carpenterin' over to Colton's,
+hears a lot from the servants, I s'pose likely. Leastways, if they don't
+tell all their bosses' affairs they're a new breed of hired help, that's
+all I've got to say. Cap'n Jed says Mr. Colton cal'lates you're a fool.”
+
+“Yes. So I've heard. What did the Captain say to that?”
+
+“Seemed to think 'twas a pretty good joke. He said he didn't care how
+big a fool you was so long's you was feeble-minded on the right side.”
+
+So there it was again. My imagined importance in the eyes of the
+townspeople simmered down to about that. I was an imbecile, but they
+must pretend to believe me something else because I owned something they
+wanted. Well, I still owned it.
+
+“Of course,” continued Dorinda, “I didn't tell him you was figgerin' not
+to sell the land at all. If I had, I s'pose he'd have thought--”
+
+She stopped short.
+
+“You suppose what?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, nothin'.”
+
+She had said enough. I could guess the rest. I walked to the window and
+stood, looking out. The clouds were breaking and, as I stood there, a
+ray of sunlight streamed through a rift and struck the bay just at the
+spot where the dingy had grounded. The shallow water above the flat
+flashed into fire. I am not superstitious, as a general thing, but the
+sight comforted me. It seemed like an omen. There was the one bright
+spot in the outlook. There, at least, I had not behaved like a “fool
+Rube.” There I had compelled respect and been taken seriously.
+
+Dorinda spoke again.
+
+“You ain't asked who your other caller was,” she observed.
+
+“Was there another?”
+
+“Um-hm. I told you there was two. After Cap'n Jed left that chauffeur
+feller from the big house come here. He fetched a note for you. Here
+'tis.”
+
+I took the note. It was addressed to me in a man's handwriting, not that
+of “Big Jim” Colton. I opened the envelope and read:
+
+
+Roscoe Paine.
+
+Sir: The enclosed is in payment for your work. No receipt is necessary.
+
+Yours truly,
+
+B. VICTOR CARVER.
+
+
+The “enclosed” was a five-dollar bill.
+
+I stood staring at the note. Then I began to laugh.
+
+“What's the joke?” asked Dorinda, who had not taken her eyes from my
+face.
+
+“This,” said I, handing her the money. She looked at it in astonishment.
+
+“Um-hm,” she said, drily. “Well, I--well, a five-dollar bill may be a
+joke to you, but _I_ ain't familiar enough with one to laugh at it. You
+don't laugh as if 'twas awful funny, either. Who's the joke on?”
+
+“It's on me, just now.
+
+“Um-hm. I'd be willin' to be joked ten times a day, at that price. And
+I'd undertake to laugh heartier than you're doin', too. What's it for?
+the money, I mean.”
+
+“It's for some 'work' I did yesterday.”
+
+She was more astonished than ever.
+
+“Work! You?” she exclaimed.
+
+“Yes. But don't worry; I shan't do it again.”
+
+“Land! THAT wouldn't worry me. What sort of work was it?”
+
+“Oh, I--I picked up something adrift in the bay.”
+
+“Um-hm. I see. Somethin' belongin' to the Coltons, I s'pose likely. Why
+won't you do it again? Ain't they paid you enough?”
+
+Again I laughed. “They have paid me too much,” I said, bitterly. “What I
+picked up wasn't worth the money.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+And that, in the end, was the answer I sent to Carver with his five
+dollars. I spent an hour in my room trying to compose and write a
+sarcastic reply to his note, but I finally gave it up. Then I put the
+money in an envelope, addressed the latter, and sent it to the big house
+by Lute. Lute was delighted with the errand.
+
+“You'll explain to Dorindy, will you?” he asked. “She cal'lates I'm
+goin' to clean the henhouse. But I can do that some other time.”
+
+“You can--yes.”
+
+“Do you know--” Lute leaned against the clothes post and prepared to
+philosophize. “Do you know,” he observed, “that I don't take no stock in
+cleanin' henhouses and such?”
+
+“Don't you? I'm surprised.”
+
+“You're surprised 'cause you ain't thought it out. That's my way; I
+always think things out. Most folks are selfish. They want to do what
+they want to do, and they want others to want the same thing. If the
+others don't want it, then they like to make 'em have it; anyhow.
+Dorindy is crazy on cleanin'. She wouldn't live in a dirty house no
+more'n she'd live in a lobster pot. It's the way she's made. But a hen
+ain't made that way. A hen LIKES dirt; she scratches in it and digs
+holes in it to waller in, and heaves it over herself all day long. If
+you left it to the hens would THEY clean their house? I guess not! So, I
+say what's the use of cruelizin' 'em by makin' 'em live clean when they
+don't want to? I--”
+
+“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Lute, you're wasting your breath. It is
+Dorinda you should explain all this to, not to me. And you're wasting my
+time. I want you to take that envelope to Mr. Carver; and I want you to
+go now.”
+
+“Well, I'm goin', ain't I? I was only just sayin'--”
+
+“Say it when you come back. And if Mr. Carver asks you why I sent that
+envelope to him be sure and give him the message I gave you. Do you
+remember it?”
+
+“Sartin. That what you done wan't wuth so much.”
+
+“Not exactly. That what I saved wasn't worth it.”
+
+“All right. I'll remember. But what did you save, Ros? Dorindy says
+'twas somethin' you found afloat in the bay. If it was somethin'
+belongin' to them Coltons I'd have took the money, no matter what the
+thing was wuth. They can afford to pay and, if I was you, I'd take the
+reward.”
+
+“I have my reward. Now go.”
+
+I had my reward and I believed it worth much more than five dollars.
+I had learned my lesson. I knew now exactly how I was regarded by the
+occupants of the big house and by the townspeople as well. I should
+cherish no more illusions as to my importance in their eyes. I meant to
+be really independent from that time on. I did not care--really did not
+care--for anything or anybody outside my immediate household. I was back
+in the position I had occupied for years, but with one difference: I had
+an ambition now. It was to make both sides in the Shore Lane controversy
+realize that George Taylor was right when he said I had the whip-hand.
+By the Almighty, they should dance when I cracked that whip!
+
+My first opportunity to crack it came a day or two later, when Captain
+Dean called upon me. He had a definite proposition to make, although
+his Yankee shrewdness and caution prevented his making it until he had
+discussed the weather and other unimportant trifles. Then he leaned
+against the edge of my work-bench--we were in the boathouse--and began
+to beat up to windward of his proposal.
+
+“Ros,” he said, “you remember I told you you was all right, when I met
+you at the bank t'other day.”
+
+“I remember,” I answered.
+
+“Yes. Well, I cal'late you know what I meant by that.”
+
+I did not pretend ignorance of his meaning.
+
+“I presume,” I replied, “that you meant I was right in not selling that
+strip of land to Mr. Colton.”
+
+“That's what I meant. You kept your promise to me and I shan't forget
+it. Nor the town won't forget it, neither. Would you mind tellin' me
+just what happened between you and His Majesty?”
+
+“Not at all. He said he wanted to buy the Shore Lane strip and I refused
+to sell it to him. He said I was crazy and an infernal robber and I told
+him to go to the devil.”
+
+“WHAT! you didn't!”
+
+“I did.”
+
+Captain Jed slapped his knee and shouted in delight. He insisted on
+shaking hands with me.
+
+“By the great and everlastin'!” he declared, between laughs, “you're
+all right, Ros Paine! I said you was and now I'll swear to it. Told old
+Colton to go to the devil! If that ain't--oh, I wish I'd been there!”
+
+I went on sand-papering a valve plug. He walked up and down the floor,
+chuckling.
+
+“Well,” he said, at last, “you've made yourself solid in Denboro,
+anyhow. And I told you you shouldn't lose nothin' by it. The Selectmen
+held a meetin' last night and they feel, same as me, that that Shore
+Lane shan't be shut off. You understand what that means to you, don't
+you?”
+
+I looked at him, coolly.
+
+“No,” I answered.
+
+“You don't! It means the town's decided to buy that strip of land of
+yours. Definitely decided, practically speakin'. Now what'll you sell it
+to us for?”
+
+I put down the valve plug. “Captain,” said I, “that land is not for
+sale.”
+
+“Not for SALE? What do you mean by that?”
+
+“I mean that I have decided not to sell it, for the present, at least.
+Neither to Colton nor any one else.”
+
+He could not believe it. Of course I would not sell it to Colton. Colton
+was a stuck-up, selfish city aristocrat who thought all creation ought
+to belong to him. But the town was different. Did I realize that it was
+the town I lived in that was asking to buy now? The town of which I was
+a citizen? Think of what the town had done for me.
+
+“Very well,” I answered. “I'm willing to think. What has it done for
+me?”
+
+It had--it had--well, it had done a whole lot. As a citizen of that town
+I owed it a--a--
+
+“Look here, Captain Dean,” I interrupted, “there's no use in our arguing
+the matter. I have decided not to sell.”
+
+“Don't talk so foolish. Course you'll sell if you get money enough.”
+
+“So Colton said, but I shan't.”
+
+“Ros, I ain't got any authority to do it, but I shouldn't wonder if I
+could get you three hundred dollars for that strip.”
+
+“It isn't a question of price.”
+
+“Rubbish! Anything's a question of price.”
+
+“This isn't. If it was I probably should have accepted Mr. Colton's
+offer of six hundred and fifty.”
+
+“Six hun--! Do you mean to say he offered you six hundred and fifty
+dollars for that little mite of land, and you never took him up?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well, you must be a . . . Humph! Six hundred and fifty! The town can't
+meet no such bid as that, of course.”
+
+“I don't expect it to.”
+
+He regarded me in silence. He was chagrined and angry; his florid face
+was redder than ever; but, more than all, he was puzzled.
+
+“Well,” he observed, after a moment, “this beats me, this does! Last
+time we talked you was willin' to consider sellin'. What's changed you?
+What's the reason you won't sell? What business reason have you got for
+not doin' it?”
+
+I had no business reason at all. Except for Mother's counsel not to
+sell, which was based upon sentiment and nothing else, and my own
+stubbornness, I had no reason at all. Yet I was, if anything, more firm
+in my resolve.
+
+“How about the Lane?” he demanded. “You know what that Lane means to
+Denboro?”
+
+“I know what you say it means. The townspeople can continue to use the
+Lane, just as they always have, so long as they behave themselves. There
+is no use of our talking further, Captain. I've made up my mind.”
+
+He went away, soon after, but he asked another question.
+
+“Will you do this much for me?” he asked. “Will you promise me not to
+sell the land to Colton?”
+
+“No,” I said, “I will make no promise of any kind, to anybody.”
+
+“Oh,” with a scornful sniff, “I see. I'm on to you. You're just hangin'
+out for a big price. I might have known it. You're on Colton's side,
+after all.”
+
+I rose. I was angry now.
+
+“I told you price had nothing to do with it,” I said, sharply. “I am on
+no one's side. The town is welcome to use the Lane; that I have told you
+already. There is nothing more to be said.”
+
+He shook his head.
+
+“I don't make many mistakes,” he observed, slowly; “but I guess I've
+made one. You're a whole lot deeper'n I thought you was.”
+
+So much for the proletariat. I heard from the plutocrats next day.
+Sim Eldredge dropped in on me. After much wriggling about the bush he
+intimated that he knew of Captain Jedediah's call and what had taken
+place.
+
+“You done just right, Ros,” he whispered. He had a habit of whispering
+as the Captain had of shouting. “You done just right. Keep 'em guessin';
+keep em guessin'. Jed's all upsot. He don't know whether he's keel down
+or on his beam ends. He'll be makin' a higher bid pretty soon. Say,”
+ with a wink, “I see Colton last night.”
+
+“Did you?”
+
+“Yup. Oh, I give him a jolt. I hinted that the town had made you a fine
+offer and you was considerin' it.”
+
+“What did you do that for? Who gave you the right to--”
+
+“Sshh! Don't holler. Somebody might be listenin'. I come through the
+woods and round the beach so's I wouldn't be seen. What do you s'pose
+Colton said?”
+
+“I don't care what he said.”
+
+“You will when I tell you. He as much as offered a thousand dollars for
+that land. My crimps! a thousand! think of that! I presume likely you
+wouldn't take that, would you, Ros?”
+
+“Sim, I'll tell you, as I told Captain Jed, that land is not for sale.”
+
+I tried to make that statement firm and sharp enough to penetrate even
+his wooden head; but he merely winked again.
+
+“All right,” he whispered, hastily, “all right. I guess perhaps you're
+correct in hangin' on. Still, a thousand is a lot of money, even after
+you take out my little commission. But you know best. You put your trust
+in me. I'll keep her jumpin'. I understand. Good-by.”
+
+He went out hurriedly, and, though I shouted after him, he only waved
+and ducked behind a beach-plum bush. He did not believe me serious in
+my refusal to sell; neither did Dean, or Colton, or, apparently, any one
+else. They all thought me merely shrewd, a sharp trader driving a hard
+bargain, as they would have done in my place. They might think so, if
+they wished; I should not explain. As a matter of fact, I could not have
+explained my attitude, even to myself.
+
+Yet this very attitude made a difference, a perceptible difference, in
+my position in Denboro. I noticed it each time I went up to the village.
+I saw the groups at the post-office and at the depot turn to watch me
+as I approached and as I went away. Captain Jedediah did not mention the
+Lane again--at least for some time--but he always hailed me cordially
+when we met and seemed anxious to be seen in my company. Eldredge, of
+course, was effusive; so was Alvin Baker. And other people, citizens of
+consequence in the town, who had heretofore merely bowed, now stopped
+to speak with me on the street. Members of the sewing circle called
+on Mother more frequently, and Matilda Dean, Captain Jed's wife, came
+regularly once a week. Sometimes she saw Mother and sometimes she did
+not, depending upon Dorinda's state of mind at the time.
+
+Lute, always a sort of social barometer, noticed the change in the
+weather.
+
+“Everybody's talkin' about you, Ros,” he declared. “They cal'late you're
+a pretty smart feller. They don't just understand what you're up to, but
+they think you're pretty smart.”
+
+“No?” I commented, ironically. “Lute, you astonish me. Why am I smart?”
+
+“Well, they don't know exactly, but they cal'late you must be. Oh,
+I hear things. Cap'n Jed said t'other night you'd make a pretty good
+Selectman.”
+
+“_I_ would? A Selectman?”
+
+“Yup. He as much as hinted that to me; wondered if you'd take the
+nomination provided he could fix it for you. Sim Eldredge and Alvin and
+some more all said they'd vote for you if they got a chance. ARE you
+figgerin' to charge toll on the Lane?”
+
+“Toll? What put that idea in your head?”
+
+“Nothin', only some of the fellers wondered if you was. You see, you
+won't sell, and so--”
+
+“I see. That's a brilliant suggestion, Lute. When I adopt it I'll
+appoint you toll-keeper.”
+
+“By time! I wish you would. I'd make Thoph Newcomb pay up. He owes me
+ten cents; bet it one time and never settled.”
+
+Yes, my position in Denboro had changed. But I took no pride in the
+change, as I had at first; I knew the reason for this sudden burst of
+popularity. The knowledge made me more cynical than ever--cynical, and
+lonely. For the first time since I came to the Cape I longed for a real
+friend, not a relative or an acquaintance, but a friend to trust and
+confide in. Some one, with no string of his own to pull, who cared for
+me because I was myself.
+
+And all the time I had such a friend and did not realize it. The
+knowledge came to me in this way. Mother had one of her seizures, one
+of the now infrequent “sinking spells,” as the doctor called them, on an
+evening when I was alone with her. Dorinda and Lute had gone, with the
+horse and buggy, to visit a cousin in Bayport. They were to stay over
+night and return before breakfast the next morning.
+
+I was alone in the dining-room when Mother called my name. There was
+something in her tone which alarmed me and I hastened to her bedside.
+One glance at her face was enough.
+
+“Boy,” she said, weakly, “I am afraid I am going to be ill. I have tried
+not to alarm you, but I feel faint and I am--you won't be alarmed, will
+you? I know it is nothing serious.”
+
+I told her not to worry and not to talk. I hurried out to the kitchen,
+got the hot water and the brandy, made her swallow a little of
+the mixture, and bathed her forehead and wrists with vinegar, an
+old-fashioned restorative which Dorinda always used. She said she felt
+better, but I was anxious and, as soon as it was safe to leave her,
+hurried out to bring the doctor. She begged me not to go, because it
+was beginning to rain and I might get wet, but I assured her it was not
+raining hard, and went.
+
+It was not raining hard when I started, but there was every sign of
+a severe storm close at hand. It was pitch dark and I was weary from
+stumbling through the bushes and over the rough path when I reached the
+corner of the Lane and the Lower Road. Then a carriage came down that
+road. It was an open wagon and George Taylor was the driver. He had been
+up to the Deans' and was on his way home.
+
+I hailed the vehicle, intending to ask for a ride, but when Taylor
+discovered who his hailer was he insisted on my going back to the house.
+He would get the doctor, he said, and bring him down at once. I was
+afraid he would be caught in the storm, and hesitated in accepting the
+offer, but he insisted. I did go back to the house, found Mother in much
+the same condition as when I left her, and had scarcely gotten into the
+kitchen again when Taylor once more appeared.
+
+“I brought Nellie along to stay with your mother,” he said. “The Cap'n
+and the old lady”--meaning Matilda--“were up at the meeting-house and we
+just left a note saying where we'd gone. Nellie's all right. Between you
+and me, she don't talk you deaf, dumb and blind like her ma, and she's
+good company for sick folks. Now I'll fetch the doctor and be right
+back.”
+
+“But it's raining pitchforks,” I said. “You'll be wet through.”
+
+“No, I won't. I'll have Doc Quimby here in no time.”
+
+He drove off and Nellie Dean went into Mother's room. I had always
+considered Nellie a milk-and-watery young female, but somehow her quiet
+ways and soft voice seemed just what were needed in a sick room. I left
+the two together and came out to wait for Taylor and the doctor.
+
+But they did not come. The storm was under full headway now, and the
+wind was dashing the rain in sheets against the windows. I waited nearly
+an hour and still no sign of the doctor.
+
+Nellie came out of Mother's room and closed the door softly behind her.
+
+“She's quiet now,” she whispered. “I think she's asleep. Where do you
+suppose George is?”
+
+“Goodness knows!” I answered. “I shouldn't have let him go, a night like
+this.”
+
+“I'm afraid you couldn't stop him if his mind was made up. He's dreadful
+determined when he sets out to be.”
+
+“He's a good fellow,” I said, to please her. She worshipped the cashier,
+a fact of which all Denboro was aware, and which caused gossip to report
+that she did the courting for the two.
+
+She blushed and smiled.
+
+“He thinks a lot of you,” she observed. “He's always talking to me about
+you. It's a good thing you're a man or I should be jealous.”
+
+I smiled. “I seem to be talked about generally, just now,” said I.
+
+“Are you? Oh, you mean about the Shore Lane. Yes, Pa can't make you out
+about that. He says you've got something up your sleeve and he hasn't
+decided what it is. I asked George what Pa meant and he just laughed. He
+said whatever you had in your sleeve was your affair and, if he was any
+judge of character, it would stay there till you got ready to shake it
+out. He always stood up for you, even before the Shore Lane business
+happened. I think he likes you better than any one else in Denboro.”
+
+“Present company excepted, of course.”
+
+“Oh, of course. If that wasn't excepted I should REALLY be jealous.
+Then,” more seriously, “Roscoe, does it seem to you that George is
+worried or troubled about something lately?”
+
+I thought of Taylor's sudden change of expression that day in the bank,
+and of his remark that he wished he had my chance. But I concealed my
+thoughts.
+
+“The prospect of marriage is enough to make any man worried, isn't it?”
+ I asked. “I imagine he realizes that he isn't good enough for you.”
+
+There was sarcasm in this remark, sarcasm of which I should have been
+ashamed. But she took it literally and as a compliment. She looked at me
+reproachfully.
+
+“Good enough for me!” she exclaimed. “He! Sometimes I wonder if it is
+right for me to be so happy. I feel almost as if it was wrong. As if
+something must happen to punish me for it.”
+
+I did not answer. To tell the truth, I was envious. There was real
+happiness in the world. This country girl had found it; that Mabel
+Colton would, no doubt, find it some day--unless she married her Victor,
+in which case I had my doubts. But what happiness was in store for me?
+
+Nellie did most of the talking thereafter; principally about George, and
+why he did not come. At last she went in to see if Mother needed her,
+and, twenty minutes later, when I looked into the bedroom, I saw that
+she had fallen asleep on the couch. Mother, too, seemed to be sleeping,
+and I left them thus.
+
+It was almost eleven o'clock when the sound of carriage wheels in the
+yard brought me to the window and then to the door. Doctor Quimby had
+come at last and Taylor was with him. The doctor, in his mackintosh and
+overshoes, was dry enough, but his companion was wet to the skin.
+
+“Sorry I'm so late, Ros,” said the doctor. “I was way up to Ebenezer
+Cahoon's in West Denboro. There's a new edition of Ebenezer, made port
+this morning, and I was a little bit concerned about the missus. She's
+all right, though. How's your mother?”
+
+“Better, I think. She's asleep now. So is Nellie. I suppose George told
+you she was with her.”
+
+“Yes. George had a rough passage over that West Denboro road. It's bad
+enough in daylight, but on a night like this--whew! I carried away a
+wheel turning into Ebenezer's yard, and if George hadn't had his team
+along I don't know how I'd have got here. I'll go right in and see Mrs.
+Paine.”
+
+He left us and I turned to Taylor.
+
+“You're soaked through,” I declared. “Come out to the kitchen stove.
+What in the world made you drive way up to that forsaken place? It's a
+good seven miles. Come out to the kitchen. Quick!”
+
+He sat down by the stove and put his wet boots on the hearth. I mixed
+him a glass of the brandy and hot water and handed him a cigar.
+
+“Why did you do it, George?” I said. “I never would have thought of
+asking such a thing.”
+
+“I know it,” he said. “Course you wouldn't ask it. There's plenty in
+this town that would, but you wouldn't. Maybe that's one reason I was so
+glad to do it for you.”
+
+“I am almost sorry you did. It is too great a kindness altogether. I'm
+afraid I shouldn't have done as much for you.”
+
+“Go on! Yes, you would. I know you.”
+
+I shook my head.
+
+“No, you don't,” I answered. “Captain Jed--your prospective
+father-in-law--said the other day that he had been mistaken; he thought
+he knew me, but he was beginning to find he did not.”
+
+“Did he say that? What did he mean?”
+
+“I imagine he meant he wasn't sure whether I was the fool he had
+believed me to be, or just a sharp rascal.”
+
+Taylor looked at me over the edge of his glass.
+
+“You think that's what he meant, do you?”
+
+“I know it.”
+
+He put the glass on the floor beside him and laid a hand on my knee.
+
+“Ros,” he said, “I don't know for sure what the Cap'n meant, though
+if he thinks you're either one of the two he's the fool. But _I_ know
+you--better, maybe, than you know yourself. At least I believe I know
+you better than any one else in the town.”
+
+“That wouldn't be saying much.”
+
+“Wouldn't it? Well, maybe not. But whose fault is it? It's yours, the
+way I look at it. Ros, I've been meaning to have a talk with you some
+day; perhaps this is as good a time as any. You make a big mistake in
+the way you treat Denboro and the folks in it.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean just that. Your whole attitude is wrong, has been wrong ever
+since you first came here to live. You never gave any of us a chance to
+know you and like you--anybody but me, I mean, and even I never had
+but half a chance. You make a mistake, I tell you. There's lots of good
+folks in this town, lots of 'em. Cap'n Elisha Warren's one of 'em and
+there's plenty more. They're countrymen, same as I am, but they're good,
+plain, sensible folks, and they'd like to like you if they had a chance.
+You belong to the Town Improvement Society, but you never go to a
+meeting. You ought to get out and mix more.”
+
+I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess my mixing wouldn't be very welcome,” I
+said. “And, besides, I don't care to mix.”
+
+“I know you don't, but you ought to, just the same.”
+
+“Nonsense! George, I'm not blind, or deaf. Don't you suppose I know what
+Warren and Dean and the rest think of me? They consider me a loafer and
+no good. I've heard what they say. I've noticed how they treat me.”
+
+“How you treat them, you mean. You are as cold and freezing as a cake
+of ice. They was willing to be friends but you wouldn't have it. And,
+as for their calling you a loafer--well, that's your own fault, too.
+You OUGHT to do something; not work, perhaps, but you'd be a whole lot
+better off if you got really interested in something. Get into politics;
+get into town affairs; get out and know the people you're living with.”
+
+“I don't care to know them; and I'm sure they don't care to know me.”
+
+“Yes, they do. I understand how you feel. In this Shore Lane matter now:
+you think Cap'n Jed and Colton, because they pretend to call you a fool,
+don't respect you for taking the stand you have. They do. They don't
+understand you, maybe, but they can't help respecting you and, if they
+knew you even as well as I do, they'd like you. Come! I ain't throwin'
+any bouquets, but why do you suppose I'd be willing to drive to West
+Denboro forty times over, on forty times worse nights than this, for
+you? Why?”
+
+“Heaven knows! Would you?”
+
+“I would. I like you, Ros. I took a shine to you the first time I met
+you. I don't know why exactly. Why does anybody like anybody else? But I
+think a whole lot of you. I know this sounds foolish, and you don't feel
+that way towards me, but it's the truth.”
+
+I was amazed. I had always liked George Taylor, but I never felt any
+strong affection for him. I was a little less indifferent to him than to
+others in Denboro, that was all. And I had taken it for granted that
+his liking for me was of the same casual, lukewarm variety. To hear him
+declare himself in this way was astonishing--he, the dry, keen, Yankee
+banker.
+
+“But why, George?” I repeated.
+
+“I don't know why; I told you that. It's because I can't help it, I
+suppose. Or because, as I said, I know you better than any one else.”
+
+I sighed. “Nobody knows me here,” I said.
+
+“One knows you, Ros. I know you.”
+
+“You may think you do, but you don't. You can thank God for your
+ignorance.”
+
+“Maybe I ain't so ignorant.”
+
+I looked at him. He was looking me straight in the eye.
+
+“What do you know?” I asked, slowly.
+
+“I know, for one thing, that your name ain't Paine.”
+
+I could not answer. I am not certain whether I attempted to speak or
+move. I do remember that the pressure of his hand on my knee tightened.
+
+“It's all right, Ros,” he said, earnestly. “Nobody knows but me, and
+nobody ever shall know if I can help it.”
+
+“How--how much do you know?” I stammered.
+
+“Why, pretty much all, I guess. I've known ever since your mother was
+taken sick. Some things I read in the paper, and the pictures of--of
+your father, put me on, and afterwards I got more certain of it. But
+it's all right. Nobody but me knows or shall know.”
+
+I leaned my head on my hand. He patted my knee, gently.
+
+“Are--are you sure no one else knows?” I asked.
+
+“Certain sure. There was one time when it might have all come out. A
+reporter fellow from one of the Boston papers got on the track somehow
+and came down here to investigate. Luckily I was the first man he
+tackled, and I steered him away. I presume likely I lied some, but my
+conscience is easy so far as that goes.”
+
+“And you have told no one? Not even Nellie?”
+
+“No. I tell Nellie most things, but not all--not all.”
+
+I remembered afterwards that he sighed as he said this and took his
+hand from my knee; but then my agitation was too great to do more than
+casually notice it. I rose to my feet.
+
+“George! George!” I cried. “I--I can't say to you what I should like.
+But why--WHY did you shield me? And lie for me? Why did you do it? I was
+hardly more than a stranger.”
+
+He sighed. “Don't know,” he answered. “I never could quite see why
+a man's sins should be visited on the widows and fatherless. And, of
+course, I realized that you and your mother changed your name and came
+down here to get away from gossip and talk. But I guess the real reason
+was that I liked you, Ros. Love at first sight, same as we read about;
+hey?”
+
+He looked up and smiled. I seized his hand.
+
+“George,” I said, chokingly, “I did not believe I had a real friend in
+the world, except Mother and Dorinda and Lute, of course. I can't
+thank you enough for shielding us all these years; there's no use in my
+trying. But if ever I can do anything to help YOU--anything--I'll do it.
+I'll swear to that.”
+
+He shook my hand.
+
+“I know you will, Ros,” he said. “I told you I knew you.”
+
+“If ever I can do anything--”
+
+He interrupted me.
+
+“There's one thing you can do right now,” he said. “That's get out and
+mix. That'll please me as much as anything. And begin right off. Why,
+see here, the Methodist society is going to give a strawberry festival
+on the meeting-house lawn next Thursday night. About everybody's going,
+Nellie and I included. You come, will you?”
+
+I hesitated. I had heard about the festival, but I certainly had not
+contemplated attending.
+
+“Come!” he urged. “You won't say no to the first favor I ask you.
+Promise me you'll be on hand.”
+
+Before I could answer, we heard the door of Mother's room open. George
+and I hastened into the dining-room. Doctor Quimby and Nellie Dean were
+there. Nellie rushed over to her lover's side.
+
+“You bad boy,” she cried. “You're wet through.”
+
+Doctor Quimby turned to me.
+
+“Your ma's getting on all right,” he declared. “About all that ails her
+now is that she wants to see you.”
+
+George was assisting Nellie to put on her wraps.
+
+“Got to leave you now, Ros,” he said. “Cap'n Jed and Matildy'll think
+we've eloped ahead of time. Good-night. Oh, say, will you promise me to
+take in the strawberry festival?”
+
+“Why” I answered, “I suppose--Yes, Mother, I'm coming--Why, yes, George,
+I'll promise, to please you.”
+
+I have often wondered since what my life story would have been if I had
+not made that promise.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+The Methodist church stood on the slope of a little hill, back from the
+Main Road, and the parsonage was next door. Between the church and
+the parsonage was a stretch of lawn, dotted with shrubs and cedars
+and shaded by two big silver-leaf poplars. It was on this lawn that,
+provided the night was fair, the strawberry festival was to be held. If
+the weather should be unpropitious the festival was to be in the church
+vestry.
+
+All that day Dorinda was busy baking and icing cake. She was not going
+to the festival--partly because I was going and she could not leave
+Mother--but principally because such affairs were altogether too
+frivolous to fit in her scheme of orthodoxy. “I don't recollect,” she
+said, “that the apostles did much strawberry festivalin'; they had
+other things to attend to.” Lute, however, was going and if he had been
+invited to a Presidential reception he could not have been much more
+excited. He was dressed and ready at supper time, although the festival
+did not begin until seven-thirty.
+
+“Think I'm all right, Dorindy, do you?” he queried, anxiously turning
+himself about for his wife's inspection. “How about these new pants? Fur
+enough down on my boots, be they?”
+
+Dorinda looked him over with a critical eye. “Um-hm,” she observed,
+“that end of 'em seems to be all right. But I cal'late the upper end
+ain't been introduced to your vest yet. Anyhow, the two don't seem to be
+well enough acquainted to associate close.”
+
+Lute bent forward to inspect the hiatus between trousers and waistcoat.
+“By time!” he exclaimed, “I told Sim Eldredge they was too short in the
+waist. He said if they was any longer they'd wrinkle under the arms. I
+don't know what to do. If I hist 'em up they'll be what the fellers call
+high-water, won't them?”
+
+“Humph! I'd ruther have 'em high-water than shoal in the middle of the
+channel. You'll have to average up somehow. I ought to have known better
+than to trust you to buy anything all by yourself.”
+
+She condescended to approve of my appearance when, an hour later, I came
+downstairs, garbed in my best.
+
+“Humph!” she vouchsafed, after a long look. “I declare! I'd hardly know
+you, Roscoe. You look more as you used to when you fust come here to
+live.”
+
+“Thanks,” I answered, drily. “I'm glad to see that you respect old age.
+This suit is venerable enough to command that kind of respect.”
+
+“'Tain't the suit, though that's all right enough. It's the way you wear
+it, I guess. You look BETTER than you used to. You're browned up
+and broadened out and it's real becomin'. But,” she added, with
+characteristic caution, “you must remember that good looks don't count
+for much. My father used to say to me that handsome is that handsome
+does. Not that I was so homely I'd scare the crows, but he didn't want
+me to be vain. Now don't fall overboard in THAT suit, will you?”
+
+Mother noticed my unwonted grandeur when I went in to say good-night to
+her.
+
+“Why, Roscoe!” she exclaimed. “You must consider this strawberry
+festival very important.”
+
+“Why, Mother?”
+
+“Because you've taken such pains to dress for it.”
+
+“It did not require a great deal of pains. I merely put on what Dorinda
+calls my Sunday clothes. I don't know why I did, either. I certainly
+don't consider the festival important.”
+
+“I am glad you did. I have been a little troubled about you of late,
+Boy. It has seemed to me that you were growing--well, not careless,
+exactly, but indifferent. As if you were losing interest in life. I
+don't blame you. Compelled to waste your time here in the country, a
+companion to a bedridden old woman like me.”
+
+“Hush, Mother. You're not old; and as to wasting my time--why, Mother,
+you know--”
+
+“Yes, yes, Boy, I know what you would say. But it does trouble me,
+nevertheless. I ought to bid you go back into the world, and take your
+place among men. A hundred times I have been upon the point of telling
+you to leave me, but--but--I am SO selfish.”
+
+“Hush, Mother, please.”
+
+“Yes, I AM selfish and I know it. I am growing stronger every day; I
+am sure of it. Just a little longer, Roscoe, just a little longer, and
+then--”
+
+“Mother, I--”
+
+“There, there!” she stroked my hand. “We won't be sad, will we. It
+pleases me to see you taking an interest in affairs. I think this Shore
+Lane matter may be a good thing, after all. Dorinda says that Luther
+tells her you are becoming very popular in town because of your
+independent stand. Everyone recognizes your public spirit.”
+
+“Did she tell you that?”
+
+“Not in those words. You know Dorinda. But what amounts to that. I am
+sure the Denboro people are very proud of you.”
+
+I thought of my “popularity” and the admiration of my “public spirit”
+ as manifested in the attentions of Captain Jed and Eldredge and their
+followers, and I turned my head away so that she might not see my face.
+
+“And I am glad you are going to the strawberry festival. I can't
+remember when you attended such a function before. Boy--”
+
+“Yes, Mother.”
+
+“There isn't any reason, any special reason, for your going, is there?”
+
+“Why, what do you mean?”
+
+“I mean--well, you are young and I did not know but, perhaps, some one
+else was going, some one you were interested in, and--and--”
+
+I laughed aloud. “Mother!” I said, reproachfully.
+
+“Why not? I am very proud of my handsome boy, and I know that--”
+
+“There! there! I haven't noticed that my beauty is so fascinating as
+to be dangerous. No, Mother, there is no 'special reason' for my going
+to-night. I promised George Taylor, that was all.”
+
+“Well, I am sure you will have a good time. Kiss me, Boy. Good-night.”
+
+I was by no means so sure of the good time. In fact, I loitered on my
+way to the village and it was well past eight o'clock when I paid my
+fifteen cents admission fee to Elnathan Mullet at the gate of the church
+grounds and sauntered up the slope toward the lights and gaiety of the
+strawberry festival.
+
+The ladies of the Methodist society, under whose management the affair
+was given, were fortunate in their choice of an evening. The early risen
+moon shone from a cloudless sky and there was so little breeze that the
+Japanese lanterns, hung above the tables, went out only occasionally.
+The “beauty and elite of Denboro”--see next week's Cape Cod Item--were
+present in force and, mingling with them, or, if not mingling, at least
+inspecting them with interest, were some of the early arrivals among the
+cottagers from South Denboro and Bayport. I saw Lute, proudly conscious
+of his new lavender trousers, in conversation with Matilda Dean, and
+I wondered who was the winner in that wordy race. Captain Jedediah
+strutted arm in arm with the minister. Thoph Newcomb and Alvin Baker
+were there with their wives. Simeon Eldredge had not yet put in an
+appearance but I knew that he would as soon as the evening mail was
+sorted.
+
+I found Nellie Dean in charge of a table, and George Taylor seated at
+that table. I walked over and joined them.
+
+“Good evening, Nellie,” said I. “Well, George, here I am, you see.”
+
+He shook my hand heartily. “I see you are,” he said. “Good boy! How does
+it seem to splash into society?”
+
+“I haven't splashed yet. I have only just arrived.”
+
+“Oh, trying the feel of the water, hey? Guess you won't find it very
+chilly. As a preparatory tonic I'd recommend strawberries and cream.
+Nellie, get Ros a saucer of those genuine home-raised berries, why don't
+you?”
+
+Nellie laughed. “Roscoe,” she said, “isn't he dreadful! He knows we
+bought these berries in Boston. It's much too early for the native ones.
+But they really are very nice, though he does make such fun of them.”
+
+She went into the vestry to get the berries and I sat down at the table
+beside Taylor and looked about me.
+
+“Most everybody's here,” he observed. “And they'll be glad to see you,
+Ros. Get out and shake hands and be sociable, after you've done your
+duty by the fruit. How are things at home?”
+
+“Mother is herself again, I am glad to say. George, I have scarcely
+thought of anything except what you told me the other night.”
+
+“Then it's time you did. That's one reason why I wanted you to come
+here. You've been thinking too much about yourself.”
+
+“It isn't of myself, but of Mother. If you had dropped a hint when that
+Boston reporter came--”
+
+“Now, look here, Ros, would YOU have dropped hints if things had been
+the other way around?”
+
+“I don't know.”
+
+“I know you wouldn't. What's the use of giving the Denboro gossip mill
+a chance to run over time? Great heavens! it works twelve hours a day as
+'tis.”
+
+“It was mighty good of you, just the same.”
+
+“No, it wasn't. The whole affair was your business and nobody else's.”
+
+“Well, as I said before, if ever I have an opportunity to do as much for
+you--not that I ever will.”
+
+“How do you know you won't? Anybody's liable to be gossiped about some
+time or other.”
+
+“Not you. You are Denboro's shining light. The mothers and fathers here
+point you out as an example of what industry and ambition and honest
+effort may rise to. I--”
+
+“Shut up!” He said it almost savagely. “There!” he added, quickly,
+“let's change the subject. Talk about something worth while. Humph! I
+guess they must be opening another crate of those Boston 'homegrowns,'
+judgin' by the time it takes Nellie to get your sample.”
+
+“I am in no hurry. How are affairs at the bank?”
+
+“Oh, so, so. Don't know a good man who wants a job, do you? Henry
+Small's going to leave the middle of next month.”
+
+“Small, the bookkeeper? Why?”
+
+“Got a better chance up to the city. I don't blame him. Don't tell
+anybody yet; it's a secret. Say, Ros, DO you know of a good, sharp,
+experienced fellow?”
+
+I smiled. “Is it likely?” I asked. “How large is my acquaintance among
+sharp, experienced fellows down here?”
+
+“Not so large as it ought to be, I'll give in to that. But you know
+one.”
+
+“Do I, indeed? Who is he?”
+
+“Yourself. You wouldn't take Small's job, would you?”
+
+“I?” I laughed aloud.
+
+“It's no joke. You've had a lot of banking experience. I've heard about
+it among my city friends, who don't know I know you. Course I realize
+the place is way beneath what you ought to have, but--”
+
+“Oh, don't be sarcastic. No, thank you, George.”
+
+“All right, if you say so. But I meant it. You don't need the salary, I
+know. But--Ros, do you mind if I talk plain for a moment?”
+
+I wondered what was coming now. “No,” I answered. “Go ahead and talk.”
+
+“Well then, I tell you, as a friend, that 'twould be a good thing for
+you if you did take that job, or some other one. Don't make much matter
+what it is, but you ought to do something. You're too clever a fellow to
+be hanging around, shooting and fishing. You're wasting your life.”
+
+“That was wasted long ago.”
+
+“No, it wasn't. But it will be if you don't change pretty soon. I tell
+you you ought to get interested in something that counts. You might make
+a big name for yourself yet.”
+
+“That's enough of that. I have a name already. You know it, and you know
+what was made of it.”
+
+“YOU didn't make it that kind of a name, did you? And you're young
+enough to make it something altogether different. You ought to. You owe
+it to your mother and you owe it to yourself. As it is, if you keep on,
+you'll--”
+
+“George, you've said enough. No one but you would have been permitted to
+say as much. You don't understand.”
+
+“Maybe not, but, Ros, I don't like to have people around here call
+you--”
+
+“I don't care a continental what they call me. I don't want them to know
+who I am, but for public opinion generally I care nothing.”
+
+He leaned back in his chair. His face was in shadow and I could not see
+it, but his tone was grave enough.
+
+“You think you don't,” he said, slowly, “but there may come a time when
+you will. There may come a time when you get so interested in something,
+or some person, that the thought of what folks would say if--if anything
+went wrong would keep you awake night after night. Oh, I tell you,
+Ros--Hello, Nellie! thought you'd gone South to pick those berries
+yourself. Two saucers full! Well, I suppose I must eat the other to save
+it--unless Ros here wants both.”
+
+I said one would be quite sufficient for the present, and we three
+chatted until Mrs. Dean came over and monopolized the chat.
+
+“Don't go, Roscoe,” protested the matron. “The Cap'n's here and he'll
+want to talk to you. He's dreadful interested in you just now. Don't
+talk about nobody else, scurcely. You set still and I'll go fetch him.”
+
+But I refused to “set.” I knew the cause of Captain Jedediah's interest,
+and what he wished to talk about. I rose and announced that I would
+stroll about a bit. Taylor spoke to me as I was leaving.
+
+“Ros,” he said, earnestly, “you think of what I told you, will you?”
+
+I saw a group of people hurrying toward the entrance of the grounds
+and I followed them, curious as to the cause of the excitement. An
+automobile had stopped by the gate. Sim Eldredge came hastening up and
+seized me by the arm.
+
+“Gosh! it's Ros,” he exclaimed, in his mysterious whisper. “I hadn't
+seen you afore; just got here myself. But I'm glad you ARE here. I'll
+see that you and him get a chance to talk private.”
+
+“Who?” I asked, trying to pull my arm free.
+
+“Why, Mr. Colton. Didn't you know? Yes, sir, that's his car. He's come
+and so's his daughter and that young Carver feller. I believe they've
+come to take in the sociable. There they be! See 'em! See 'em!”
+
+I saw them. Colton and Victor had already alighted and Miss Colton was
+descending from the tonneau. There were two other men in the car, beside
+Oscar, the chauffeur.
+
+“Who are those other people?” I asked.
+
+“I don't know,” whispered Sim, excitedly. “Stay where you be and I'll
+find out. I'll be right back, now. Don't you move.”
+
+I did not move, not because he had ordered me to stay where I was, but
+because I was curious. The spot where I stood was in shadow and I knew
+they could not see me.
+
+Colton and his daughter were talking with Victor, who remained by the
+step of the auto.
+
+“Well, Mabel,” observed “Big Jim,” “here we are, though why I don't
+know. I hope you enjoy this thing more than I am likely to.”
+
+“Of course I shall enjoy it, Father. Look at the decorations. Aren't
+they perfectly WONDERFUL!”
+
+“Especially the color scheme,” drawled Victor. “Mabel, I call your
+attention to the red, blue and purple lanterns. Some class? Yes? Well,
+I must go. I'll be back in a very short time. If Parker wasn't starting
+for Europe to-morrow I shouldn't think of leaving, but I'm sure you'll
+forgive me, under the circumstances.”
+
+“I forgive you, Victor,” replied the girl, carelessly. “But don't be too
+long.”
+
+“No, don't,” added her father. “I promised Mrs. Colton that I should not
+be away more than an hour. She's very nervous to-night and I may be sent
+for any time. So don't keep us waiting.”
+
+“No fear of that. I'll be back long before you are ready to go. I
+wouldn't miss this--er--affair myself for something. Ah, our combination
+friend, the undertaking postmaster.”
+
+Sim's hat was in his hand and he was greeting Mr. Colton.
+
+“Proud to see you amongst us, sir,” said Sim, with unction. “The
+Methodist folks are havin' quite a time to-night, ain't they?”
+
+“How d'ye do, Eldredge,” was the great man's salutation, not at all
+effusive. “Where does all this crowd come from? Didn't know there were
+so many people in the neighborhood.”
+
+“'Most everybody's out to-night. Church'll make consider'ble money. Good
+evenin', Miss Colton. Mr. Carver, pleased to meet you again, sir.”
+
+The young lady merely nodded. Victor, whose foot was on the step of the
+car, did not deign to turn.
+
+“Thanks,” he drawled. “I am--er--embalmed, I'm sure. All ready, Phil.
+Let her go, Oscar.”
+
+The auto moved off. Mr. Colton gave his arm to his daughter and they
+moved through the crowd, Eldredge acting as master of ceremonies.
+
+“It's all right, Elnathan,” ordered Sim, addressing the gate-keeper.
+“Don't bother Mr. Colton about the admission now. I'll settle with you,
+myself, later. Now, Mr. Colton, you and the lady come right along with
+me. Ain't met the minister yet, have you? He said you wan't to home when
+he called. And you let me get you some strawberries. They're fust-rate,
+if I do say it.”
+
+He led the way toward the tables. I watched the progress from where I
+stood. It was interesting to see how the visitors were treated by the
+different groups. Some, like Sim, were gushing and obsequious. A few,
+Captain Jed among them, walked stubbornly by, either nodding coldly or
+paying no attention. Others, like George Taylor and Doctor Quimby, were
+neither obsequious nor cold, merely bowing pleasantly and saying, “Good
+evening,” as though greeting acquaintances and equals. Yes, there WERE
+good people in Denboro, quiet, unassuming, self-respecting citizens.
+
+One of them came up to me and spoke.
+
+“Hello, Ros,” said Captain Elisha Warren, “Sim's havin' the time of his
+life, isn't he?”
+
+“He seems to be,” I replied.
+
+“Yes. Well, there's some satisfaction in havin' a thick shell; then
+you don't mind bein' stepped on. Yet, I don't know; sometimes I think
+fellers of Sim's kind enjoy bein' stepped on, provided the boot that
+does it is patent leather.”
+
+“I wonder why they came here,” I mused.
+
+“Who? the Coltons? Why, for the same reason children go to the circus,
+I shouldn't wonder--to laugh at the clowns. I laugh myself
+sometimes--though 'tain't always at their kind of clowns. Speakin' of
+that, young Carver's in good company this evenin', ain't he?”
+
+“Who were those fellows in the auto?” I asked.
+
+“Didn't you recognize them? One was Phil Somers--son of the rich widow
+who owns the big cottage at Harniss. 'Tother is a bird of the same flock
+down visitin' em. Carver's takin' 'em over to Ostable to say good-by to
+another specimen, a college mate, who is migratin' to Europe tomorrow.
+The chauffeur told Dan, my man, about it this afternoon. The chauffeur
+figgered that, knowin' the crowd, 'twas likely to be a lively farewell.
+Hello! there's Abbie hailin' me. See you later, Ros.”
+
+I knew young Somers by reputation. He and his friends were a wild set,
+if report was true.
+
+Eldredge had hinted that he intended arranging an interview between
+Colton and myself. The prospect did not appeal to me. At first I decided
+to go home at once, but something akin to Captain Dean's resentful
+stubbornness came over me. I would not be driven home by those people.
+I found an unoccupied camp chair--one of Sim's, which he rented for
+funerals--and carried it to a dark spot in the shrubbery near the border
+of the parsonage lawn and not far from the gate. There I seated myself,
+lit a cigar and smoked in solitude.
+
+Elnathan Mullet, evidently considering his labors as door-keeper over,
+was counting his takings by lantern light. The moon was low in the west
+and a little breeze was now stirring the shrubbery. It was very warm for
+the season and I mentally prophesied thunder showers before morning.
+
+I had smoked my cigar perhaps half through when a carriage came down the
+road and stopped before the gate. The driver leaned forward and called
+to Mullet.
+
+“Hi, Uncle!” he shouted. “You, by the gate! Is Mr. Colton here?”
+
+Elnathan, who was, apparently, half asleep, looked up.
+
+“Hey?” he queried. “Mr. Colton? Yes, he's here. Want him, do you?”
+
+“Yes. Where is he?”
+
+“Up yonder somewheres. There he is, by Sarah Burgess's table. Mr.
+Colton! Mr. Col--ton! Somebody wants ye!”
+
+“What in blazes did you yell like that for?” protested the coachman,
+springing from the carriage. “Stop it, d'ye hear?”
+
+“You said you wanted him, didn't you? Mr. Colton! Hi! Come here!”
+
+Colton came hurrying down to the gate, his daughter following more
+slowly.
+
+“What's the matter?” he asked.
+
+The coachman touched his hat.
+
+“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said; “this man started yelling before I
+could stop him. I was coming to tell you. Mrs. Colton says she's very
+nervous, sir, and please come home at once.”
+
+Colton turned with a shrug to his daughter. “We might have expected it,
+Mabel,” he said. “Come.”
+
+But the young lady seemed to hesitate. “I believe I won't go yet,
+Father,” she said. “Mother doesn't need both of us. Victor will be here
+very soon, and we promised to wait for him, you know.”
+
+“We can leave word. You'd better come, Mabel. Heavens and earth! you
+don't want any MORE of this, do you?”
+
+It was evident that he had had quite enough of the festival. She laughed
+lightly.
+
+“I'm finding it very entertaining,” she said. “I never saw so many
+quaint people. There is one girl, a Miss Dean, whom I am really
+getting acquainted with. She's as country as can be, but she's very
+interesting.”
+
+“Humph! she must be. Dean, hey? Daughter of my particular friend, the
+ancient mariner, I suppose. I don't like to leave you here. What shall I
+tell your mother?”
+
+“Tell her I am quite safe and in perfectly respectable company.”
+
+“Humph! I can imagine how respectable she'll think it is. Well, I know
+it's useless to urge if you have made up your mind. I don't see where
+you get your stubbornness from.”
+
+“Don't you? I can guess.”
+
+“It isn't from your dad. Now do be careful, won't you? If Victor doesn't
+come soon I shall send the carriage.”
+
+“Oh, he will come. It's all right, Father, dear. I am quite able to take
+care of myself.”
+
+Her father shook his head. “Yes,” he observed, “I guess you are. All
+right, Jenkins.”
+
+He got into the carriage and was driven off. Miss Colton turned and
+walked back to the tables. I relit my cigar.
+
+Another half-hour passed.
+
+Mullet finished his counting, took up his money box and lantern and left
+the gate unguarded. Groups of home-going people began to come down the
+hill. Horses, which had been standing under the church sheds or hitched
+in neighboring yards, appeared and the various buggies and two-seaters
+to which they were attached were filled and driven away. Captain Warren
+and Miss Abbie Baker, his housekeeper, were among the first to leave.
+Abijah Hammond, the sexton, began taking down the lanterns. The
+strawberry festival was almost over.
+
+I rose from my camp chair and prepared to start for home. As I stepped
+from behind the shrubbery the moonlight suddenly went out, as if it had
+been turned off like a gas jet. Except for the few remaining lanterns
+and the gleams from the church windows and door the darkness was
+complete. I looked at the western sky. It was black, and low down along
+the horizon flashes of lightning were playing. My prophecy of showers
+was to be fulfilled.
+
+The ladies of the Methodist Society, assisted by their husbands and male
+friends, were hurrying the tables and chairs indoors. I picked up and
+folded the chair I had been occupying and joined the busy group. It was
+so dark that faces were almost invisible, but I recognized Sim Eldredge
+by his voice, and George Taylor and I bumped into each other as we
+seized the same table.
+
+“Hello, Ros!” exclaimed the cashier. “Thought you'd gone. Going to have
+a tempest, ain't we.”
+
+“Tempest” is Cape Cod for thunderstorm. I agreed that one was imminent.
+
+“Hold on till I get this stuff into the vestry,” continued Taylor, “and
+I'll drive you home. I'll be ready pretty soon.”
+
+I declined the invitation. “I'll walk,” I answered. “You have Nellie
+to look after. If you have a spare umbrella I'll borrow that. Where is
+Nellie?”
+
+“Oh, she's over yonder with Miss Colton. They have been making each
+other's acquaintance. Say, Ros, she's a good deal of a girl, that Colton
+one, did you know it?”
+
+I did not answer.
+
+“Oh, I know you're down on the whole lot of 'em,” he added, laughing;
+“but she is, just the same. Kind of top-lofty and condescending, but
+that's the fault of her bringing-up. She's all right underneath. Too
+good for that Carver cub. By the way, if he doesn't come pretty soon
+I'll phone her pa to send the carriage for her. If I was Colton I
+wouldn't put much confidence in Carver's showing up in a hurry. You saw
+the gang he was with, didn't you? They don't get home till morning, till
+daylight doth appear, as a usual thing. Hello! that's the carriage now,
+ain't it? Guess papa wasn't taking any chances.”
+
+Sure enough, there were the lights of a carriage at the gate, and I
+heard the voice of Jenkins, the coachman, shouting. Nellie Dean called
+Taylor's name and he hurried away. A few moments later he returned.
+
+“She's off, safe and sound,” he said. “I judged she wasn't any too well
+pleased with her Victor for not showing up to look out for her.”
+
+A sharp flash of lightning cut the sky and a rattling peal of thunder
+followed.
+
+“Right on top of us, ain't it!” exclaimed George. “Sure you don't want
+me to drive you home? All right; just as you say. Hold on till I get you
+that umbrella.”
+
+He borrowed an umbrella from the parsonage. I took it, thanked him, and
+hastened out of the church grounds. I looked up the road as I passed
+through the gate. I could have seen an auto's lamps for a long distance,
+but there were none in sight. With a malicious chuckle I thought that my
+particular friend Victor was not taking the surest way of making himself
+popular with his fiancee, if that was what she was.
+
+The storm overtook me before I was half-way down the Lower Road. A few
+drops of rain splashed the leaves. A lightning stroke so near and
+sharp that I fancied I could hear the hiss was accompanied by a savage
+thunder-clap. Then came the roar of wind in the trees by the roadside
+and down came the rain. I put up my umbrella and began to run. We have
+few “tempests” in Denboro, those we do have are almost worthy of the
+name.
+
+I had reached the grove of birches perhaps two hundred yards from the
+Shore Lane when out of the wet darkness before me came plunging a horse
+drawing a covered carriage. I had sprung to one side to let it go by
+when I heard a man's voice shouting, “Whoa!” The voice did not come from
+the carriage but from the road behind it.
+
+“Whoa! Stop him!” it shouted.
+
+I jumped back into the road. The horse saw me appear directly in front
+of him, shied and reared. The carriage lamps were lighted and by their
+light I saw the reins dragging. I seized them and held on. It was all
+involuntary. I was used to horses and this one was frightened, that was
+all.
+
+“Whoa, boy!” I ordered. “Whoa! Stand still!”
+
+The horse had no intention of standing still.
+
+He continued to rear and plunge. I, clinging to the reins, found myself
+running alongside. I had to run to avoid the wheels. But I ran as slowly
+as I could, and my one hundred and ninety pounds made running, on the
+animal's part, a much less easy exercise.
+
+The voice from the rear continued to shout and, in another moment, a man
+seized the reins beside me. Together we managed to pull the horse into a
+walk. Then the man, whom I recognized as the Colton coachman, vented
+his feelings in a comprehensive burst of profanity. I interrupted the
+service.
+
+“What is the matter?” I asked.
+
+“Oh, this blessed”--or words to that effect--“horse is scared of
+thunder; that's all. He's a new one; we just bought him before we came
+down here and I hadn't learned his little tricks. Whoa! stand still, or
+I'll break your dumb neck! Say,” turning to me, “go back, will you, and
+see if she's all right.”
+
+“Who?”
+
+“Miss Colton--the old man's daughter. She got out when he began to dance
+and I was holding him by the bridle. Then came that big flash and
+he broke loose. Go back and see to her, will you? I can't leave this
+horse.”
+
+For just a moment I hesitated. I am ashamed of my hesitation now, but
+this is supposed to be a truthful chronicle. Then I went back down the
+road. By another flash of lightning I saw the minister's umbrella upside
+down in the bushes where I had dropped it, and I took it with me. I was
+about as wet as I well could be but I am glad to say I remembered that
+the umbrella was a borrowed one.
+
+After I had walked, or stumbled, or waded a little way I stopped and
+called.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I called. “Where are you?”
+
+“Here,” came the answer from just ahead. “Is that you, Jenkins?”
+
+I did not reply until I reached her side.
+
+“You are not hurt?” I asked.
+
+“No, not at all. But who is it?”
+
+“I am--er--your neighbor. Paine is my name.”
+
+“Oh!” the tone was not enthusiastic. “Where is Jenkins?”
+
+“He is attending to the horse. Pardon me, Miss Colton, but won't you
+take this umbrella?”
+
+This seemed to strike her as a trifle absurd. “Why, thank you,” she
+said, “but I am afraid an umbrella would be useless in this storm. Is
+the horse all right?”
+
+“Yes, though he is very much frightened. I--”
+
+I was interrupted by another flash and terrific report from directly
+overhead. The young lady came closer to me.
+
+“Oh!” she exclaimed.
+
+I had an idea. The flash had made our surroundings as light as day
+for an instant and across the road I saw Sylvanus Snow's old house,
+untenanted, abandoned and falling to decay. I took Miss Colton's arm.
+
+“Come!” I said.
+
+She hung back. “Where are you going?” she asked.
+
+“Just across the road to that old house. On the porch we shall be out of
+the rain.”
+
+She made no further objections and together we stumbled through the
+wet grass and over Sylvanus's weed-grown flower beds. I presume I shall
+never again smell the spicy fragrance of “old maids' pinks” without
+thinking of that night.
+
+I found the edge of the piazza by the direct process of barking my shins
+against it, and helped her up on to the creaking boards. My sanguine
+statement that we should be out of the rain proved not quite true. There
+was a roof above us, but it leaked. I unfurled the wet umbrella and held
+it over her head.
+
+For some moments after we reached the piazza neither of us spoke. The
+roar of the rain on the shingles of the porch and the splash and gurgle
+all about us would have made conversation difficult, even if we had
+wished to talk. I, for one, did not. At last she said:
+
+“Do you see or hear anything of Jenkins?”
+
+I listened, or tried to. I was wondering myself what had become of the
+coachman.
+
+“No,” I answered, “I don't hear him.”
+
+“Where do you suppose he is? He could not have been far away when you
+met him.”
+
+“He was not. And I know he intended to come back at once.”
+
+“You don't suppose Caesar--the horse--ran away again? When that second
+crack came?”
+
+I was wondering that very thing. That particular thunder clap was louder
+and more terrifying than those preceding it. However, there was no use
+in alarming her.
+
+“I guess not,” I answered. “He'll be here soon, I am sure.”
+
+But he did not come. The storm seemed to be passing over. The flashes
+were just as frequent, but there was a longer interval between each
+flash and its thunder peal. The rain was still a steady downpour.
+
+Miss Colton was plainly growing more anxious.
+
+“Where can he be?” she murmured.
+
+“Don't be frightened,” I urged. “He is all right. I'll go and look him
+up, if you don't mind being left alone.”
+
+“Can't--can't we go together?”
+
+“We could, of course, but there is no use in your getting wetter than
+you are. If you are willing to stay here I will run up the road and see
+if I can find him.”
+
+“Thank you. But you will get wet yourself.”
+
+“Oh, I am wet already. Take the umbrella. I'll be back in a minute.”
+
+I pressed the handle of the umbrella into her hand--it was as steady as
+mine--and darted out into the flood. I think she called me to come back,
+but I did not obey. I ran up the road until I was some distance beyond
+the point where I had stopped the runaway, but there were no signs of
+horse, carriage or coachman. I called repeatedly, but got no reply.
+Then, reluctantly, I gave it up and returned to the porch.
+
+She gave a little gasp of relief when I reached her side.
+
+“Oh!” she exclaimed, “did you find him?”
+
+“No,” I answered. “He seems to have gone on. He cannot have gone far. It
+is only a little way to the Corners.”
+
+“Is--isn't there a house, a house with people living in it, near this
+place?”
+
+“No nearer than your house, Miss Colton. We seem to have chosen the most
+forsaken spot in Denboro to be cast away in. I am very sorry.”
+
+“I am not frightened for myself. But I know my father and mother will be
+alarmed if I don't come soon. I am sure Caesar must have run away again,
+and I am afraid Jenkins must be hurt.”
+
+I had thought of that, too. Only an accident could explain the
+coachman's non-appearance or, at least, his not sending help to his
+mistress.
+
+“If you are really not afraid to remain here, Miss Colton,” I said, “I
+will go to your house myself.”
+
+“Oh no! Some one will come soon. I can't understand where Victor--Mr.
+Carver--can be. He was to have joined me at the church.”
+
+I did not answer. Knowing Mr. Carver's associates and the errand upon
+which he had gone, I imagined I could guess the cause of his delay. But
+I did not speak my guess.
+
+“The storm is not as severe just now,” I said. “I can get to your house
+in a little while, if you are willing I should leave you.”
+
+She put her hand on my arm. “Come,” she said. “Shall we start now?”
+
+“But you must not go. You couldn't get there on foot, such a night as
+this.”
+
+“Yes, I can. I mean to. Please come.”
+
+I still hesitated. She took her hand from my arm and stepped out into
+the rain. “Are you coming?” she said.
+
+I joined her, still protesting. We splashed on through the mud and
+water, she clinging lightly to my arm and I holding the perfectly
+useless umbrella over her head. The rain was descending steadily and the
+sky overhead was just black, but along the western horizon, as I caught
+a glimpse of it between the trees, I fancied the blackness was a little
+less opaque. The storm was passing over, sure enough.
+
+But before it passed it gave us one goodby salute. We had about reached
+the point on the Shore Lane where I first met her and Carver in the
+auto. The shaky bridge over Mullet's cranberry brook was just ahead.
+Then, without warning, the black night split wide open, a jagged streak
+of fire shot from heaven to earth and seemed to explode almost in our
+faces. I was almost knocked off my feet and my fingers tingled as if I
+had been holding the handles of an electric battery. The umbrella flew
+out of my hands and, so far as I was concerned, vanished utterly. I
+believe Elnathan picked up the ruin next day, but just then I neither
+knew nor cared what had become of it. I had other things to think of.
+
+But for a moment I could not think at all. I was conscious of a great
+crashing and rustling and splintering directly in front of me and then I
+realized that the young lady was no longer clinging to my arm. I looked
+about and up through the darkness. Then down. She was lying at my feet.
+
+I bent over her.
+
+“Miss Colton!” I cried. “Miss Colton! Are you hurt?”
+
+She neither answered nor moved. My brain was still numb from the
+electric shock and I had a dazed fear that she might be dead. I shook
+her gently and she moaned. I spoke again and again, but she did not
+answer, nor try to rise. The rain was pouring down upon us and I knew
+she must not lie there. So once more, just as I had done in the dingy,
+but now under quite different circumstances and with entirely different
+feelings, I stooped and lifted her in my arms.
+
+My years of outdoor life in Denboro had had one good effect at least;
+they had made me strong. I carried her with little effort to the bridge.
+And there I stopped. The bridge was blocked, covered with a mass of wet
+leafy branches and splintered wood. The lightning bolt had missed us by
+just that much. It had overthrown and demolished the big willow tree by
+the brook and to get through or over the tangle was impossible.
+
+So again history repeated itself. I descended the bank at the side of
+the bridge and waded through the waters with Mabel Colton in my arms. I
+staggered up the opposite bank and hurried on. She lay quiet, her head
+against my shoulder. Her hat had fallen off and a wet, fragrant strand
+of her hair brushed my cheek. Once I stopped and bent my head to listen,
+to make sure that she was breathing. She was, I felt her breath upon my
+face. Afterwards I remembered all this; just then I was merely thankful
+that she was alive.
+
+I had gone but a little way further when she stirred in my arms and
+spoke.
+
+“What is it?” she asked. “What is the matter?”
+
+“Nothing,” I answered, with a sigh of relief. “It is all right. We shall
+be there soon.”
+
+“But what is the matter? Why are you--let me walk, please.”
+
+“You had better stay as you are. You are almost home.”
+
+“But why are you carrying me? What is the matter?”
+
+“You--you fainted, I think. The lightning--”
+
+“Oh yes, I remember. Did I faint? How ridiculous! Please let me walk
+now. I am all right. Really I am.”
+
+“But I think--”
+
+“Please. I insist.”
+
+I set her gently on her feet. She staggered a little, but she was plucky
+and, after a moment, was able to stand and walk, though slowly.
+
+“You are sure you can manage it?” I asked.
+
+“Of course! But why did I faint? I never did such a thing before in my
+life.”
+
+“That flash was close to us. It struck the big willow by the brook.”
+
+“Did it! As near as that?”
+
+“Yes. Don't try to talk.”
+
+“But I am all right . . . I am not hurt at all. Are we almost home?”
+
+“Yes. Those are the lights of your house ahead there.”
+
+We moved on more rapidly. As we turned in at the Colton walk she said,
+“Why; it has stopped raining.”
+
+It had, though I had not noticed it. The flash which smashed the willow
+had been the accompaniment of what Lute would call the “clearing-up
+shower.” The storm was really over.
+
+We stepped up on the portico of the big house and I rang the bell.
+The butler opened the door. His face, as he saw the pair of dripping,
+bedraggled outcasts before him, was worth looking at. He was shocked out
+of his dignity.
+
+“Why! Why, Miss Mabel!” he stammered, with almost human agitation.
+“What--”
+
+A voice, a petulant female voice, called from the head of the stairs.
+
+“Johnson,” it quavered, “who is it? Mabel, is that you?”
+
+The library door flew open and Mr. Colton himself appeared.
+
+“Eh? What?” he exclaimed. “By George! Mabel, where have you been? I have
+been raising heaven and earth to locate you. The 'phone seems to be out
+of order and--Great Scott, girl! you're wet through. Jenkins, what--?
+Hey? Why, it isn't Jenkins!”
+
+The fact that his daughter's escort was not the coachman had just dawned
+upon him. He stared at me in irate bewilderment. Before he could ask
+a question or his daughter could speak or explain there came a little
+shriek from the stairs, a rustle of silken skirts, and a plump,
+white-faced woman in an elaborate house gown rushed across the hall with
+both white arms outstretched.
+
+“Mabel!” she cried, “where HAVE you been. You poor child! I have been
+almost beside myself, and--”
+
+Miss Colton laughingly avoided the rush. “Take care, Mother,” she
+warned. “I am very wet.”
+
+“Wet? Why! you're absolutely drenched! Jenkins--Mabel, where is Jenkins?
+And who is this--er--person?”
+
+I thought it quite time for me to withdraw.
+
+“Good night, Miss Colton,” I said, and stepped toward the door. But “Big
+Jim” roared my name.
+
+“It's that--it's Paine!” he exclaimed. “Here! what does this mean,
+anyway?”
+
+I think his daughter was about to explain, when there came another
+interruption. From the driveway sounded the blare of an auto horn.
+Johnson threw open the door just as the big car whirled up to the porch.
+
+“Here we are!” laughed Carver, emerging from behind the drawn curtains
+of the machine. “Home again from a foreign shore. Come in, fellows, and
+have a drink. We've had water enough for one night. Come in.”
+
+He stumbled as he crossed the sill, recovered his balance, laughed, and
+then all at once seemed to become aware of the group in the hall. He
+looked about him, swaying a little as he did so.
+
+“Ah, Mabel!” he exclaimed, genially. “Got here first, didn't you? Sorry
+I was late, but it was all old Parker's fault. Wouldn't let us say
+goodby. But we came some when we did come. The bridge is down and we
+made Oscar run her right through the water. Great ex-experience. Hello!
+Why, what's matter? Who's this? What? it's Reuben, isn't it! Mabel, what
+on earth--”
+
+She paid no attention to him. I was at the door when she overtook me.
+
+“Mr. Paine,” she said, “I am very grateful for your kindness. Both for
+what you have done tonight and for your help the other afternoon. Thank
+you.”
+
+She held out her hand. I took it, scarcely knowing that I did so.
+
+“Thank you,” she said, again. I murmured something or other and went
+out. As I stepped from the porch I heard Victor's voice.
+
+“Well, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “Mabel!”
+
+I looked back. He was standing by the door. She went past him without
+replying or even looking at him. From the automobile I heard smothered
+chuckles and exclamations. The butler closed the door.
+
+I walked home as fast as I could. Dorinda was waiting up for me. What
+she said when she saw the ruin of my Sunday suit had better not be
+repeated. She was still saying it when I took my lamp and went up to
+bed.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+Mother was the only one to whom I told the whole story of my experience
+in the “tempest” and of Colton's call. She and I had a long talk. She
+was as surprised to hear of the five thousand dollar offer as I had
+been, but that I had refused it did not surprise her. She seemed to take
+my refusal as a matter of course, whereas I was more and more doubtful
+of my sanity at the time. I knew well enough what the opinion of others
+would be concerning that sanity and I wondered whether or not they might
+be right. In fact, I rather resented her calm certainty.
+
+“Mother,” said I, “you speak as if the offer had been five cents instead
+of five thousand dollars.”
+
+“What difference does it make, Boy?” she asked. “If it had been only a
+matter of price you would have sold for six hundred and fifty. That is a
+good deal more than the land is worth, isn't it.”
+
+“I suppose so. But five thousand is a small fortune to us. I am not sure
+that we have the right to refuse it.”
+
+“Roscoe, if you were alone in this matter--if I were not here to be
+considered at all--would you have sold the land, no matter what he
+offered?”
+
+“I don't know, Mother. I think, perhaps, I should.”
+
+“I know you would not. And I know the only reason you feel the refusal
+may be wrong is because you are thinking what the money might do for me.
+Do you suppose I will permit you to sacrifice a principle you know is
+right simply that I may have a few more luxuries which I don't need?”
+
+“But you do need them. Why, there are so many things you need.”
+
+“No, I don't need one. So long as I have you I am perfectly happy. And
+it would not make me more happy to know that you accepted a bribe--that
+is what it is, a bribe--because of me. No, Boy, you did exactly right
+and I am proud of you.”
+
+“I am not particularly proud of myself.”
+
+“You should be. Can't you see how differently Mr. Colton regards you
+already? He does not condescend or patronize now.”
+
+“Humph! he is grateful because I helped his daughter out of a scrape,
+that's all.”
+
+“It is more than that. He respects you because you are what he called
+you, a man. I fancy it is a new experience to him to find some one, down
+here at any rate, to whom his millions make absolutely no difference.”
+
+“I am glad of it. It may do him good.”
+
+“Yes, I think it will. And what you told him about the townspeople may
+do him good, too. He will find, as you and I have found, that there are
+no kinder, better people anywhere. You remember I warned you against
+misjudging the Coltons, Roscoe. They, too, I am sure, are good people at
+heart, in spite of their wealth.”
+
+“Mother, you are too charitable for this earth--too unworldly
+altogether.”
+
+“Haven't you and I reason to be charitable? There! there! let us forget
+the land and the money. Roscoe, I should like to meet this Miss Colton.
+She must be a brave girl.”
+
+“She is brave enough.”
+
+“I suppose poor Mr. Carver is in disgrace. Perhaps it was not his fault
+altogether.”
+
+This was a trifle too much. I refused to be charitable to Victor.
+
+I heard from him, or of him, next day. I met Captain Jed Dean at the
+bank, where I had called to see Taylor and inquire concerning how he
+and Nellie got home from the festival. They had had a damp, though safe,
+journey, I learned, and the Methodist ladies had cleared seventy-four
+dollars and eighty-five cents from the entertainment.
+
+Captain Jed entered the door as I left the cashier's gate.
+
+“Ship ahoy, Ros!” hailed the captain, genially. “Make port safe and
+sound after the flood? I'd have swapped my horse and buggy for Noah's
+Ark that night and wouldn't have asked any boot neither. Did you see
+Mullet's bridge? Elnathan says he cal'lates he's got willow kindlin'
+enough to last him all summer. Ready split too--the lightnin' attended
+to that. Lute Rogers don't talk about nothin' else. I cal'late he wishes
+lightnin' would strike your woodpile; then he'd be saved consider'ble
+labor, hey?”
+
+He laughed and I laughed with him.
+
+“I understood Princess Colton was out in the wust of it,” went on
+Captain Jed. “Did you hear how her horse ran away?”
+
+“Yes,” I answered, shortly; “I heard about it.”
+
+“Never stopped till it got half way to West Bayport. The coachman
+hangin' onto the reins and swearin' at the top of his lungs all the
+time. 'Bije Ellis, who lives up that way, says the road smells like a
+match factory even yet--so much brimstone in the air. The girl got
+home somehow or other, they tell me. I cal'late her fine duds got their
+never-get-over. Nellie says the hat she was wearin' come from Paris, or
+some such foreign place. Well, the rain falls on the just and unjust,
+so scriptur tells us, and it's true enough. Only the unjust in this case
+can afford new hats better'n the just, a consider'ble sight. Denboro's
+lost a promisin' new citizen; did you know it?”
+
+“Whom do you mean?”
+
+“Hadn't you heard? That young Carver feller shook the dust--the mud, I
+mean--of our roads off his shoes this mornin'. He went away on the up
+train.”
+
+Here was news. “The up train?” I repeated. “You mean he has gone for
+good?”
+
+“I should call it for good, for our good, anyhow. Yes, he's gone. Went
+to the depot in Colton's automobile. His majesty went with him fur's
+the platform. The gang that saw the proceedin's said the good-bys wan't
+affectin'. Colton didn't shed any tears and young Carver seemed to be
+pretty down at the mouth.”
+
+“But what makes you think he has gone for good?” I asked.
+
+“Why, Alvin Baker was there, same as he usually is, and he managed to be
+nigh enough to hear the last words--if there had been any.”
+
+“And there were not?”
+
+“Nothin' to amount to much. Nothin' about comin' back, anyhow. Colton
+said somethin' about bein' remembered to the young feller's ma, and
+Carver said, 'Thanks,' and that was all. Alvin said 'twas pretty chilly.
+They've got it all figgered out at the post-office; you see, Carver was
+to come back to the meetin' house and pick up his princess, and he never
+come. She started without him and got run away with. Some of the folks
+paddlin' home from the festival saw the auto go by and heard the crowd
+inside singin' and laughin' and hollerin'. Nobody's goin' to sing a
+night like that unless they've got cargo enough below decks to make 'em
+forget the wet outside. And Beriah Doane was over to Ostable yesterday
+and he says it's town talk there that young Parker--the boy the auto
+crowd was sayin' good-by to at the hotel--had to be helped up to his
+room. No, I guess likely the Colton girl objected to her feller's
+gettin' tight and forgettin' her, so he and she had a row and her dad,
+the emperor, give him his discharge papers. Sounds reasonable; don't you
+think so, yourself?”
+
+I imagined that the surmise was close to the truth. I nodded and turned
+away. I did not like Carver, I detested him, but somehow I no longer
+felt triumph at his discomfiture. I wondered if he really cared for the
+girl he had lost. It was difficult to think of him as really caring for
+any one except himself, but if I had been in his place and had, through
+my own foolishness, thrown away the respect and friendship of such a
+girl. . . . Yes, I was beginning to feel a little of Mother's charity
+for the young idiot, now that he could no longer insult and patronize
+me.
+
+Captain Jed followed me to the bank door.
+
+“Say, Ros,” he said, “changed your mind about sellin' that Lane land
+yet?”
+
+“No,” I answered, impatiently. “There's no use talking about that,
+Captain Dean.”
+
+“All right, all right. Humph! the fellers are gettin' consider'ble fun
+out of that Lane.”
+
+“In what way?”
+
+He laughed. “Oh, nothin',” he observed, with a wink, “only. . . . Heard
+any extry hurrahin' over to your place lately?”
+
+“No. Captain, what do you mean?”
+
+“I don't mean nothin'. But I shouldn't wonder if the Great Panjandrum
+and his folks was reminded that that Lane was still open, that's all.
+Ho! ho! So long, Ros.”
+
+I did not catch his meaning at the time. A few days later I discovered
+it by accident. I had been up to the village and was on my way home by
+the short cut. As I crossed the field behind Sylvanus Snow's abandoned
+house, the spot where Miss Colton and I had waited on the porch the
+night of the thunder shower, I heard the rattle of a cart going down the
+Lane. There was nothing unusual in this, of itself, but with it I heard
+the sound of loud voices. One of these voices was so loud that I caught
+the words:
+
+“Now, boys, start her up! Three cheers for the Star Spangled Banner and
+make 'em loud. Let her go!”
+
+The cheers followed, uproarious ones.
+
+“Try it again,” commanded the voice. “And keep her up all the way along.
+We'll shake up the 'nerves' I guess. Hooray!”
+
+This was enough. I understood now what Dean had meant by the Coltons
+realizing that the Lane was still open. I ran at full speed through the
+scrub and bushes, through the grove, and emerged upon the Lane directly
+opposite the Colton estate. The wagon--Zeb Kendrick's weir cart--was
+approaching. Zeb was driving and behind him in the body of the cart
+were four or five young fellows whom I recognized as belonging to the
+“billiard room gang,” an unorganized society whose members worked only
+occasionally but were responsible for most of the mischief and disorder
+in our village. Tim Hallet, a sort of leader in that society, with the
+reputation of having been expelled from school three times and never
+keeping a job longer than a fortnight, was on the seat beside Kendrick,
+his back to the horse. Zeb was grinning broadly.
+
+The wagon came nearer, the horse barely moving. Tim Hallet waved his
+arm.
+
+“Now, boys,” he shouted, “let's have some music.”
+
+     “'Everybody works but father,
+       And he sets around all day.'--
+
+Whoop her up!”
+
+They whooped her up. I stepped out into the road.
+
+“Here!” I shouted. “Stop that! Stop it, do you hear! Kendrick, what is
+all this?”
+
+The song stopped in the middle of the verse. Zeb jerked the reins and
+shouted “Whoa!” Hallet and his chorus turned. They had been gazing at
+the big house, but now they turned and looked at me.
+
+“Hello, Ros!” said Kendrick, still grinning, but rather sheepishly. “How
+be you? Got quite a band aboard, ain't I.”
+
+“Hello!” cried Hallet. “It's Ros himself! Ros, you're all RIGHT!
+Hi, boys! let's give three cheers for the feller that don't toady to
+nobody--millionaires nor nobody else--hooray for Ros Paine!”
+
+The cheering that followed was not quite as loud as the previous
+outburst--some of the “gang” may have noticed my attitude and
+expression--but it was loud enough. Involuntarily I glanced toward the
+Colton mansion. I saw no one at the windows or on the veranda, and I was
+thankful for that. The blood rushed to my face. I was so angry that, for
+the moment, I could not speak.
+
+Tim Hallet appeared to consider my silence and my crimson cheeks as
+acknowledgments of the compliment just paid me.
+
+“Cal'late they heard that over yonder,” he crowed. “Don't you think so,
+Ros. We've showed 'em what we think of you; now let's give our opinion
+of them. Three groans for old Colton! Come on!”
+
+Even Zeb seemed to consider this as going too far, for he protested.
+
+“Hold on, Tim!” he cautioned. “A joke's a joke, but that's a little too
+much; ain't it, Ros.”
+
+“Too much be darned!” scoffed Hallet. “We'll show 'em! Now, boys!”
+
+The groans were not given. I sprang into the road, seized the horse by
+the bridle and backed the wagon into the bank. Tim, insecurely balanced,
+fell off the seat and joined his comrades on the cart floor.
+
+“Hi!” shouted the startled driver. “What you doin', Ros? What's that
+for?”
+
+“You go back where you come from,” I ordered. “Turn around. Get out of
+here!”
+
+I saved him the trouble by completing the turn. When I dropped the
+bridle the horse's head was pointing toward the Lower Road.
+
+“Now get out of here!” I repeated. “Go back where you come from.”
+
+“But--but, Ros,” protested Zeb, “I don't want to go back. I'm goin' to
+the shore.”
+
+“Then you'll have to go some other way. You can't cross my property.”
+
+Hallet, on his knees, looked out over the seat.
+
+“What's the matter with you?” he asked, angrily. “Didn't you say the
+town could use this Lane?”
+
+“Yes. Any one may use it as long as he behaves himself. When he doesn't
+behave he forfeits the privilege. Kendrick, you hear me! Go back.”
+
+“But I don't want to go back, Ros. If I do I'll have to go clear round
+by Myrick's, two mile out of my way.”
+
+“You should have thought of that before you brought that crowd with
+you. I won't have this Lane made a public nuisance by any one. Zeb, I'm
+ashamed of you.”
+
+Zeb turned to his passengers. “There!” he whined, “I told you so, Tim. I
+said you hadn't ought to act that way.”
+
+“Aw, what are you givin' us!” sneered Hallet. “You thought 'twas as
+funny as anybody, Zeb Kendrick. Look here, Ros Paine! I thought you was
+down on them Coltons. We fellers are only havin' a little fun with 'em
+for bein' so stuck-up and hoggish. Can't you take a joke?”
+
+“Not your kind. Go back, Zeb.”
+
+“But--but can't I use the Lane NO more?” pleaded the driver. “I won't
+fetch 'em here agin.”
+
+“We'll see about that. You can't use it this time. Now go.”
+
+Zeb reluctantly spoke to his horse and the wagon began to move. Hallet
+swore a string of oaths.
+
+“I'm on to you, Paine!” he yelled. “You're standin' in with 'em, after
+all. You wait till I see Captain Jed.”
+
+In three strides I was abreast the cart-tail.
+
+“See him then,” said I. “And tell him that if any one uses this Lane
+for the purpose of wilfully annoying those living near it I'll not only
+forbid his using it, but I'll prosecute him for trespass. I mean that.
+Stop! I advise you not to say another word.”
+
+I did not intend to prosecute Jim, he was not worth it, but I should
+have thoroughly enjoyed dragging him out of that wagon and silencing him
+by primitive methods. My anger had not cooled to any extent. He did not
+speak to me again, though I heard him muttering as the cart moved off.
+I remained where I was until I saw it turn into the Lower Road. Then I
+once more started for home.
+
+I was very much annoyed and disturbed. Evidently this sort of thing had
+been going on for some time and I had just discovered it. It placed me
+in a miserable light. When Colton had declared, as he had in both
+our interviews, that the Lane was a nuisance I had loftily denied the
+assertion. Now those idiots in the village were doing their best to
+prove me a liar. I should have expected such behavior from Hallet and
+his friends, but for Captain Dean to tacitly approve their conduct was
+unexpected and provoking. Well, I had made my position plain, at all
+events. But I knew that Tim would distort my words and that the idea of
+my “standing in” with the Coltons, while professing independence, would
+be revived. I was destined to be detested and misunderstood by both
+sides. Yes, Dorinda was right in saying that I might find sitting on the
+fence uncomfortable. It was all of that.
+
+I entered the grove and was striding on, head down, busy with these and
+similar reflections, when some one said: “Good morning, Mr. Paine.”
+
+I stopped short, came out of the day dream in which I had been giving
+Captain Jed my opinion of his followers' behavior, looked up, and saw
+Miss Colton in the path before me.
+
+She was dressed in white, a light, simple summer gown. Her straw hat was
+simple also, expensive simplicity doubtless, but without a trace of the
+horticultural exhibits with which Olinda Cahoon, our Denboro milliner,
+was wont to deck the creations she prepared for customers. Matilda
+Dean would have sniffed at the hat and gown; they were not nearly as
+elaborate as those Nellie, her daughter, wore on Sundays. But Matilda or
+Nellie at their grandest could not have appeared as well dressed as this
+girl, no matter what she wore. Just now she looked, as Lute or Dorinda
+might have said, “as if she came out of a band box.”
+
+“Good morning,” she said, again. She was perfectly self-possessed.
+Remembrance of our transit of Mullet's cranberry brook did not seem to
+embarrass her in the least. Nellie Dean would have giggled and blushed,
+but she did not.
+
+_I_ was embarrassed, I admit it, but I had sufficient presence of mind
+to remove my hat.
+
+“Good morning,” said I. There flashed through my mind the thought that
+if she had been in that grove for any length of time she must have
+overheard my lively interview with Kendrick and Tim Hallet. I wondered
+if she had.
+
+Her next remark settled that question.
+
+“I suppose,” she said, soberly, but with the same twinkle in her eye
+which I had observed once or twice in her father's, “that I should
+apologize for being here, on your property, Mr. Paine. I judge that you
+don't like trespassers.”
+
+I was more nettled at Zeb and his crowd than ever. “So you saw that
+performance,” I said. “I'm sorry.”
+
+“I saw a little of it, and I'm afraid I heard the rest. I was walking
+here by the bluff and I could not help seeing and hearing.”
+
+“Humph! Well, I hope you understand, Miss Colton, that I did not know,
+until just now, this sort of thing was going on.”
+
+She smiled. “Oh, I understand that,” she said. “You made that quite
+plain. Even those people in the wagon understood it, I should imagine.”
+
+“I hope they did.”
+
+“I did not know you could be so fierce, Mr. Paine. I had not expected
+it. You almost frightened me. You were so very--well, mild and
+long-suffering on the other occasions when we met.”
+
+“I am not always so mild, Miss Colton. However, if I had known you were
+within hearing I might not have been quite so emphatic.”
+
+“Then I am glad you didn't know. I think those ruffians were treated as
+they deserved.”
+
+“Not half as they deserved. I shall watch from now on and if there are
+any more attempts at annoying you or your people I shall do more than
+talk.”
+
+“Thank you. They have been troublesome--of late. I am sure we are very
+much obliged to you, all of us.”
+
+“Not at all.”
+
+“Oh yes, we are. Not only for this, but for--all the rest. For your help
+the other night especially; I want to thank you for that.”
+
+“It was nothing,” I answered, awkwardly.
+
+“Nothing! You are not very complimentary, Mr. Paine.”
+
+“I mean--that is, I--”
+
+“You may consider rescuing shipwrecked young ladies, afloat and ashore,
+nothing--perhaps you do it so often that it is of little consequence to
+you; but I am not so modest. I estimate my safety as worth something,
+even if you do not.”
+
+“I did not mean that, of course, Miss Colton. You know I did not. I
+meant that--that what I did was no more than any one else would have
+done under the same circumstances. You were in no danger; you would
+have been safe enough even if I had not happened along. Please don't say
+anything more about it.”
+
+“Very well. But I am very glad you happened along, nevertheless. You
+seem to have the faculty of happening along just at the right time.”
+
+This sounded like a reference to the episode in the bay, and I did not
+care to discuss that.
+
+“You--I believe your father said you were not ill after your
+experience,” I observed hastily.
+
+“Not in the least, thank you. And you?”
+
+“Oh, I was all right. Rather wet, but I did not mind that. I sail and
+fish a good deal, and water, fresh or salt, doesn't trouble me.”
+
+This was an unlucky remark, for it led directly to the subject I was
+trying to avoid.
+
+“So I should imagine,” she answered. “And that reminds me that I owe you
+another debt of thanks for helping me--helping us out of our difficulty
+in the boat. I am obliged to you for that also. Even though what you
+saved was NOT worth five dollars.”
+
+I looked up at her quickly. She was biting her lips and there was a
+smile at the corners of her mouth. I could not answer immediately for
+the life of me. I would have given something if I had not told Colton of
+Victor's message and my reply.
+
+“Your father misrepresented my meaning, I'm afraid,” I stammered. “I was
+angry when I sent that message. It was not intended to include you.”
+
+“Thank you. Father seemed inclined to agree with your estimate--part of
+it, at least. He is very much interested in you, Mr. Paine.”
+
+“Yes,” I answered, dryly. “I can understand that.”
+
+Her smile broke into a ripple of laughter.
+
+“You are quite distinctive, in your way,” she said. “You may not be
+aware of it, but I have never known father to be so disturbed and
+puzzled about any one as he is about you.”
+
+“Indeed?”
+
+“Yes, he is, indeed.”
+
+“I am sorry that I am the cause of so much mental strain.”
+
+“No, you are not. From what I have learned about you, from him, I think
+you enjoy it. You must. It is great fun.”
+
+“Fun! Well, perhaps. Does your--does Mrs. Colton find it funny?”
+
+She hesitated. “Well,” she answered, more slowly, “to be perfectly
+frank--I presume that is what you want me to be--I think Mother blames
+you somewhat. She is not well, Mr. Paine, and this Lane of yours is her
+pet bugbear just now. She--like the rest of us--cannot understand why
+you will not sell, and, because you will not, she is rather--rather--”
+
+“I see. I'm not sure that I blame her. I presume she has blamed me
+for these outrageous disturbances in the Lane such as you have just
+witnessed.”
+
+She hesitated again. “Why yes,” she said, more slowly still; “a little,
+I think. She is not well, as I said, and she may have thought you were,
+if not instigating them, at least aware of what was going on. But I am
+sure father does not think so.”
+
+“But you, Miss Colton; did you believe me responsible for them?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Because, from what I have seen of you, you did not seem to me like that
+kind of a man. You kept your temper that day in the boat, though you had
+a good reason for losing it. All this,” with a gesture toward the Lane,
+“the shouting and noise and petty insults, was so little and mean and
+common. I did not believe you would permit it, if you knew. And, from
+what I have learned about you, I was sure you would not.”
+
+“From what you learned about me? From your father?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then from whom, pray?”
+
+“From your friends. From that Mr. Taylor and Miss Dean and the others.
+They spoke of you so highly, and of your mother and your care of her.
+They described you as a gentleman, and no gentleman would countenance
+THAT.”
+
+I was so astonished that I blurted out my next question without
+thinking.
+
+“You were speaking to them about ME?” I cried.
+
+Her manner changed. Possibly she thought I was presuming on our chance
+acquaintance, or that she made a mistake in admitting even a casual
+interest; I might consider that interest to be real, instead of merely
+perfunctory. At any rate, I noticed a difference in her tone. It was as
+if she had suddenly withdrawn behind the fence which marked the border
+of our social line.
+
+“Oh,” she said, carelessly, “I did not cross-question, of course.
+Puzzles are always interesting, more or less. And a puzzle which
+perplexed my father was certainly unique. So I was a trifle curious,
+that's all.”
+
+I came to earth with a thud.
+
+“I see,” I said, curtly. “Well, I presume I should thank my friends for
+the testimonials to my character. And I promise you that you shall not
+be annoyed again. Good morning, Miss Colton.”
+
+I was turning away when she spoke my name.
+
+“Mr. Paine,” she said.
+
+“Yes, Miss Colton.”
+
+“I have not explained why I was here, on your land, this morning.”
+
+“That is all right. You are quite welcome to be here at any time.”
+
+“Thank you. I told you I was walking by the bluff; that is true, but it
+isn't the whole truth. I was trying to muster courage to call on your
+mother.”
+
+I looked at her in amazement.
+
+“Call on Mother!” I repeated.
+
+“Yes, I have heard a great deal about your mother, and nothing except
+the very best. I think I should like to know her. Do you think she would
+consider me presuming and intrusive if I did call?”
+
+“Why, Miss Colton, I--”
+
+“Please be frank about it, Mr. Paine. And please believe that my call
+would not be from idle curiosity. I should like to know her. Of course,
+if this disagreement about the land makes a difference, if she feels
+resentful toward us, I will not think of such a thing. Does she? Why do
+you smile? I am in earnest.”
+
+“I did not mean to smile, Miss Colton. The idea of Mother's feeling
+resentment toward any one seemed absurd to me, that was all.”
+
+“Then may I call on her?”
+
+“Certainly. That is, if--if you think it wise. If your mother--”
+
+“Oh, Mother has long ago given up trying to solve me. I am a greater
+puzzle to her than you seem to be to everyone, Mr. Paine. I have spoken
+to my father about it and he is quite willing. His difference with you
+is purely a business one, as you know.”
+
+Some of the “business” had been oddly conducted, but I did not raise
+the point. I could not reason just then. That this spoiled, city-bred
+daughter of “Big Jim” Colton should wish to know my mother was beyond
+reasoning.
+
+She said good morning and we parted. I walked home, racking my brains
+to find the answer to this new conundrum. It was a whim on her part, of
+course, inspired by something George or Nellie had told her. I did
+not know whether to resent the whim or not, whether to be angry or
+indifferent. If she intended to inspect Mother as a possible object of
+future charity I should be angry and the first call would be the last.
+But Mother herself would settle all questions of charity; I knew that.
+And the girl had not spoken in a patronizing way. She had declared that
+idle curiosity had no part in her wish. She seemed in earnest. What
+would Mother say when I told her?
+
+Lute was just coming through the gate as I approached it. He was in high
+good humor.
+
+“I'm goin' up street,” he declared. “Anything you want me to fetch you
+from the store, Ros?”
+
+I looked at my watch. It was only eleven o'clock.
+
+“Up street?” I repeated. “I thought you were slated to wash windows
+this forenoon. I heard Dorinda give you your orders to that effect. You
+haven't finished washing them already?”
+
+“No,” with a broad grin, “I ain't finished 'em. Fact is, I ain't begun
+'em yet.”
+
+“So! Does Dorinda know that you are going up street?”
+
+“Um-hm. She knows. Anyhow, she knows I'm goin' somewheres. She told me
+to go herself.”
+
+“She did! Why?”
+
+“Don't ask ME. I was all ready to wash the windows; had the bucket
+pumped full and everything. But when I come into the dinin'-room she
+sung out to know what I was doin' with all that water on her clean
+floor. 'Why, Dorindy!' I says, 'I'm a-goin' to wash them windows same's
+you told me to.' 'No, you ain't,' says she. 'But what will I do?' says
+I. 'I don't care,' says she. 'Clear out of here, that's all.' 'But
+where'll I clear out to?' I wanted to know. 'I don't care!' she snaps
+again, savage as a settin' hen, 'so long's you clear out of my sight.'
+So here I be. Don't ask me why she changed her mind: _I_ don't know.
+Nothin' you want to the store?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Say, Ros, you know what I think?”
+
+“Far be it from me to presume to guess your thoughts, Lute.”
+
+“Well, I think this is a strange world and the strangest thing in it is
+a woman. You never can tell what they'll do ten minutes at a stretch.
+I--”
+
+“All right, Lute. I'll hear the rest of the philosophy later.”
+
+“Philosophy or not, it's the livin' truth. And when you're as old as I
+be you'll know it.”
+
+I went in through the dining-room, steering clear of Dorinda, who
+scarcely looked up from her floor scrubbing.
+
+“Mother,” said I, entering the darkened bedroom, “I just met the Colton
+girl and what do you suppose she told me?”
+
+“That she was very grateful to you for coming to her rescue the other
+night.”
+
+“That, of course. But she told me something else. She said she was
+coming to call on you. On YOU, Mother!”
+
+I don't know what answer I expected. I flung the announcement like a
+bombshell and was ready for almost any sort of explosion at all.
+
+“Did she?” observed Mother, placidly. “I am very glad. I have no doubt I
+shall like her.”
+
+My next remark had nothing to do with Miss Colton.
+
+“Well, by George!” I exclaimed, with emphasis. “Lute IS a philosopher,
+after all. I take off my hat to him.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+I met Mabel Colton several times during the following week. Once, at the
+place where I had met her before, in the grove by the edge of the bluff,
+and again walking up the Lane in company with her father. Once also on
+the Lower Road, though that could scarcely be called a meeting, for I
+was afoot and she and her father and mother were in the automobile.
+
+Only at the meeting in the grove were words exchanged between us. She
+bowed pleasantly and commented on the wonderful view.
+
+“I am trespassing again, you see,” she said. “Taking advantage of your
+good-nature, Mr. Paine. This spot is the most attractive I have found in
+Denboro.”
+
+I observed that the view from her verandas must be almost the same.
+
+“Almost, but not quite,” she said. “These pines shut off the inlet
+below, and all the little fishing boats. One of them is yours, I
+suppose. Which?”
+
+“That is my launch there,” I replied, pointing.
+
+“The little white one? You built it yourself, I think Father said.”
+
+“He was mistaken, if he said that. I am not clever enough to build a
+boat, Miss Colton. I bought the Comfort, second-hand.”
+
+I don't know why I added the “second-hand.” Probably because I had not
+yet freed my mind from the bitterness--yes, and envy--which the sight
+of this girl and her people always brought with it. It is comparatively
+easy to be free from envy if one is what George Taylor termed a
+“never-was”; for a “has been” it is harder.
+
+The boat's name was the only portion of my remark which attracted her
+attention.
+
+“The Comfort?” she repeated. “That is a jolly name for a pleasure boat.”
+
+“It is my mother's name,” I answered.
+
+“Is it? Why, I remember now. Miss Dean told me. I beg your pardon, Mr.
+Paine. It is a pretty name, at all events.”
+
+“Thank you.”
+
+“I must have misunderstood Father. I was sure he said that boat building
+was your business.”
+
+“No. He saw me overhauling the engine, and perhaps that gave him the
+impression that I was a builder. I told him I was not, but no doubt he
+forgot. I have no business, Miss Colton.”
+
+I think she was surprised. She glanced at me curiously and her lips
+opened as if to ask another question. She did not ask it however, and,
+except for a casual remark or two about the view and the blueness of
+the water in the bay, she said nothing more. I rather expected she would
+refer to her intention of calling on Mother, but she did not mention the
+subject. I inferred that she had thought better of her whim.
+
+On the other occasions when we met she merely bowed. “Big Jim” nodded
+carelessly. Mrs. Colton, from her seat in the auto, nodded also, though
+her majestic bow could scarcely be termed a nod. It was more like the
+acknowledgment, by a queen in her chariot, of the applauding citizen
+on the sidewalk. She saw me, and she deigned to let me know that I was
+seen, that was all.
+
+But when I inferred that her daughter had forgotten, or had decided not
+to make the call at our house, I misjudged the young lady. I returned,
+one afternoon, from a cruise up and down the bay in the Comfort, to find
+our small establishment--the Rogers portion of it, at least--in a high
+state of excitement. Lute and Dorinda were in the kitchen and before I
+reached the back door, which was open, I heard their voices in animated
+discussion.
+
+“Why wouldn't I say it, Dorinda?” pleaded Lute. “You can't blame me
+none. There I was, with my sleeves rolled up and just settin' in the
+chair, restin' my arms a jiffy and thinkin' which window I'd wash next,
+when there come that knock at the door. Thinks I, 'It's Asa Peters'
+daughter's young-one peddlin' clams.' That's what come to my mind fust.
+That idee popped right into my head, it did.”
+
+“Found plenty of room when it got there, I cal'late,” snapped Dorinda.
+“Must have felt lonesome.”
+
+“That's it! keep on pitchin' into me. I swan to man! sometimes I get so
+discouraged and wore out and reckless--hello! here's Ros. You ask him
+now! Ros, she's layin' into me because I didn't understand what--”
+
+“Roscoe,” broke in his wife, “I never was more mortified in all my born
+days. He--”
+
+“Let me tell you all about it, Ros. I went to the door--thinkin' 'twas
+a peddler, you know; had this old suit on, all sloshed up with soapsuds
+and water, and a wet rag in my hand; and there she stood, styled up like
+the Queen of Sheby. Well, sir! I'll leave it to you if 'tain't enough to
+surprise anybody. HER! comin' HERE!”
+
+“That wan't any reason why you should behave like a natural born--”
+
+“Hold on! you let me finish tellin' Roscoe. 'Good afternoon,' says she.
+'Is Mrs. Paine in?' Said it just like that, she did. I was so flustered
+up from the sight of her that I didn't sense it right off and I says,
+'What ma'am?' 'Is Mrs. Paine in?' says she. 'In?' says I--”
+
+“Just like a poll parrot,” interjected Dorinda.
+
+“Are you goin' to let me tell this or ain't you? 'In?' says I; hadn't
+sensed it yet, you see. 'Is Mrs. Paine to home?' she says. Now your ma,
+Ros, ain't never been nowheres else BUT home sence land knows when, so
+I supposed she must mean somebody else. 'Who?' says I, again. 'Mrs.
+Comfort Paine,' says she. She raised her voice a little; guessed I was
+deef, probably.”
+
+“If she'd guessed you was dumb she wouldn't have been fur off,”
+ commented Dorinda. I had not seen her so disturbed for many a day.
+
+Her husband disdained to notice this interruption.
+
+“'Mrs. Comfort Paine,' says she,” he continued. “'She is in? And I says
+'In?'”
+
+“No, you didn't. You said, 'In where?' And she had all she could do
+to keep from laughin'. I see her face as I got to the door, and it's a
+mercy I got there when I did. Land knows what you'd have said next!”
+
+“But, Dorindy, I tell you I thought--”
+
+“YOU thought! I know what SHE must have thought. That she'd made a
+mistake and run afoul of an asylum for the feeble-minded.”
+
+“Umph! I should have GOT feeble-minded if I'd had any more of that kind
+of talk. What made her ask if a sick woman like Comfort was 'in' and 'to
+home'? Couldn't be nowheres else, could she?”
+
+“Rubbish! she meant could Mrs. Paine see folks, that's all.”
+
+“See 'em! How you talk! She ain't blind.”
+
+“Oh, my soul and body! She was tryin' to ask if she might make a call on
+Comfort.”
+
+“Well then, why didn't she ask it; 'stead of wantin' to know if she was
+in?”
+
+“That's the high-toned way TO ask, and you'd ought to have known it.”
+
+“Humph! Do tell! Well, I ain't tony, myself. Don't have no chance to be
+in this house. Nothin' but work, work, work! tongue, tongue, tongue! for
+me around here. I'm disgusted, that's what I am.”
+
+“YOU'RE disgusted! What about, me?”
+
+I had listened to as much of this little domestic disagreement as I
+cared to hear.
+
+“Wait a minute,” I said. “What is all this? Who has been here to see
+Mother?”
+
+Both answered at once.
+
+“That Colton girl,” cried Lute.
+
+“That Mabel Colton,” said Dorinda.
+
+“Miss Colton? She has been here? this afternoon.”
+
+“Um-hm,” Dorinda nodded emphatically. “She stayed in your ma's room
+'most an hour.”
+
+“'Twas fifty-three minutes,” declared Lute. “I timed her by the clock.
+And she fetched a great, big bouquet. Comfort says she--”
+
+I waited to hear no more, but went into Mother's room. The little bed
+chamber was fragrant with the perfume of flowers. A cluster of big
+Jacqueminot roses drooped their velvety petaled heads over the sides
+of the blue and white pitcher on the bureau. Mother loved flowers and
+I frequently brought her the old fashioned posies from Dorinda's little
+garden or wild blossoms from the woods and fields. But roses such as
+these were beyond my reach now-a-days. They grew in greenhouses, not in
+the gardens of country people.
+
+Mother did not move as I entered and I thought she was asleep. But as I
+bent over the roses she turned on the pillow and spoke.
+
+“Aren't they beautiful, Roscoe?” she said.
+
+“Yes,” I answered. “They are beautiful.”
+
+“Do you know who brought them to me?”
+
+“Yes, Mother. Lute told me.”
+
+“She did call, you see. She kept her word. It was kind of her, wasn't
+it?”
+
+I sat down in the rocking chair by the window.
+
+“Well,” I asked, after a moment, “what did she say? Did she condescend
+to pity her pauper neighbors?”
+
+“Roscoe!”
+
+“Did she express horrified sympathy and offer to call your case to the
+attention of her cousin in charge of the Poor Ward in the City General
+Hospital, like that woman from the Harniss hotel last summer?”
+
+“Boy! How can you!”
+
+“Oh, well; I am a jealous beast, Mother; I admit it. But I have not been
+able to bring you flowers like that and it galls me to think that others
+can. They don't deserve to have all the beautiful things in life, while
+the rest of us have none.”
+
+“But it isn't her fault that she has them, is it? And it was kind to
+share them with us.”
+
+“I suppose so. Well, what did she say to you? Dorinda says she was with
+you nearly an hour. What did you and she talk about? She did not offer
+charity, did she?”
+
+“Do you think I should have accepted it, if she had? Roscoe, I have
+never seen you so prejudiced as you are against our new neighbors. It
+doesn't seem like you, at all. And if her father and mother are like
+Miss Mabel, you are very wrong. I like her very much.”
+
+“You would try to like any one, Mother.”
+
+“I did not have to try to like her. And I was a little prejudiced, too,
+at first. She was so wealthy, and an only child; I feared she might be
+conceited and spoiled. But she isn't.”
+
+“Not conceited! Humph!”
+
+“No, not really. At first she seemed a trifle distant, and I thought her
+haughty; but, afterward, when her strangeness and constraint had worn
+away, she was simple and unaffected and delightful. And she is very
+pretty, isn't she.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“She told me a great deal about herself. She has been through Vassar and
+has traveled a great deal. This is the first summer since her graduation
+which she has not spent abroad. She and I talked of Rome and Florence.
+I--I told her of the month I spent in Italy when you were a baby,
+Roscoe.”
+
+“You did not tell her anything more, Mother? Anything she should not
+know?”
+
+“Boy!” reproachfully.
+
+“Pardon me, Mother. Of course you didn't. Did she tell you why she
+called on us--on you, I mean?”
+
+“Yes, in a way. I imagine--though she did not say so--that you are
+responsible for that. She and Nellie Dean seem to be well acquainted,
+almost friendly, which is odd, for I can scarcely think of two girls
+more different. But she likes Nellie, that is evident, and Nellie and
+George have told her about you and me.”
+
+“I see. And so she was curious concerning the interesting invalid.
+Probably anything even mildly interesting is a godsend to her, down
+here. Did she mention the Shore Lane rumpus?”
+
+“Yes. Although I mentioned it first. It was plain that she could not
+understand your position in the matter, Roscoe, and I explained it as
+well as I could. I told her that you felt the Lane was a necessity to
+the townspeople, and that, under the circumstances, you could not sell.
+I told her how deeply you sympathized with her mother--”
+
+“Did you tell her that?”
+
+“Why, yes. It is true, isn't it?”
+
+“Humph! Mildly so, maybe. What more did she say?”
+
+“She said she thought she understood better now. I told her about you,
+Boy, and what a good son you had been to me. How you had sacrificed
+your future and your career for my sake. Of course I could not go into
+particulars, at all, but we talked a great deal about you, Roscoe.”
+
+“That must have been deliriously interesting--to her.”
+
+“I think it was. She told me of your helping her home through the storm,
+and of something else you had not told me, Boy: of your bringing her and
+Mr. Carver off the flat in the boat that day. Why did you keep that a
+secret?”
+
+“It was not worth telling.”
+
+“She thought it was. She laughed about it; said you handled the affair
+in a most businesslike and unsentimental way; she never felt more like
+a bundle of dry-goods in her life, but that that appeared to be your
+manner of handling people. It was a somewhat startling manner, but very
+effective, she said. I don't know what she meant by that.”
+
+I knew, but I did not explain.
+
+“You don't mean to say, Mother, that you glorified me to her for an
+hour?” I demanded.
+
+“No, indeed. We talked of ever so many things. Of books, and pictures,
+and music. I'm afraid I was rather wearisome. It seemed so good to have
+some one--except you, of course, dear--to discuss such subjects with.
+Most of my callers are not interested in them.”
+
+I was silent.
+
+“She is coming again, she says,” continued Mother. “She has some new
+books she is going to lend me. You must read them to me. And aren't
+those roses wonderful? She picked them, herself, in their conservatory.
+I told her how fond you were of flowers.”
+
+I judged that the young lady must have gone away with the idea that I
+was a combination of longshore lout and effeminate dilettante, with the
+financial resources of the former. She might as well have that idea as
+any other, I supposed, but, in her eyes, I must be more of a freak than
+ever. I should take care to keep out of the sight of those eyes as much
+as possible. But that the millionaire's daughter had made a hit on the
+occasion of her first call was plain. Not only had Mother been favorably
+impressed, but even the practical and unromantic Dorinda's shell was
+dented. She deigned to observe that the young lady seemed to have
+“consider'ble common-sense, considerin' her bringin' up.” This, from
+Dorinda, was high praise, and I wondered what the caller had said or
+done to win such a triumph. Lute made the matter clear.
+
+“By time!” he said, when he and I were together, “that girl's a smart
+one. I'd give somethin' to have her kind of smartness. Dorindy was
+terrible cranky all the time she was in your ma's room and I didn't know
+what would happen when she come out. But the fust thing she done when
+she come out was to look around the dinin' room and say, 'Oh! what a
+pleasant, homey place! And so clean! Why, it is perfectly spotless!'
+Land sakes! the old lady thawed out like a cranberry bog in April. After
+that they talked about housekeepin' and cookin' and such, sociable as
+could be. Dorindy's goin' to give her her receipt for doughnuts next
+time she comes. And I bet that girl never cooked a doughnut in her life
+or ever will. If I could think of the right thing to say, like that,
+'twould save me more'n one ear-ache. But I never do think of it till the
+next day, and then it's too late.”
+
+He borrowed my tobacco, filled his pipe, and continued:
+
+“Say, Ros,” he asked, “what's your idea of what made her come here?”
+
+“To see Mother, of course,” I answered.
+
+“That's your notion, is it?”
+
+“Certainly. What else?”
+
+“Humph! There's other sick folks in town. Why don't she go to see them?”
+
+“Perhaps she does. I don't know.”
+
+“I bet you ten cents she don't. No, I've been reasonin' of it out,
+same as I gen'rally do, and I've got some notions of my own. You don't
+cal'late her pa sent her so's to sort of soft soap around toward his
+gettin' the Shore Lane? You don't cal'late 'twas part of that game, do
+you?”
+
+That supposition had crossed my mind more than once. I was ashamed of it
+and now I denied it, indignantly.
+
+“Of course not,” I answered.
+
+“Well, I don't think so, myself. But if 'tain't that it's another
+reason. She may be interested in Comfort; I don't say she ain't; but
+that ain't all she's interested in.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“Never mind. I ain't said nothin'. I'm just waitin' to see, that's all.
+I have had some experience in this world, I have. There's different
+times comin' for this family, you set that down in your log-book, Ros
+Paine.”
+
+“Look here, Lute; if you are hinting that Miss Colton or her people
+intend offering us charity--”
+
+“Who said anything about charity? No; if she had that idee in her head,
+her talk with your ma would drive it out. 'Tain't charity, I ain't
+sayin' what 'tis. . . . I wonder how 'twould seem to be rich.”
+
+“Lute, you're growing more foolish every day.”
+
+“So Dorindy says; but she nor you ain't offered no proof yet. All right,
+you wait and see. And say, Ros, don't mention our talk to Dorindy. She's
+more'n extry down on me just now, and if I breathe that Mabel Colton's
+name she hops right up in the air. How'd I know that askin' if a woman
+who's been sick in bed six year or more was 'in' meant could she have
+folks come to see her?”
+
+Mother would have discussed the Coltons with me frequently, but
+I avoided the subject as much as possible. The promised books
+arrived--brought over by Johnson, the butler, who viewed our humble
+quarters with lofty disdain--and I read one of them aloud to Mother, a
+chapter each evening. More flowers came also and the darkened bedroom
+became a bower of beauty and perfume. If I had yielded to my own wishes
+I should have returned both roses and books. It was better, as I saw
+it, that we and our wealthy neighbors had nothing to do with each other.
+Real friendship was out of the question; the memory of Mrs. Colton's
+frigid bow and her reference to me as a “person” proved that. Her
+daughter might think otherwise, or might think that she thought so,
+but I knew better. However, I did not like to pain Mother by refusing
+offerings which, to her, were expressions of sympathy and regard, so I
+had no protest and tried to enthuse over the gifts and loans. After
+all, what did they amount to? One tea-rose bred from Dorinda's carefully
+tended bush, or one gushful story book selected by Almena Doane from
+the new additions to the town library and sent because she thought “Mrs.
+Comfort might find it sort of soothin' and distractin',” meant more real
+unselfish thought and kindly feeling than all the conservatory exotics
+and new novels which the rich girl's whim supplied from her overflowing
+store. I was surprised only that the whim lasted so long.
+
+Behind all this, I think, and confirming my feeling, was the fact that
+Miss Colton did not repeat her call. A week or more passed and she did
+not come. I caught glimpses of her occasionally in the auto, or at the
+post-office, but I took care that she should not see me. I did not wish
+to be seen, though precisely why I could not have explained even to
+myself. The memory of that night in the rain, and of our meetings in the
+grove, troubled me because I could not keep them from my mind. They kept
+recurring, no matter what I did or where I went. No, I did not want
+to meet her again. Somehow, the sight and memory of her made me more
+dissatisfied and discontented than ever. I found myself moodily
+wishing for things beyond my reach, longing to be something more than I
+was--more than the nobody which I knew I must always be. I remembered my
+feelings on the morning of the day when I first saw her. Now they seemed
+almost like premonitions.
+
+I kept away; not only from her, but from George Taylor and Captain
+Dean and the townspeople. I went to the village scarcely at all. Sim
+Eldredge, who had evidently received orders from headquarters to drop
+the Lane “agency,” troubled me no more, merely glowering reproachfully
+when we met; and Alvin Baker, whose note had been renewed, although he
+hailed me with effusive cordiality, did not press his society upon
+me, having no axe to grind at present. Zeb Kendrick was using the
+Lane again, but he took care to bring no more “billiard roomers” as
+passengers. I had as yet heard nothing from my quarrel with Tim Hallet.
+
+I spent a good deal of my time in the Comfort, or wandering about the
+shore and in the woods. One warm, cloudy morning the notion seized me to
+go up to the ponds and try for black bass. There are bass in some of the
+larger ponds--lakes they would be called anywhere else except on Cape
+Cod--and, if one is lucky, and the weather is right, and the bait
+tempting, they may be caught. This particular morning promised to
+furnish the proper brand of weather, and a short excursion on the flats
+provided a supply of shrimps and minnows for bait. Dorinda, who happened
+to be in good humor, put up a lunch for me and, at seven o'clock, with
+my rod and landing net in their cases, strapped, with my fishing boots
+and coffee pot, to my back, and my bait pail in one hand and lunch
+basket in the other, I started on my tramp. It was a long four miles
+to Seabury's Pond, my destination, and Lute, to whom, like most
+country people, the idea of a four-mile walk was sheer lunacy, urged my
+harnessing the horse and driving there. But I knew the overgrown wood
+roads and the difficulty of piloting a vehicle through them, and,
+moreover, I really preferred to go afoot. So I marched off and left him
+protesting.
+
+Very few summer people--and only summer people or irresponsible persons
+like myself waste time in freshwater fishing on the Cape--knew where
+Seabury's Pond was. It lay far from macadam roads and automobile
+thoroughfares and its sandy shores were bordered with verdure-clad hills
+shutting it in like the sides of a bowl. To reach it from Denboro one
+left the Bayport road at “Beriah Holt's place,” followed Beriah's
+cow path to the pasture, plunged into the oak and birch grove at
+the southern edge of that pasture, emerged on a grass-grown and
+bush-encumbered track which had once been the way to some early
+settler's home, and had been forsaken for years, and followed that
+track, in all its windings, until he saw the gleam of water between the
+upper fringe of brush and the lower limbs of the trees. Then he left the
+track and clambered down the steep slope to the pond.
+
+I am a good walker, but I was tired long before I reached the slope.
+The bait pail, which I refilled with fresh water at Beriah's pump, grew
+heavier as I went on, and I began to think Lute knew what he was talking
+about when he declared me to be “plumb crazy, hoofin' it four mile
+loaded down with all that dunnage.” However, when the long “hoof” was
+over, and I sat down in a patch of “hog-cranberry” vines for a smoke,
+with the pond before me, I was measurably happy. This was the sort of
+thing I liked. Here there were no Shore Lane controversies, but real
+independence and peace.
+
+After my smoke was finished and I had rested, I carried my “dunnage”
+ around to the point where I intended to begin my fishing, put the lunch
+basket in a shady place beneath the bushes, and the bait pail in the
+water nearby, changed my shoes for the fishing boots, rigged my rod and
+was ready.
+
+At first the fishing was rather poor. The pond was full of perch
+and they were troublesome. By and by, however, I hooked a four-pound
+pickerel and he stirred my lagging ambition. I waded on, casting and
+playing beyond the lily pads and sedge. At last I got my first bass, a
+small one, and had scarcely landed him than a big fellow struck, fought,
+rose and broke away. That was spur sufficient. All the forenoon I waded
+about the shores of that pond. When at half-past eleven the sun came
+out and I knew my sport was over, for the time at least, I had four
+bass--two of them fine ones--and two, pickerel. Then I remembered my
+appetite and Dorinda's luncheon.
+
+I went back to the point and inspected the contents of the basket.
+Sandwiches, cold chicken, eggs, doughnuts and apple puffs. They looked
+good to me. Also there were pepper and salt in one paper, sugar in
+another, coffee in a third, and milk in a bottle. I collected some dry
+chips and branches and prepared to kindle a fire. As I bent over the
+heap of sticks and chips I heard the sound of horses' hoofs in the woods
+near by.
+
+I was surprised and annoyed. The principal charm of Seabury Pond was
+that so few people visited it. Also fewer still knew how good the
+fishing was there. I was not more than ordinarily selfish, but I did not
+care to have the place overrun with excursionists from the city, who
+had no scruples as to number and size of fish caught and would ruin
+the sport as they had ruined it at other and better known ponds. The
+passerby, whoever he was--a native probably--would, if he saw me, ask
+questions concerning my luck, and be almost sure to tell every one he
+met. I left my fire unkindled, stepped back to the shade of the bushes
+and waited in silence, hoping the driver would go on without stopping.
+There was no real road on this side of the pond, but there was an
+abandoned wood track, like that by which I had come. The horse was
+approaching along the track; the sounds of hoofs and crackling branches
+grew plainer.
+
+The odd part of it was that I heard no rattle of wheels. It was almost
+as if the person was on horseback. This seemed impossible, because no
+one in Denboro or Bayport--no one I could think of, at least--owned or
+rode a saddle horse. Yet the hoof beats grew louder and there was no
+squeak, or jolt, or rattle to bear them company. They came to a point in
+the woods directly opposite where I sat in the shade of the bushes and
+there they stopped. Then they recommenced and the crackle of branches
+was louder than ever. The rider, whoever he was, was coming down the
+bank to the pond.
+
+A moment more and the tall swamp-huckleberry bushes at the edge of
+the sandy beach parted and between them stepped gingerly a clean-cut,
+handsome brown horse, which threw up its head at the sight of the water
+and then trotted lightly toward it. The rider, who sat so easily in the
+saddle, was a girl. And the girl was Mabel Colton!
+
+She did not notice me at first, but gave her attention to the horse. The
+animal waded into the water to its knees and, in obedience to a pull on
+the reins, stopped, bent its head, and began to drink. Then the rider
+turned in her seat, looked about her, saw the heap of wood for the fire,
+the open lunch basket, the rods and landing-net, and--me.
+
+I had stepped from the bushes when she first appeared and was standing
+motionless, staring, I imagine, like what Dorinda sometimes called her
+husband--a “born gump.” There was Fate in this! no doubt about it. The
+further I went to avoid this girl, and the more outlandish and forsaken
+the spot to which I fled, the greater the certainty of our meeting.
+A feeling of helplessness came over me, as if I were in the clutch of
+destiny and no effort of mine could break that clutch.
+
+For a moment she looked as if she might be thinking the same thing. She
+started when she saw me and her lips parted.
+
+“Oh!” she exclaimed, softly. Then we gazed at each other without
+speaking.
+
+She was the first to recover from the surprise. Her expression changed.
+The look of alarm caused by my sudden appearance left her face, but the
+wonder remained.
+
+“Why! Why, Mr. Paine!” she cried. “Is it you?”
+
+I stepped forward.
+
+“Why, Miss Colton!” said I.
+
+She drew a breath of relief. “It IS you!” she declared. “I was beginning
+to believe in hallucinations. How you startled me! What are you doing
+here?”
+
+“That is exactly what I was going to ask you,” I replied. “I am here for
+a fishing excursion. But what brought you to this out-of-the-way place?”
+
+She smiled and patted the horse's shoulder. “Don here brought me,”
+ she answered. “He saw the water and I knew he was thirsty, so I came
+straight down the bank. But I didn't expect to find any one here. I
+haven't seen a horse or a human being for an hour. What a pretty little
+lake this is. What is its name?”
+
+“It is called Seabury's Pond. How did you find it?”
+
+“I didn't. Don found it. He and I came for a gallop in the woods and I
+let him choose his own paths. I have been in his charge all the morning.
+I haven't the least idea where we are. There, Don! you have had enough
+and you are splashing us dreadfully. Come back!”
+
+She backed the horse out of the water and turned his head toward the
+woods.
+
+“It is great fun to be lost,” she observed. “I didn't suppose any one
+could be lost in Denboro.”
+
+“But this isn't Denboro. Seabury's Pond is in Bayport township.”
+
+“Is it, really? In Bayport? Then I must be a long way from home.”
+
+“You are; four miles and a half, at least. More than that over the
+road.”
+
+She looked at her watch and frowned slightly.
+
+“Dear me!” she said. “And it is after twelve already. I am perfectly
+sure I can't find the way back in time for luncheon.”
+
+“I shall be glad to go with you and show you the way.”
+
+“No, indeed! Don and I will get home safely. This isn't the first
+time we have been lost together, though not on Cape Cod. Of course
+I shouldn't think of taking you from your fishing. Have you had good
+luck?”
+
+“Pretty fair. Some bass and two good-sized pickerel.”
+
+“Really! Bass? I didn't know there were any about here. May I see them?”
+
+“Certainly. They are over there in the bushes.”
+
+She swung lightly down from the saddle and, taking her horse by the
+bridle, led him toward the spot where my catch lay, covered with leaves
+and wet grass. I removed the covering and she bent over the fish.
+
+“Oh, splendid!” she exclaimed, with enthusiasm. “That big one must be
+a three-pounder. I envy you. Bass fishing is great sport. Did you get
+these on a fly--the bass, I mean?”
+
+“No. I use a fly in the spring and fall, but seldom in June or July,
+here. Those were taken with live bait-shrimp. The pickerel with minnows.
+Are you fond of fishing, Miss Colton?”
+
+“Yes, indeed. Whoa, Don! steady! Yes, I fish a good deal in September,
+when we are at our lodge in the Adirondacks. Trout there, principally.
+But I have caught bass in Maine. I thought I must give it up this year.
+I did not know there were fish, in fresh water, on the Cape.”
+
+“There are, a few. The people about here pay no attention to them. They
+scorn such small fry. Cod and pollock are more in their line.”
+
+“I suppose so. But that is all the better for you, isn't it? Were you
+fishing when I interrupted you?”
+
+“No, I was just getting ready for lunch. My fire was ready to kindle.”
+
+“Fire? Why did you need a fire?”
+
+“For my coffee.”
+
+“Coffee! You are a luxurious picnicer, Mr. Paine. Hot coffee on a
+fishing trip! and without a guide. And you are unfeeling, besides, for
+you remind me that I am very hungry. I must go at once. How far am I
+from home? Four miles, did you say?”
+
+“Four and a half, or more, by road. And the roads are like those you
+have been traveling this morning. I doubt if you could find the way,
+even with your horse's help. I must insist upon going with you as far as
+the main road between Denboro and Bayport.”
+
+“I shall not permit it.”
+
+“But I insist.”
+
+Her answer was a little laugh. She put her foot in the stirrup and
+vaulted to the saddle.
+
+“Your insisting is useless, you see,” she said. “You are on foot and I
+have the advantage. No, Don and I will go alone, thank you. Now, will
+you please tell me the way?”
+
+I shrugged my shoulders. “Go back along the road you came,” I said,
+“until you reach the second, no, the third, path to the right. Follow
+that to the second on the left. Then follow that for two hundred yards
+or so until--well, until you reach a clump of bushes, high bushes.
+Behind these is another path, a blind one, and you must take care to
+pick the right clump, because there is another one with a path behind it
+and that path joins the road to Harniss. If you should take the Harniss
+road you would go miles out of your way. Take the blind path I speak of
+and--”
+
+She interrupted me. “Stop! stop!” she exclaimed; “please don't. I am
+absolutely bewildered already. I had no idea I was in such a maze. Let
+me see! Second to the right; third to the left--”
+
+“No, third to the right and second to the left.”
+
+“And then the bushes and the choice of blind paths. Don, I see plainly
+that you and I must trust to Providence. Well, it is fortunate that the
+family are accustomed to my ways. They won't be alarmed, no matter how
+late I may be.”
+
+“Miss Colton, I am not going to allow you to go alone. Of course I am
+not. I can set you on the right road and get back here in plenty of time
+for fishing. The fish are not hungry in the middle of the day.”
+
+“No, but you are. I know you must be, because--no, good day, Mr. Paine.”
+
+She spoke to the horse and he began to move. I took my courage between
+my teeth, ran after the animal and seized the bridle.
+
+“You are not going alone,” I said, decidedly. I was smiling, but
+determined.
+
+She looked at me in surprised indignation.
+
+“What do you mean?” she said.
+
+I merely smiled. Her chin lifted and her brows drew together. I
+recognized that look; I had seen it before, on that afternoon when I
+announced my intention of carrying her from the dingy to the skiff.
+
+“Will you be good enough to let go of my rein?” she asked. Every word
+was a sort of verbal icicle. I felt the chill and my smile was rather
+forced; but I held the bridle.
+
+“No,” I said, serenely as I could. For a minute--I suppose it was not
+longer than that, it seemed an hour to me--we remained as we were. Then
+her lips began to curl upward at the corners, and, to my surprise, she
+burst out laughing.
+
+“Really, Mr. Paine,” she said, “you are the most impossible person I
+ever met. Do you always order people about this way? I feel as if I were
+about five years old and you were my nurse. Are we to stand here the
+rest of the afternoon?”
+
+“Yes; unless you permit me to go with you and show you the way.”
+
+“But I can't. I'm not going to spoil your picnic. I know you want your
+lunch. You must. Or, if you don't, I want mine.”
+
+“If you go alone, there are nine chances in ten that you will not get
+home in time for dinner, to say nothing of lunch.”
+
+She looked at me oddly, I thought, and started to speak. Whatever it
+was she was going to say she evidently thought better of it, for she
+remained silent.
+
+Then I had a new idea. Whether or not it was her look which inspired it
+I do not know. I think it must have been; I never would have dared such
+a thing without inspiration.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said, hesitatingly, “if you really are not--if you are
+sure your people will not worry about you--I--I should be glad to share
+my lunch with you. Then we could go home together afterward.”
+
+She did not look at me now. Instead she turned her head.
+
+“Are--are you sure there is enough for two?” she asked, in a curiously
+choked tone.
+
+By way of answer I led the horse to the bushes, drew the lunch basket
+from the shade, and threw back the cover. Dorinda's picnic lunches were
+triumphs and she had never put up a more tempting one.
+
+Miss Colton looked down into the basket.
+
+“Oh!” she exclaimed.
+
+“There appears to be enough, doesn't there?” I observed, drily.
+
+“But--but I couldn't think of . . . Are you sure I won't be . . . Thank
+you. Yes, I'll stay.”
+
+Before I could offer my hand to help her from the saddle she sprang to
+the ground. Her eyes were sparkling.
+
+“Mr. Paine,” she said, in a burst of confidence, “it is shameless to
+tell you so, I know, but I was dreadfully afraid you weren't going to
+ask me. I am absolutely STARVED.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+“And now,” continued Miss Colton, after an interval during which, I
+presume, she had been waiting for some reply to her frank declaration
+concerning mind and appetite, “what must I do to help? Shall I unpack
+the basket?”
+
+I was struggling, as we say in Denboro, to get the ship under control. I
+had been taken aback so suddenly that I had lost steerage way. My slight
+experience with the vagaries of the feminine mind had not prepared me
+for the lightning changes of this kind. Not two minutes before she had,
+if one might judge by her look and tone, been deeply offended, almost
+insulted, because I refused to permit her wandering off alone into the
+woods. My invitation to lunch had been given on the spur of the moment
+and with no idea that it would be accepted. And she not only accepted,
+but had expected me to invite her, had been fearful that I might not do
+so. She told me so, herself.
+
+“Shall I unpack the basket?” she repeated. She was looking at me
+intently and the toe of her riding boot was patting the leaves. “What is
+the matter? Are you sorry I am going to stay?”
+
+It was high time for me to get under way. There were squalls on the
+horizon.
+
+“Oh, no, no!” I exclaimed, hastily. “Of course not. I am delighted. But
+you need not trouble to help. Just let me attend to your horse and I
+will have lunch ready in a jiffy.”
+
+I led Don over to the little green belt of meadow between the trees and
+the sand of the beach, unbuckled the reins and made him fast to a stout
+birch. He bent his head and began to pull big mouthfuls of the rich
+grass. He, too, was evidently glad to accept my invitation.
+
+When I returned to my camping ground I found the basket unpacked and the
+young lady arranging the eatables.
+
+“You shouldn't have done that,” I said. “I am the host here.”
+
+She did not look up. “Don't bother the table maid,” she observed,
+briskly. “That fire is not kindled yet.”
+
+I lit the fire and, going over to the bushes, selected two of the fish,
+a bass and a pickerel. I carried them down to the shore of the pond and
+began cleaning them, using my jacknife and a flat stone. I was nearing
+the end of the operation when she came over to watch.
+
+“Why are you doing that?” she asked. “You are not going to cook
+them--now--are you?”
+
+“I am going to try,” I replied.
+
+“But how? You haven't anything to cook them in.”
+
+“I don't need it. You don't appreciate the conveniences of this hotel,
+Miss Colton. There! now we're ready.”
+
+I rose, washed my hands in the pond, and picked up two other flat
+stones, large ones, which I had previously put aside. These I carried
+to the fire and, raking aside the burning logs with a stick, laid the
+stones in a bed of hot coals.
+
+“Those are our frying pans,” I informed her. “When they are hot enough
+they will cook the fish. At least, I hope they will. Now for the
+coffee.”
+
+But she waved me aside. “The coffee is my affair,” she said. “I insist
+upon making the coffee. Oh, you need not look at me like that. I am not
+altogether useless. I studied Domestic Science--a little--in my prep
+school course. As much as I studied anything else,” laughingly.
+
+“But--”
+
+“Mr. Paine, I am not on horseback now and you can't hold my bridle as
+you did Don's. If you will fill the coffee pot and put it on to boil.
+Thank you. I am glad to see that even you obey orders, sometimes.”
+
+I had cooked fish in out-of-door fashion often before, but I am quite
+sure I never took such pains as I did with these. They were not culinary
+triumphs, even at that, but my guest was kind enough to pronounce them
+delicious. The lunch basket contained two plates, but only one knife
+and fork. These I insisted upon her using and I got on very well
+with sharpened sticks and a spoon. The coffee was--well, it had one
+qualification, strength.
+
+We conversed but little during the meal. The young lady said she was too
+hungry to talk and I was so confounded with the strangeness of the
+whole affair that I was glad to be silent. Sitting opposite me, eating
+Dorinda's doughnuts and apple puffs and the fish that I--_I_ had cooked,
+was “Big Jim” Colton's daughter, the automobile girl, the heiress, the
+“incarnation of snobbery,” the young lady whose father I had bidden go
+to the devil and to whom, in company with the rest of the family, I
+had many times mentally extended the same invitation. And now we were
+picnicing together as if we were friends of long standing. Why, Nellie
+Dean could not appear more unpretentious and unconscious of social
+differences than this girl to-day! What would her parents say if they
+saw us like this? What would Captain Jed, and the rest of those in
+rebellion against the Emperor of New York, say? That I was a traitor,
+hand and glove with the enemy. Well, I was not; and I did not intend to
+be. But for her to--
+
+She interrupted my meditations.
+
+“Mr. Paine,” she observed, suddenly, “you will excuse my mentioning it,
+but you are distinctly not entertaining. You have not spoken a word for
+five minutes. And you are not attending to my needs. The apple puffs are
+on your side of the--table.”
+
+I hastened to pass the paper containing the puffs.
+
+“I beg your pardon,” I said, hurriedly. “I--I was daydreaming, I guess.”
+
+“So I imagined. I forgive you; this lunch would tempt me to forgive
+greater sins than yours. Did that delightful old housekeeper of yours
+cook all these nice things?”
+
+“She did. So you think Dorinda delightful, do you?”
+
+“Yes. She is so sincere and good-hearted. And so odd and bright and
+funny. I could listen to her for hours.”
+
+“Humph! Well, if you were a member of her household you would have that
+privilege often. I doubt if her husband considers it such a privilege.”
+
+“Her husband? Oh, yes! I met him. He is a character, too, isn't he?”
+
+“Yes; a weak one.”
+
+She put down her coffee cup and sighed, contentedly.
+
+“I think I never tasted anything so good as this lunch,” she observed.
+“And I'm quite sure I never ate so much at one sitting. I am going to
+help you clear away, but please don't ask me to do it just now. Have you
+finished? You may smoke, if you like.”
+
+I had been longing for a smoke and now I filled my pipe and lighted it.
+
+“Now we can talk, can't we?” she said. “I want you to tell me about your
+mother. How is she?”
+
+“Just as she was when you saw her,” I answered. “Mother is always the
+same.”
+
+“She is a dear. I had heard so many nice things about her and I was
+not disappointed. I intended to make only a short call and I stayed and
+stayed. I hope I did not tire her.”
+
+“Not at all. Mother enjoyed your call exceedingly.”
+
+“Did she? I am so glad. I really am. I went to your house with a
+good deal of misgiving, Mr. Paine. I feared that my coming might be
+considered an intrusion.”
+
+“I told you that it would not.”
+
+“I know. But, under the circumstances--Father's disagreement
+with--considering all the--the--Oh, what shall I call it?”
+
+“The late unpleasantness,” I suggested.
+
+Again came the twinkle in her eye. She nodded.
+
+“Thank you,” she said. “That is a quotation, but it was clever of you to
+think of it. Yes, considering the late unpleasantness, I was afraid
+my visit might be misunderstood. I was fearful that your mother
+or--someone--might think I came there with an ulterior motive, something
+connected with that troublesome Lane dispute. Of course no one did think
+such a thing?”
+
+She asked the question quickly and with intense seriousness. I
+remembered Lute's hint and my own secret suspicions, but I answered
+promptly.
+
+“Of course not,” I said.
+
+“You did not think that, did you?”
+
+“No,” unblushingly.
+
+“I came because from what I had heard of your mother I was sure she must
+be a wonderful woman. I wanted to meet her. And she IS wonderful; and so
+patient and sweet and good. I fell in love with her. Everyone must love
+her. You should be proud of your mother, Mr. Paine.”
+
+“I am,” I answered, simply.
+
+“You have reason. And she is very proud of you.”
+
+“Without the reason, I'm afraid.”
+
+She did not speak. Her silence hurt. I felt that I knew what she was
+thinking and I determined to make her say it.
+
+“Without the reason,” I repeated.
+
+“I did not say that.”
+
+“But you thought it.”
+
+My stubborn persistence was a mistake. Again, as at our meeting in the
+grove, I had gone too far. Her answer was as completely indifferent as
+speech and tone could be.
+
+“Indeed?” she said, coldly. “It is barely possible that I did not think
+about it at all. . . . Now, Mr. Paine, if you are ready shall we clear
+away?”
+
+The clearing, most of it, was done silently. I washed the plates, the
+coffee pot and other things, in the pond and she packed them in the
+basket. As I returned with the knife and forks I found her looking at
+the coffee pot and smiling.
+
+“What is the matter?” I asked, sulkily. I was provoked with myself for
+forgetting who and what I was, and with her for making me forget. “Isn't
+it clean?”
+
+“Why, yes,” she answered, “surprisingly so. Did they teach Domestic
+Science at your college, too?”
+
+I started. “MY college!” I repeated. “How did you know I had been at
+college? Did Mother tell you?”
+
+She laughed gleefully.
+
+“Did Mother tell you?” I demanded. “If she did--”
+
+“Well, what if she did? However, she did not. But you have told me now.
+Harvard, was it? or Yale?”
+
+I tossed the knife and fork into the basket and turned away.
+
+“Princeton, perhaps,” suggested Miss Colton.
+
+I walked over and began to unjoint my rod. I was a fool to be trapped
+like this. No one in Denboro except Mother and George Taylor knew of my
+brief college career, and now I had, practically, told this girl of it.
+She might--if she were sufficiently interested to remember, which
+was fortunately not probable--tell her father and he might ask other
+questions concerning my history. Where would those questions lead?
+
+I was angrily tugging at the rod when I heard her step behind me. I did
+not turn.
+
+“I beg your pardon,” she said.
+
+I pretended not to hear.
+
+“I beg your pardon, Mr. Paine,” she said again.
+
+“It's all right,” I muttered. “No apologies are necessary.”
+
+I said it like a sullen schoolboy. There was another moment of silence.
+Then I heard her move away. I looked over my shoulder. She was walking
+toward the meadow where Don, the horse, was picketed. There was offended
+dignity in every line of her figure.
+
+For a moment I fought with my pride and injured self-respect. Then I
+hurried after her.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said.
+
+“Well?” she neither turned nor stopped.
+
+“Miss Colton, I should not have answered like that. I was rude.”
+
+She stopped. “You were,” she said.
+
+“I know it. I am sorry. I apologize.”
+
+“No apologies are necessary.”
+
+Here was tit for tat. I did not know what more to say, so I said
+nothing.
+
+“Do I understand that you ask my pardon?” she inquired, still without
+turning.
+
+“I do. If you will permit me, I will explain. I--”
+
+She whirled about and faced me. To my astonishment she was smiling once
+more.
+
+“Of course you won't explain,” she declared. “I had no right to ask
+you about your college. But I couldn't help guessing. I told you that
+I liked puzzles. We'll say no more about it. I have enjoyed this picnic
+and I won't have it spoiled. Now why are you taking your rod apart?”
+
+“Because I know you want to go home and I am going with you to show you
+the way.”
+
+“But I don't have to go yet, do I? It is not late. And I thought perhaps
+you would let me see you catch another bass. Won't you? Please.”
+
+Once more she had me at a disadvantage. I had no desire for more
+fishing, and I was fearful of further questions, but what could I do?
+And it was not late--but a little past two o'clock.
+
+So I rigged the rod again and led the way down the shore to the spot
+where the sedge extended out into the pond, with the lily pads beyond
+it. She walked beside me. Then she seated herself on a fallen tree and
+I baited the hook with a lively minnow and cast. For some time I got
+not even a nibble. As I waited she and I talked. But now it was I who
+questioned.
+
+“Do you like Denboro?” I asked.
+
+“I am beginning to like it very much. At first I thought it very dull,
+but now I am getting acquainted.”
+
+“There are few cottagers and summer people here. But in Harniss there is
+a large colony. Very nice people, I believe.”
+
+“Yes, I have met some of them. But it was not the summer people I meant.
+I am beginning to know the townspeople and to like some of them. I met
+that delightful old Captain Warren the other day.”
+
+“He is as good as they make.”
+
+“Indeed he is. And I had an interview with another captain, Miss Dean's
+father, yesterday. We had an interesting encounter.”
+
+“So I should imagine. Captain Jed! Whew! It MUST have been interesting.”
+
+“It was. Oh, we were very fierce at first--at least he was, and I fought
+for my side as hard as I could. He said Father was a selfish pig for
+wanting to close the Lane, and I said it was because of its use by the
+pigs that he wished to close it.”
+
+“Ha! ha! How did it end?”
+
+“Oh, we agreed to disagree. I respect Captain Dean for his fight; but
+Father will win, of course. He always does.”
+
+“He won't win this time, Miss Colton.”
+
+“Why not? Oh, I actually forgot I was talking to the head and front of
+the opposition. So you think he will not win, Mr. Paine?”
+
+“I am sure of it. He cannot close that Lane until I sell it, and I shall
+not sell.”
+
+She regarded me thoughtfully, her chin upon her hand.
+
+“It would be odd if he should not, after all,” she said. “He prides
+himself on having his own way. It would be strange if he should be
+beaten down here, after winning so often in New York. Your mother
+told me something of your feeling in the matter, Mr. Paine. Father has
+offered you a good price for the land, hasn't he?”
+
+“He has offered me a dozen times what it is worth.”
+
+“Yes. He does not count money when he has set his heart upon anything.
+And you refused?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“But Nellie Dean says the town also wished to buy and you refused its
+offer, too.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You don't seem to care for money, either, Mr. Paine. Are all Cape Cod
+people so unmercenary? Or is it that you all have money enough--. . .
+Pardon me. That was impolite. I spoke without thinking.”
+
+“Oh, never mind. I am not sensitive--on that point, at least.”
+
+“But I do mind. And I am sorry I said it. And I should like to
+understand. I see why the townspeople do not want the Lane closed. But
+you have not lived here always. Only a few years, so Miss Dean says.
+She said, too, that that Mr. Taylor, the cashier, was almost the only
+intimate friend you have made since you came. Others would like to be
+friendly, but you will not permit them to be. And, yet for these
+people, mere acquaintances, you are sacrificing what Father would call a
+profitable deal.”
+
+“Not altogether for them. I can't explain my feeling exactly. I know
+only that to sell them out and make money--and heaven knows I need
+money--at their expense seems to me dead wrong.”
+
+“Then why don't you sell to THEM?”
+
+“I don't know. Unless it was because to refuse your father's offer and
+accept a lower one seemed a mean trick, too. And I won't be bullied into
+selling to anyone. I guess that is it, as much as anything.”
+
+“My! how stubborn you must be.”
+
+“I don't know why I have preached this sermon to you, Miss Colton, your
+sympathies in the fight are with your father, naturally.”
+
+“Oh, no, they are not.”
+
+I almost dropped the rod.
+
+“Not--with--” I repeated.
+
+“Not altogether. They are with you, just at present. If you had sold--if
+you had given in to Father, feeling as you do, I should not have any
+sympathy with you at all. As it is--”
+
+“As it is?” I asked eagerly--too eagerly. I should have done better to
+pretend indifference.
+
+“As it is,” she answered, lightly, “I respect you as I would any sincere
+fighter for a losing cause. And I shall probably feel some sympathy
+for you after the cause is lost. Excuse my breaking in on your sermon,
+provided it is not finished, but--I think you have a bite, Mr. Paine.”
+
+I had, very much of a bite. The minnow on my hook had been forgotten and
+allowed to sink to the bottom, and a big pout had swallowed it, along
+with the hook and a section of line. I dragged the creature out of the
+water and performed a surgical operation, resulting in the recovery of
+my tackle.
+
+“There!” I exclaimed, in disgust. “I think I have had enough fishing
+for one day. Suppose we call it off. Unless you would like to try, Miss
+Colton.”
+
+I made the offer by way of a joke. She accepted it instantly.
+
+“May I?” she cried, eagerly. “I have been dying to ever since I came.
+
+“But--but you will get wet.”
+
+“No matter. This is an old suit.”
+
+It did not look old to my countrified eyes, but I protested no more.
+There was a rock a little below where we then were, one of the typical
+glacial boulders of the Cape--lying just at the edge of the water and
+projecting out into it. I helped her up on to this rock and baited her
+hook with shrimp.
+
+“Shall I cast for you?” I asked.
+
+“No indeed. I can do it, thank you.”
+
+She did, and did it well. Moreover, the line had scarcely straightened
+out in the water when it was savagely jerked, the pole bent into a
+half-circle, and out of the foaming eddy beneath its tip leaped the
+biggest bass I had seen that day, or in that pond on any day.
+
+“By George!” I exclaimed. “Can you handle him? Shall I--”
+
+She did not look at me, but I received my orders, nevertheless.
+
+“Please don't! Keep away!” she said sharply.
+
+For nearly fifteen minutes she fought that fish, in and out among the
+pads, keeping the line tight, handling him at least as well as I could
+have done. I ran for the landing net and, as she brought her captive up
+beside the rock, reached forward to use it. But she stopped me.
+
+“No,” she said, breathlessly, “I want to do this all myself.”
+
+It took her several more minutes to do it, and she was pretty well
+splashed, when at last, with the heavy net dragging from one hand and
+the rod in the other, she sprang down from the rock. Together we bent
+over the fish.
+
+“A four-pounder, if he is an ounce,” said I. “I congratulate you, Miss
+Colton.”
+
+“Poor thing,” she mused. “I am almost sorry he did not get away. He IS a
+beauty, isn't he! Now I am ready to go home.”
+
+That journey home was a strange experience to me. She rode Don and
+bore the lunch basket and the net before her on the saddle. I walked
+alongside, carrying the rod, boots, and the fish in the otherwise empty
+bait pail. The sunshine, streaming through the leaves of the arching
+boughs overhead, dappled the narrow, overgrown paths with shifting
+blotches of light and shadow. Around us was the deep, living green of
+the woods, the songs of birds, the chatter of red squirrels, and the
+scent of wild honeysuckle. And as we moved onward we talked--that is,
+she did most of the talking and I listened. Yet I must have talked more
+than I knew, because I remember expressing opinions concerning books
+and operas and pictures, subjects I had not discussed for years except
+occasionally with Mother, and then only because she was still interested
+in them. I seemed, somehow, to have become a different, a younger man,
+under the influence of these few hours with the girl I had professed to
+hate so cordially. Our companionship--perfectly meaningless as it was,
+the mere caprice of an idle day on her part--had rejuvenated me. During
+that homeward walk I forgot myself entirely, forgot that I was Ros
+Paine, the country loafer; forgot, too, that she was the only child of
+the city millionaire, that we had, or could have, nothing in common.
+She, also, seemed to forget, and we chatted together as unconsciously
+and easily as if we had known each other all our lives.
+
+Yet it may be that her part in the conversation was not altogether
+without a purpose. She led me to speak of Denboro and its people, of how
+they lived, and of the old days of sailing ships and deep sea skippers.
+George Taylor's name was mentioned and I praised him highly, telling of
+his rise from poor boy to successful man, as we rated success locally.
+
+“He manages that bank well,” I declared. “Everyone says so. And, from
+what I have seen of his management, I know it to be true.”
+
+“How do you know?” she asked.
+
+“Because I have had some experience in banking myself. I--”
+
+I stopped short. My tongue was running away with me. She did not ask the
+question which I dreaded and expected. Instead she said, looking down at
+me:
+
+“You are a loyal friend, aren't you, Mr. Paine.”
+
+“I have reason to be loyal to George,” I answered, with feeling.
+
+“Are you as loyal to yourself?”
+
+I looked up at her in surprise.
+
+“What do you mean?” I asked.
+
+“I have been trying to understand you, Mr. Paine. Trying to get the
+answer to the puzzle. In one way I think I have it. I understand your
+attitude in the Lane affair and I think I know why you came to Denboro
+and are staying here.”
+
+I stopped short. “You--you know THAT?” I cried.
+
+“I think I do. You believe that your mother needs you and you will not
+leave her. That is your reason for living here, I think. But, in another
+way, I cannot understand you at all.”
+
+She spoke to the horse and we moved on again. I waited for her to
+continue, but she was silent.
+
+“How? What is the other way! The way in which you cannot understand me?”
+ I asked.
+
+“Shall I tell you? Do you wish me to be perfectly frank?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I cannot understand how a man such as you seem to be, young, educated,
+and with life before him, can be content to do as you do, spend your
+time in fishing, or sailing, or shooting. To have no ambition at all.
+My father was a poor country boy, like your friend, Mr. Taylor, but he
+worked night and day until he became what he is now. And even now he
+works, and works hard. Oh, I am proud of him! Not because he is what he
+is, but because he has done it all himself. If I were a man I would have
+some purpose in life; I would do SOMETHING worth while if it were only
+to sell fish from a cart, like that old fellow with the queer name--what
+is it?--Oh, yes! Theophilus Newcomb.”
+
+I did not answer. She had said all that was necessary, and more. It was
+quite enough for me.
+
+“There!” she observed, after a moment. “You asked me to tell you and I
+did. If you never speak to me again it will be exactly what I deserve.
+But I thought it and so I said it. Expressing my thoughts is one of my
+bad habits. . . . Oh, why, we are almost home, aren't we!”
+
+We had come to the edge of the grove bordering Beriah Holt's pasture.
+The grove was on the west side of a little hill. Before us the pasture
+sloped away to Beriah's house and barn, with the road beyond it. And
+beyond that, in the distance, were the steeples and roofs of Denboro.
+Among them the gables and tower of the Colton mansion rose, conspicuous
+and costly.
+
+She turned in the saddle. “I presume I may leave you now, Mr. Paine,”
+ she said. “Even you must admit that the rest of the way is plain
+sailing. Thank you for your hospitality and for your services as guide.
+I will send the basket and net over by one of the servants.”
+
+“I will take them now,” I said, shortly.
+
+“Very well, if you prefer. Here they are.”
+
+I took them from her.
+
+“Good afternoon,” she said. “And thanks once more for a very pleasant
+picnic.”
+
+“You are quite welcome, I'm sure. Thank you for your frank opinion of
+my--worthlessness. It was kind of you to express it.”
+
+The sarcasm was not lost upon her.
+
+“I meant it as a kindness,” she replied.
+
+“Yes. And it was true enough, probably. Doubtless I shall derive great
+benefit from your--words of wisdom.”
+
+Her patience, evidently, was exhausted. She turned away. “Oh, that,” she
+said, indifferently, “is your affair. I told you what I believed to
+be the truth, that was all. What you do is not likely to be of vast
+importance to me, one way or the other. Come, Don!”
+
+Don cantered down the slope. I watched him and his rider disappear
+beyond the trees in the distance. Then I picked up my pail and other
+burdens and followed in their wake. The sun was behind a cloud. It had
+been a strange day with a miserable ending. I was furiously angry with
+her, but I was more angry with myself. For what she had told me WAS the
+truth, and I knew it.
+
+I strode on, head down, through the village. People spoke to me, asking
+what luck I had had and where I had been, but I scarcely noticed them.
+As I reached the Corners and was passing the bank someone called my
+name. I glanced up and saw George Taylor descending the steps.
+
+“Hold on, Ros,” he hailed. “Wait a minute. What's your rush? Hold on!”
+
+I halted reluctantly.
+
+“Fishing again, I see,” he observed, as he reached my side. “Any luck?”
+
+“Fair,” I told him.
+
+“What pond?”
+
+“Seabury's.”
+
+“Go alone?”
+
+“Yes.” That I had not been alone since was no business of his.
+
+“Humph! You ain't exactly what a fellow'd call talkative this afternoon,
+seems to me. Anything wrong?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Tuckered out?”
+
+“I guess so.”
+
+“Well, so am I, but I ain't had your fun getting that way. Small and I
+have been at it night and day getting things in shape so he could leave.
+He's gone. Went this noon. And that ain't the worst of it; I haven't got
+anybody yet to take his place. I'll have to be cashier and bookkeeper
+too for a spell. There's applicants enough; but they don't suit. Guess
+likely you'll have to help me out, after all, Ros. The job is yours if
+you say the word.”
+
+He laughed as he said it. Even to him the idea of my working was a joke.
+
+But the joke did not seem funny to me, just then. I walked on for some
+distance without a word. Then I asked a question.
+
+“What is expected of a man in that position?” I asked.
+
+“Expected? Why, plain bank bookkeeping--not much else at first. Yet
+there's a good chance for a likely fellow to be considerable more, in
+time. I need help in my part of the work. That's why I haven't hired
+any of the dozen or so who are after the place. What makes you ask? You
+don't know of a good man for me, do you, Ros?”
+
+“When do you want him to begin?”
+
+“To-morrow morning, if he satisfies me.”
+
+“Would I satisfy you?”
+
+“You! Humph! Try me and see, that's all I'd ask.”
+
+“All right. I'll be on hand in the morning.”
+
+He stopped, looked at me, and then seized me by the arm.
+
+“See here!” he cried, “I'm lost in the fog, I guess likely. What do you
+mean by that? Is it time to laugh--or what?”
+
+“It may be; I don't know. But I take the bookkeeper's position in your
+bank. Now, good-by. Don't talk to me. I don't feel like talking.”
+
+“But--but, Ros.”
+
+“Good-by.”
+
+I walked on. I had taken but a few steps when he overtook me.
+
+“Ros,” he said, “I ain't going to say but just one thing. If you meant
+what you said I'm the most tickled man on the Cape. But you ain't asked
+a word about the salary.”
+
+“I know it. I haven't asked because I don't care. I'll be on hand in the
+morning.”
+
+I left him standing there, and hurried down the Lower Road. As I had
+said to him, I did not feel like talking. I did not want even to see any
+one. I wanted to be let alone. But it was fated that I should not be,
+not yet. Sim Eldredge was waiting for me around the corner. He stepped
+out from behind the fence where he had been hidden.
+
+“Ros!” he whispered. “Ros Paine! Wait. It's me, Sim. I want to ask you
+somethin'. Wan't that George Taylor you was speakin' to just now?”
+
+“Yes,” I answered, impatiently. “What of it?”
+
+“Say, Ros, you and me ain't pulled that Colton trade off, but it ain't
+my fault. You ain't got no hard feelin's against me, I know. And I want
+you to do a little mite of favor for me. Will you?”
+
+“What is it? If it has anything to do with the Lane, I tell you now
+that--”
+
+“It ain't--it ain't. It's about that bookkeepin' job in the bank, Henry
+Small's place, the one he's just quit. I've got a third cousin, name of
+Josiah Badger, over to South Harniss. He's a smart young chap, and an
+A-1 accountant at figgers. He's been keepin' books down at the fish
+wharf--see? Now, he'd like that job and, bein' as you and George are
+so thick, I cal'lated maybe you'd sort of use your influence along of
+George, and--and get it for him. There ain't nothin' in it for me--that
+is, nothin' much. But I feel friendly toward Josiah and you know I like
+to do little kindnesses for folks. So--”
+
+“There! there!” I interrupted. “It's no use, Sim. I can't help you.”
+
+“Why! yes you can.”
+
+“No, I can't. I don't know your cousin, and besides--well, you are too
+late. The place is filled.”
+
+Sim's expression changed. He looked surprised and crestfallen.
+
+“Filled?” he exclaimed. “Why, no, 'tain't! If 'twas I'd have known it,
+wouldn't I? Who'd you hear had got it? Whoever you heard, 'tain't so.”
+
+“Yes, it is.”
+
+“How do you know? Who is it, then?”
+
+I hesitated. Before noon of the next day every soul in Denboro would
+have heard the news. Eldredge might as well hear it now.
+
+“I've taken the place myself,” I said.
+
+“You?” Sim actually forgot to whisper; he shouted the word. “YOU! Ha!
+ha! ha! Ros, quit your foolin'.”
+
+“I'm not fooling. I go to work in the bank to-morrow morning.”
+
+“But--Oh, my soul! You! Aw, I know better! Say, Ros, don't let's waste
+time like this. Fun's all right, but . . . My heavens to Betsy! YOU work
+for a livin'! If I believed that I'd believe anything. Tell me, now. Who
+has got that job? . . . Why don't you answer me?”
+
+I answered him. “Shut up!” I said, fiercely. Then I vaulted the fence
+and set out for home across lots.
+
+I heard the next day that Sim went back to the post-office and informed
+the gathering there that Ros Paine had taken to drinking.
+
+“He was tight as a biled owl,” declared Sim; “and ugly--don't talk!
+Wanted to fight me because I wouldn't believe he was goin' to work. Him!
+What in the everlastin' would HE want to work for? My heavens to Betsy!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+
+I think Taylor was almost as surprised as Eldredge had been, when, at
+half-past eight the following morning, I appeared at the bank. He was
+already at his desk and, when he looked up and saw me, he whistled.
+
+“Whew!” he exclaimed. “So. I didn't dream it, after all. You're here,
+ain't you.”
+
+“I am here,” I answered, opening the gate and stepping in behind the
+rail.
+
+“Going to take it back and say you never said it?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Come to go to work? Really?”
+
+“That is my intention, unless you have changed your mind.”
+
+“Not me. It ain't likely. But, Ros, I--sit down a minute and let's talk.
+What are you doing this for?”
+
+It was a question I had been asking myself at intervals during a
+restless night. Now I gave the only truthful answer.
+
+“I don't know,” I said.
+
+“You don't know!”
+
+“No. And I don't seem to care. Suppose we don't talk about it. I am
+here, and I am ready to begin work. That's enough, isn't it?”
+
+“Why, no; not quite. You're not doing it just to help me out?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“You don't need to work. You've got money enough.”
+
+“No, I haven't. But money isn't my reason. I haven't any reason. Now
+show me the books, will you?”
+
+“Don't be in a hurry. What does your mother think about it?”
+
+“I haven't told her yet. Time enough for that when I know that I really
+mean it and you know that I am competent to fill the position. George,
+if you keep on cross-examining me I am likely to quit before I begin. I
+don't know why I am doing this, but just now I think I am going to do it
+if I can. However, I am not sure. So you had better be careful.”
+
+“Humph! What did you catch up at that pond yesterday? I never saw a
+day's fishing make such a difference in a man in my life. . . . All
+right, Ros. All right. I won't pester you. Too glad to have you here for
+that. Now about the salary.”
+
+“Before we speak of that there is one more point. How about your
+directors? Dean and the rest? Do they know you offered me the position?”
+
+“Sure thing! They put the whole affair in my hands. They'll be
+satisfied. And as for Cap'n Jed--why, he was the one that suggested
+hiring you in the first place.”
+
+“Captain Jed! Captain Jed Dean! HE suggested it?”
+
+“Yup. In a way, he did. You may not know it, Ros, but you've made a good
+deal of a hit with the old man. He ain't been used to having anybody
+stand up to him as you have. As a general thing Denboro jumps when he
+snaps the whip. You didn't, and he couldn't understand why. He is the
+kind that respects anything they can't understand. Then, too, Nellie
+likes you, and she's his idol, you know. Ah hum!”
+
+He sighed and, for a moment, seemed to forget me altogether. I reminded
+him by another question.
+
+“But why should the captain think of me for this place?” I asked. “Why
+should he dream that I would take it? I gave you no encouragement.”
+
+“I don't know as he did dream it. But he and I were speaking of you and
+he said he'd like to do something to show you what the town thought of
+your holding out against Colton. That tickled him down to the keel. I
+said you'd be a first-class helper to me in this bank, that I heard you
+knew something about banking--”
+
+“George!”
+
+“It's all right. I only mentioned that I heard rumors that you were in a
+city bank somewhere at one time. He didn't ask any more and I shouldn't
+have told him if he had. But the idea pleased him, I could see that.
+'Why don't you try to get him?' says he. 'Maybe the days of miracles
+ain't past. Perhaps even he'd condescend to work, if the right job came
+his way.'”
+
+“So that's what you call his suggesting me, do you? Humph!”
+
+“Well, I told him about it last night, when I was up to see Nellie,
+and he was pleased as Punch. Surprised, of course, but pleased. He's
+practically the whole board, as far as settling things is concerned, so
+it is all right. He ain't the worst friend you've got, by a long shot.”
+
+I imagined that I understood what Captain Jed's “friendship” meant. My
+accepting the bank position was one more bond binding me to his side in
+the Shore Lane battle. And, so long as I was under Taylor's eye and his
+own, I could not be subject to the Colton influence.
+
+George and I discussed the question of salary, if his offer and my
+prompt acceptance might be called a discussion. The pay was not large
+to begin with, but it was more than I had a right to expect. And I was
+perfectly honest when I said that money was not the consideration which
+led me to make the sudden change in my habit of life. I was sick of
+idleness; I had longed for something to occupy my life and time; I might
+as well be doing this as anything; Taylor's offer had appealed to me
+when he first made it; these were the excuses I evolved for my own
+satisfaction and I tried to believe them real. But one reason I would
+not admit, even in my thoughts, as a possibility. It was not that
+girl, or anything she had said, which influenced me. No! over and over
+again--no.
+
+Sam Wheeler, the young fellow who acted as assistant bookkeeper and
+messenger, came in, and Taylor, after showing me the books and giving
+me a few hints as to what my duties would be, turned me over to him for
+further instruction. I found I needed but little. The pages, with their
+rows of figures, seemed like old friends. I almost enjoyed poring over
+them. Was it possible that I was going to like this new venture of mine?
+
+Before noon I was fairly certain of it. The work in a country bank is
+different from that in the large city institutions, in that it is by no
+means as specialized. I found that, later on, I should be expected
+to combine the work of teller with that of bookkeeper. And this,
+too, seemed natural. I worked as steadily as I could, considering
+interruptions, and the forenoon was over almost before I knew it.
+
+The interruptions, however, were numerous and annoying; some of them,
+too, were amusing. Depositors came, saw me behind the bars of the
+window, and, after expressing their astonishment, demanded to know what
+I was doing there. If I had answered all the questions put to me by the
+curious Denboroites I should have found time for little else. But Taylor
+helped me by shooing the curious ones away. “Don't bother the new hand,”
+ he said. “If you want to know particulars ask me. Anything I don't tell
+you you can read in next week's Item. This is a bank, not a question
+box.”
+
+Captain Elisha Warren came in and was as surprised as the rest. After an
+interview with the cashier he returned to my window and requested me to
+open up. When I did so he reached in a big hand and seized mine.
+
+“Shake, Ros,” he said, heartily. “I'm glad for the bank and I'm gladder
+still for you. Come hard at fust, does it?”
+
+“A little,” I confessed. “Not as hard as I expected, though.”
+
+“Fust day or two out of port is always the toughest. You'll get your sea
+legs on pretty soon. Then you'll be glad you shipped, I cal'late.”
+
+“I hope so,” I answered, rather dubiously.
+
+“I know you will. There's nothin' so tiresome as doin' nothin'. I know,
+because that's been my job for quite a spell. Seems sometimes as if I'd
+have a fit, I get so sick of loafin'.”
+
+His idea of a “loaf” was rising at six and weeding his garden,
+superintending the labor on his cranberry swamps or about his barns and
+grounds, attending bank and Selectmen's meetings, and generally keeping
+busy until sunset.
+
+“I tell Abbie, my housekeeper,” he continued, “that if 'twan't for my
+age I believe I'd go to sea again just to keep from fallin' apart with
+dry rot. I asked her if she'd noticed how my timbers creaked, and she
+said I didn't keep still long enough for her to notice anything. Ho! ho!
+Nothin' makes her more provoked than for me to mention gettin' old or
+goin' to sea. All the same, I envy you your youth, Ros. You've got your
+life afore you, and I'm glad to see that you're goin' to make somethin'
+of it. I always said you'd wake up if somebody give you a punch. Who
+punched you, Ros?”
+
+My reply was non-committal.
+
+“Better mind my own business, hadn't I,” he observed. “All right,
+I will. No offense meant, you understand. But, you see, I've never
+believed that work was the cuss of mankind, like some folks, and no
+matter how much money a young feller's got I think he's better off doin'
+somethin'. That's the gospel accordin' to Elisha. Well, good luck and a
+pleasant v'yage. See you again soon. Say,” turning back, “keep an eye on
+George, will you? Folks in love are l'ble to be absent-minded, they tell
+me, and I should not want him to be absent with any of my money. Hear
+that, do you, George?”
+
+Taylor, who was standing near, laughed and walked away. A moment later
+I saw him looking out of the window with the same strange expression on
+his face which I had noticed several times before when his approaching
+marriage was hinted at. Something was troubling him, that was plain. He
+loved Nellie devotedly, I knew; yet he obviously did not like to hear
+the marriage mentioned.
+
+Sim Eldredge was one of the first visitors to the bank, but his visit
+was a short one. He entered the door, walked straight to the teller's
+window and peered through the bars. I heard him catch his breath.
+
+“Good morning, Sim,” said I. “What can I do for you?”
+
+“Do?” he repeated. “Do for me? Nothin'--nothin', 'special. You--you
+meant it, then?”
+
+“I told you I did.”
+
+“My soul!” was all the answer he made. Then he turned and walked out.
+
+At about eleven o'clock I was half-way through the addition of a
+column of figures when I heard some one say, “Well, by time!” with such
+anguished fervor that it was almost like a prayer for help. I looked up.
+Lute Rogers was staring in at me, open-mouthed and horror-stricken.
+
+“Hello, Lute!” I said.
+
+Lute swallowed hard.
+
+“They told me 'twas so,” he stammered. “They said so and--and I laughed
+at 'em. Ros, you ain't, be you?”
+
+“What?”
+
+“Goin' to stay in there and--and take Henry's job?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You be! And you never said nothin' to nobody? To Dorinda? Or even
+Comfort?”
+
+“No; not yet.”
+
+“Nor to me. To ME, by time! You let them fellers at the store make a
+fool of me--”
+
+“No one could do that, Lute. I have told you so often.”
+
+“And you let them know it afore I did. And me livin' right in the house
+with you! By time! I--I--”
+
+“There, there, Lute! don't cry. I'll tell you all about it when I come
+home for dinner.”
+
+“Yes, I should think you might do that much. Treatin' your own family
+like--why did you tell Sim Eldredge?”
+
+“Sim asked me and so I told him, that was all. Don't stand there
+fidgeting. Run along home, there's a good fellow. Mr. Taylor has his eye
+on you already.”
+
+Lute glanced apprehensively toward the cashier's desk and turned to go.
+
+“Well!” he exclaimed, “I've said you was crazy more'n once, that's some
+satisfaction. Say! can I tell 'em to home?”
+
+I hesitated. “You may tell Dorinda if you like,” I answered. “But I
+prefer to tell Mother, myself.”
+
+George rose from his desk just then and Lute hurried to the door. I
+smiled. I imagined his arrival in our kitchen and how he would explode
+the sensational news upon his unsuspecting wife.
+
+But I was not altogether calm, though I did my best to appear so, when
+I entered that kitchen at a quarter past twelve. Lute was seated in a
+chair by the window, evidently watching and waiting. He sprang up as I
+entered.
+
+“Set down,” ordered Dorinda, who was taking a clam pie from the oven.
+She merely nodded when I came in. Dorinda often spoke in meeting against
+“sinful pride”; yet she had her share of pride, sinful or not. She would
+not ask questions or deign to appear excited, not she.
+
+“But Dorinda,” cried her husband, “it's Ros. Don't you see?”
+
+“You set down, Lute Rogers. Well,” turning to me, “dinner's ready, if
+you are.”
+
+“I shall be in a few minutes,” I answered. “I want to see Mother first.”
+
+Breaking the news to Mother was a duty which I dreaded. But it turned
+out to be not dreadful at all. Mother was surprised, of course, but she
+did not offer a single objection. Her principal feeling seemed to be
+curiosity as to my reasons for the sudden change.
+
+“Of course, Roscoe, if you are happier I shall be, too,” she said.
+“I know it must have been very dull for you here. My conscience has
+troubled me not a little all these years. I realize that a man, a young
+man like you, needs an interest in life; he wants something more than
+the care and companionship of a useless creature like me.”
+
+“Mother, how often have I told you not to speak like that.”
+
+“But he does. Many times, when you and I have been here together, I have
+been on the point of urging you to leave me and go back to the world and
+take your place in it. More than once, you remember, dear, I have hinted
+at such a thing, but you have always chosen not to understand the hints,
+and I have been so weak and selfish that I have not pressed them. I am
+glad you have done this, if it seems right to you. But does it? Are you
+sure?”
+
+“I think so, Mother. I confess I am not sure.”
+
+“This country bank is a pretty small place, isn't it? Not big enough for
+my boy to prove his worth in.”
+
+“It is quite big enough for that. That doesn't require a Rothschild's
+establishment.”
+
+“But your decision must have been a very sudden one. You did not mention
+that you thought of such a thing. Not even to me.”
+
+“It was sudden,” I answered. “I took the position on the spur of the
+moment.”
+
+“But why? What led you to do it?”
+
+“I don't know, Mother.”
+
+“What influenced you? Has any one urged you?”
+
+“George Taylor offered me the place some time ago. He urged me.”
+
+“No one else?”
+
+I avoided the issue. “You don't mind, then, Mother,” I said. “You are
+willing that I should try the experiment?”
+
+“I am glad, if it pleases you. And you must let me say this now, Roscoe,
+because it is true and I mean it. If another and better opportunity
+comes to you, one that might take you away from Denboro--and from
+me--for a time, of course, I want you to promise me that you will not
+refuse it on my account. Will you promise?”
+
+“No. Of course I shan't promise any such thing. Is it likely that I
+would leave you, Mother?”
+
+“I know that you would not leave me unless I were willing for you to
+go. I know that, Roscoe. But I am much better and stronger than I was. I
+shall never be well--”
+
+“Don't say that,” I interrupted, hastily.
+
+“But I must say it, because it is true. I shall never be well, but I am
+strong enough now to bear the thought of your leaving me and when the
+time comes I shall insist upon your doing so. I am glad we have had this
+talk, dear. I am glad, too, that you are going to be busy once more in
+the way you like and ought to be. You must tell me about your work every
+day. Now go, because your dinner is ready and, of course, you must be
+getting back to the bank. Kiss me, Boy.”
+
+And as I bent over her she put her arms about my neck.
+
+“Boy,” she whispered, “I know there is some reason for your doing this,
+a reason which you have not told me. You will tell me some day, won't
+you?”
+
+I straightened hurriedly and tried to laugh. “Of course I'll tell you,
+Mother,” I replied. “If there is anything to tell.”
+
+The clam pie was on the table in the dining-room and Dorinda was seated
+majestically before it. Lute was fidgeting in his chair.
+
+“Here he is,” he exclaimed, as I joined the pair at the table. “Ros, how
+did you ever come to do it?”
+
+His wife squelched him, as usual. “If Roscoe's got anything to tell,”
+ she observed, with dignity, “he'll tell it without your help or anybody
+else's. If he ain't, he won't. This pie's colder than it ought to be,
+but that isn't my fault.”
+
+As I ate I told them of my sudden determination to become a laboring
+man. I gave the reasons that I had given Mother.
+
+“Um-hm,” said Dorinda.
+
+“But I can't understand,” pleaded Lute. “You don't need to work, and
+I've sort of took a pride in your not doin' it. If I was well-off, same
+as you be, I bet George Taylor'd have to whistle afore I wore out MY
+brains in his old bank.”
+
+“He wouldn't have time to whistle more'n once,” was Dorinda's comment.
+
+“Now, Dorinda, what kind of talk is that? Wouldn't have time to whistle?
+You do say more things without any sense to 'em! Just talk to hear
+yourself, I cal'late. What are you grinnin' at, Roscoe?”
+
+“I can't imagine, Lute. This clam pie is a triumph. May I have another
+helping, Dorinda?”
+
+Dorinda did not answer, but the second helping was a liberal one. She
+was so quiet and the glances she gave me from time to time were so odd
+that I began to feel uneasy. I was fairly sure that she approved of my
+new venture, but why did she look at me like that?
+
+“Well,” said I, looking at my watch and rising, “what do you think of
+it? Am I doing right?”
+
+Lute leaned back in his chair. “There's consider'ble to be said on that
+subject,” he announced. “Work, as a general thing, I consider all right;
+I've told you that afore. But when it comes to--”
+
+“What do you think, Dorinda?” I interrupted.
+
+Dorinda stirred her tea.
+
+“Think?” she repeated. “I think . . . When's that Colton girl comin' to
+call on Comfort again?”
+
+I had taken my hat from the hook. Now, with it in my hand, I turned and
+faced her.
+
+“How should I know that?” I demanded. “That's a trifle off the subject,
+isn't it?”
+
+“Um-hm,” said Dorinda. “Maybe 'tis.”
+
+I went out hurriedly.
+
+Within the week I was at home in my new position. The strangeness of
+regular hours and regular employment wore away with surprising rapidity.
+There were, of course, mornings when sea and sky and the freshness of
+outdoors tempted me and I wondered whether or not I had been foolish
+to give up my fine and easy life. But these periods of temptation were
+shorter and less frequent as I became more and more familiar with my
+duties and with the routine of the bank. I found myself taking a greater
+interest in the institution and, to my astonishment, I was actually
+sorry when Saturday came. It seemed odd enough to once more have money
+in my pocket which I had earned. It was not a great amount, of course,
+but I felt it to be mine. Yes, there was no doubt about it, I had done
+the right thing, and was glad. I was grateful to Taylor for having given
+me the opportunity. Perhaps I should have been grateful to the person
+whose brutal and impertinent frankness had piqued me into grasping that
+opportunity, but I was not.
+
+She made her second call upon Mother two days after our impromptu picnic
+at Seabury's Pond. I heard all about it when I came home that afternoon.
+It appeared that she had brought more flowers and a fresh supply of
+books. She had remained even longer than on her first visit and she
+and Mother had talked about almost everything under the sun. One topic,
+however, had not been discussed, a fact which my guarded questions made
+certain. She, like myself, had said nothing concerning the day in the
+woods.
+
+“I told her of your consenting to help Mr. Taylor in his dilemma,” said
+Mother.
+
+“Did you?” said I. “It was kind of you to put it in that way.”
+
+“That was the truthful way of putting it, wasn't it? She seemed very
+much interested.”
+
+“Indeed. And surprised, I presume.”
+
+“Why, yes, I think so. She seemed surprised at first; then she laughed;
+I could not understand why. She has a very pleasant laugh, hasn't she?”
+
+“I have never noticed.” This was untrue.
+
+“She has. She is a charming girl. I am sorry you were not here when she
+called. I told her you would be home soon and asked her to wait, but she
+would not.”
+
+“I am glad she didn't.”
+
+“Roscoe!”
+
+“I am, Mother. That young lady comes here to see you merely because she
+has nothing else to do just now. I shouldn't accept too many favors from
+her.”
+
+Mother said I was unreasonable and prejudiced and I did not argue the
+point. Lute and Dorinda discussed the caller at the supper table until I
+was constrained to leave the room. Mabel Colton might amuse herself with
+Mother and the two members of our household whom she had described as
+“characters,” she might delude them into believing her thoughtful and
+sympathetic and without false pride, but I knew better. She had insulted
+me. She had, in so many words, told me that I was lazy and worthless,
+just as she might have told her chauffeur or one of the servants. That
+it was true made no difference. Would she have spoken in that way to--to
+Victor Carver, for instance? Hardly. She was just what I had thought
+her at first, a feminine edition of Victor, with more brains than he
+possessed.
+
+Captain Jed Dean came into the bank the third day after my installation
+as bookkeeper and teller. I was alone in the director's room, going
+over some papers, and he entered and shook hands with me. The old fellow
+professed delight at my presence there.
+
+“George tells me you're takin' hold fust-rate,” he said. “That's good.
+I'm glad to hear it.”
+
+“Why?” I asked. There was a trace of his old pomposity in the speech--or
+I imagined there was--and I chose to resent it. These were the days when
+I was in the mood to resent almost anything.
+
+“Why?” he repeated, in surprise. “What do you mean?”
+
+“Why are you glad?” I said. “I can't see what difference it makes to you
+whether I succeed or not.”
+
+He regarded me with a puzzled expression, but, instead of taking
+offense, he laughed.
+
+“You've got a chip on your shoulder, ain't you, Ros?” he observed.
+“Workin' you too hard at the start, are we?”
+
+“No,” I answered, curtly.
+
+“Then what is the matter?”
+
+“Why, nothing, unless it is that everyone I meet seems to take such
+a great interest in my being here. I believe all of Denboro talks of
+nothing else.”
+
+“Not much else, I shouldn't wonder. But that's to be expected, ain't it?
+Everybody's glad you're makin' good.”
+
+“Humph! They all seem to regard that as the eighth wonder of the world.
+The position doesn't require a marvel of intelligence; almost any one
+with a teaspoonful of brains could fill it.”
+
+“Why no, they couldn't. But that's nothin' to do with it. I see what's
+the matter with you, Ros. You think all hands are knocked on their beam
+ends because you've gone to work. Some of 'em are, that's a fact, and
+you can't blame 'em much, considerin' how long you've lived here without
+doin' anything. But all of 'em that amount to a three-cent piece are
+glad, and the rest don't count anyway. You've made a good many friends
+in this town lately, son.”
+
+I smiled bitterly. “Friends,” I said.
+
+“Why, yes, friends. And friends are worth havin', especially if you
+make 'em without beggin' for their friendship. I give in that you've
+surprised some of us. We didn't know that you had it in you. But your
+standin' up to old Colton was a fine thing, and we appreciated it.”
+
+“That is because you were against his grabbing the Lane.”
+
+“What of it? And 'twan't that altogether. I, for one, ain't complainin'
+because you stood up to me and wouldn't sell to the town. By the way,
+Tim Hallet's gang haven't bothered you lately, have they?”
+
+“No. And I advise them not to.”
+
+He chuckled. “I heard you advised 'em to that effect,” he said. “I ain't
+complainin' at that, either, even though I knew what they was up to and
+thought 'twas more or less of a joke. But I liked the way you fired 'em
+out of there, not carin' a tinker's darn who was behind 'em. So long as
+a man stands square in his boots and don't knuckle to anybody he won't
+lose anything with Jed Dean. That's me!”
+
+“You ought to like Colton, then,” I said. “He hasn't knuckled, much.”
+
+Captain Jed grinned. “Well,” he said, slowly, “I don't object to that in
+him. He seems to be a fighter and that's all right. Maybe if I was one
+of his tribe in New York I should like him. But I ain't. And you ain't,
+Ros. We're both of us country folks, livin' here, and he's a city shark
+buttin' into the feedin' grounds. He wants to hog the whole place and
+you and I say he shan't. I'm thankful to him for one thing: his comin'
+here has waked you up, and it's goin' to make a man of you, or I miss my
+guess.”
+
+I did not answer.
+
+“You mustn't get mad because I talk this way,” he went on. “I'm old
+enough to be your dad, Ros Paine, and I know what I'm talkin' about. I
+never took much of a shine to you in the old days. You was too much of
+what the story books call a 'gentleman' to suit me. I've had to scratch
+all my life for what I've got, but I've got it. When a young, able
+feller like you was contented to loaf around as you did and take no
+interest in nothin', I, naturally, figgered he was no-account. I see
+now I was wrong. All you needed was somethin' to stir you up and set you
+goin'. KEEP goin', that's my advice to you. And so long as you do, and
+don't bend when the pressure gets hard, you'll be somebody afore you
+die. And the friends you've made'll stand back of you.”
+
+“How about the enemies I have made?”
+
+“Enemies? I suppose likely you have made some enemies, but what of it?
+I've made enemies all my life. It ain't because I'm popular here in
+Denboro that I'm what I am. Now is it?”
+
+The truthful answer would have been no. Captain Dean was not popular,
+but he was respected even by the many who disliked and disagreed with
+him. I hesitated, trying to think what to say.
+
+“You know 'tain't that,” he said. “Popularity I never had, though it's
+a pleasant enough thing and sometimes I wish--But there, this ain't
+experience meetin'. I'm glad you're here in this bank. You're smart, and
+George says you are worth more than Henry Small ever was, even so early.
+If you really are what it begins to look as if you are I'm glad for
+Denboro. Maybe there'll be somebody besides George fit to run this town
+after I'm gone.”
+
+I smiled. The last remark was so characteristic that it was funny. He
+was turning away, but he noticed the smile and turned back.
+
+“That's a joke, hey?” he asked.
+
+“Captain,” I said, “you are not consistent. When you and I first talked
+about the Lane you said that you would not blame me if I closed it. If
+it was yours you wouldn't have Tom, Dick, and Harry driving fish carts
+through it.”
+
+“Did I say that?”
+
+“Yes. And you said, on another occasion, that anyone would sell anything
+if they were offered money enough.”
+
+“Humph! Well, sometimes I say 'most anything but my prayers. Matildy
+says I forget them pretty often, but I tell her her Friday night
+speeches are long enough to make up. Maybe I meant what I said to you at
+those times, Ros. I shouldn't wonder if I did. But 'twas a lie just the
+same. There are things I wouldn't sell, of course. Nellie, my daughter's
+one of 'em. She's goin' to get a good husband in George here, but
+her happiness means more to me than money. She's one of the things I
+wouldn't sell. And my Selectman's job is another. I fought for that,
+not so much for the honor, or whatever you call it, but because--well,
+because I wanted to show 'em that I could get it if I set out to. I
+don't presume likely you can understand that feelin'.”
+
+“I think I can,” I answered. “Mr. Colton gave about the same reason for
+his determination to close the Lane. You and he seem to be a good deal
+alike, after all.”
+
+He looked at me from beneath his bushy brows. His mouth twisted in a
+grim smile.
+
+“Say, son,” he said, “if I hadn't been so free with my proclamations
+about bein' your friend you and me would have a settlement for that
+little bit of talk. The Emperor and me alike! Ugh!”
+
+The next afternoon he came in again and asked me to step outside the
+railing. He had something to say to me, he declared.
+
+We sat down together on the settee by the wall.
+
+“Ros,” he said, in a low tone, “have you had any new offer for your
+property? Not from Colton or the town, but from anybody else?”
+
+“No,” I answered. “What do you mean?”
+
+“You ain't heard anything from a Boston firm claimin' to represent the
+Bay Shore Development Company, or some such?”
+
+“No. What sort of a company is that?”
+
+“I don't know; that is, I don't know much about it. But there's talk
+driftin' 'round that a Boston syndicate is cal'latin' to buy up all the
+shore front land from South Ostable to the Bayport line and open it up
+for summer house lots. The name is the Bay Shore Development Company, or
+somethin' like that. You ain't heard from 'em, then?”
+
+“Not a word. Where did your information come from?”
+
+“From nobody in particular. It just seems to be in the air. Alvin Baker
+heard it over to Ostable. The feller that told him got it from somebody
+else, who got it from another somebody, and so on. There's talk about
+good prices bein' offered and, accordin' to Alvin, Ostable folks are
+pretty excited. Elnathan Mullet, who owns that strip below your house,
+knows somethin' about it, I think. I shouldn't wonder if he'd had an
+offer, or a hint, or somethin'. But Elnathan's mouth shuts tighter than
+a muskrat trap and I couldn't get nothin' out of him. He just looked
+knowin' and that was all. But, if it's so, it may mean a heap to
+Denboro.”
+
+I was considering the news when he spoke again.
+
+“It might mean a lot to you, Ros,” he whispered.
+
+“How so?”
+
+“Why, this way: If this concern offered you enough money you might sell
+out to them, mightn't you? Sell all your place, I mean; you could
+get another one easy enough. You ain't particular about livin' by the
+shore.”
+
+“But--you urge me to SELL!” I exclaimed. “Sell the Shore Lane with the
+rest?”
+
+“Why not? You wouldn't be sellin' to Colton. And, if this development
+scheme is what they say it is, there'll be roads cut through all along
+shore. The town could use any of 'em; at least that arrangement might be
+made. Think it over, Ros. If they do offer and offer enough, I'd sell,
+if I was you. Say! that would be a reef under His Majesty's bows, hey?
+Jolt him some, I cal'late.”
+
+I did not answer. This was a new possibility. Of course his reason for
+advising my selling was plain enough, but, leaving the Coltons entirely
+aside, the idea was not without allurement. The town's convenience
+in the matter of a road might be considered, just as he said. And my
+scruples against selling at a profit were, after all, based upon that
+feature.
+
+“You think it over,” he counseled. “Don't say nothin' to nobody, but
+just think--and wait. I'll keep my eye to wind'ard and see what I
+can find out. I tell you honest, Ros, I'll feel safer when I know old
+Imperial's game's blocked for good and all.”
+
+Old Imperial himself made his appearance before closing hours. I looked
+up from my work to see him standing by the window. He had not expected
+to see me there--evidently his daughter had not considered Mother's news
+of sufficient importance to repeat--and, at first, he did not recognize
+me.
+
+“Good afternoon, Mr. Colton,” said I.
+
+He nodded. “Cash this for me, will you,” he said, pushing a check
+through the opening. “What? Hello! What in blazes are you doing in
+there?”
+
+“I am employed here now,” I answered.
+
+“Humph! how long since?”
+
+“Ten days, or such matter.”
+
+“What are you doing in a bank?”
+
+“Banking was my business, at one time.”
+
+“Thought you hadn't any business.”
+
+“I haven't had any, for some years. Now I have. How do you wish this
+money? In tens and fives?”
+
+“Yes. Nothing bigger. Down here it restricts the circulation if you
+spring a twenty dollar bill on them. So you've taken to banking? I was
+thinking of corraling you for a gunning trip one of these days. Now it's
+all off, I suppose.”
+
+“It looks that way. Sorry I am to be deprived of the pleasure.”
+
+“Humph!” Then, with one of his sudden changes, “How big a business does
+this concern do? What do your deposits amount to?”
+
+I gave him the figures, as printed in the yearly statement. He made no
+comment. Instead he observed, “You haven't been around to accept that
+offer of mine yet, Paine.”
+
+“Not yet,” I answered.
+
+“Suppose I ought to raise it, now that you're a financier yourself.
+However, I shan't.”
+
+“I haven't asked you to.”
+
+He smiled. “No, you haven't,” he said. “Well, it is open--for a while.
+If I were you I'd accept it pretty soon.”
+
+“Possibly.”
+
+“Meaning that I am not you, hey? I'm not. I haven't your high
+principles, Paine. Can't afford 'em. You're what they call a
+'Progressive' in politics, too, aren't you?”
+
+“Here is your money,” I said, ignoring the question.
+
+“I'll bet you are!” he declared, taking the bills. “I never saw one of
+you high-principled chaps yet that wasn't--until he got rich enough to
+be something else. Progress is all right, maybe, but I notice that you
+fellows pay for it and the rest of us get it. Just as I am going to get
+that land of yours.”
+
+“You haven't got it yet,” I said, serenely. I had made up my mind that
+this time he should not provoke me into losing my temper.
+
+He seemed to divine my determination. His eye twinkled. “You're
+improving, Paine,” he observed. “I'll give you a piece of advice; it has
+cost me a good deal to learn, but I'll give it to you: Don't ever let
+the other fellow make you mad.”
+
+I remembered our first interview and I could not resist the temptation
+to retort.
+
+“If my recollection is correct,” I said, “you forgot that the first time
+we met.”
+
+He laughed aloud. “So I did,” he admitted. “Maybe if I hadn't it would
+not cost me so much to get my own way in your case.”
+
+He walked out of the building. I heard one exclamation from behind and,
+turning, saw Sam Wheeler, my youthful assistant, staring at me.
+
+“My--gosh!” exclaimed Sam, his tone a mixture of wonder and admiration,
+“I don't see how you dast to talk back to him like that, Ros. He'll sic
+the--the 'System' onto you, won't he?”
+
+It was evident that Sam had been reading the magazines.
+
+I heard no more from Captain Jed and nothing from the mysterious
+“Development Company” for the remainder of that week. But on Sunday, as
+I sat in the boat house, smoking my after dinner pipe and reading, Lute
+excitedly entered, followed by a well-dressed, smooth-shaven man of
+middle age, whom he introduced as Mr. Keene of Boston, “who's driven all
+the way from Ostable a-purpose to see you, Ros.”
+
+Mr. Keene shook hands with me cordially and apologized for intruding
+upon my day of rest. He intended returning to the city in the morning,
+he said, and, as he had a little matter to discuss with me, had taken
+the liberty of calling. “I shan't take more than half an hour of your
+time, Mr. Paine,” he explained. “At least I feel certain that you and I
+can reach an agreement in that period. If I might be alone with you--”
+
+This hint, evidently intended for Lute's benefit, was quite lost upon
+the last named individual, who had seated himself on the edge of the
+work bench and was listening with both ears. I was obliged to tell
+him that his presence was superfluous and request his returning to the
+house, which he reluctantly did, moving slowly and looking back with
+an expression of grieved disappointment. After he had gone I asked Mr.
+Keene what his “little matter” might be.
+
+His reply was prompt and to the point. He gave me his card. He was, it
+seemed, junior partner in the firm of Barclay and Keene, real estate
+brokers and promoters, Milk Street, Boston. And, just now, he was acting
+as representative of the Bay Shore Development Company. “A concern of
+which, in spite of all our precautions and attempts at secrecy, you may,
+perhaps, have heard, Mr. Paine,” he added, smiling.
+
+I admitted that I had heard rumors concerning the company's existence.
+But, except for these very vague rumors, I knew nothing about it.
+
+He expected that, he said, and was glad to give me further and complete
+information. In fact, that was his reason for coming so many miles to
+see me. If I would be good enough to listen he would tell me just what
+the Bay Shore Company was and what it contemplated doing.
+
+I listened and he talked. According to him the Bay Shore syndicate--that
+is what it was, a syndicate of capitalists--represented one of the
+biggest real estate propositions ever conceived. Those behind it were
+awake to the possibilities of the Cape as a summer resort. Shore land,
+water front property in the vicinity, was destined to increase in value,
+provided it was properly exploited and developed. The company's idea was
+to do just that--exploit and develop.
+
+“We've been quietly looking about,” he continued, “and are all ready for
+the preliminaries. And naturally, the first preliminary is to secure the
+land to develop. You have some of that land, Mr. Paine. We know just how
+much, as we do the holdings of every other party we have approached
+or intend to approach. I am here to get your figures and, if possible,
+conclude the purchase of your property this afternoon. It is Sunday,
+of course,” he added, with a good-humored laugh, “and contracts signed
+to-day are not legal; but we can make a verbal contract and the papers
+may be signed later. I will defer my departure until the afternoon train
+to-morrow for that purpose. Now name your figure, Mr. Paine.”
+
+Of course I had guessed what was coming. If I intended to sell at all
+here was my opportunity to do so--to, as Captain Jed expressed it,
+“block Colton's game” without sacrificing the principle for which I had
+fought, and make a good bit of money for myself. Another home near by
+could be secured, I had no doubt, and to it Mother might be safely and
+easily moved. Yet I hesitated to express even a qualified willingness.
+
+“You appear to be certain that I will sell,” I observed. “Isn't that
+taking a good deal for granted, Mr. Keene?”
+
+He smiled--in fact he smiled almost too often to please me. There is
+such a thing as being too cordial and good-natured; and he was so very
+friendly on short acquaintance.
+
+“I understand,” he said. “I have heard about you, Mr. Paine. This,
+however, is a different matter. We are not hogs, Mr. Paine, but business
+men. If our plans go through, Denboro will be grateful to us and to
+you.”
+
+“IF they go through? I thought you were certain of their going through.”
+
+“Certainly, certainly. There is, of course, an 'if' in all human plans,
+but our particular 'if' is a small one. I hope you will name your figure
+now, at once. Don't be afraid. We are disposed to be liberal. And,
+understand, this is entirely a cash transaction. You shall have the
+money in one hand as you sign the contract with the other. Ha! ha! What
+is the price to be?”
+
+But I would not name a price. I seemed to feel as unreasonably reluctant
+to close with the Bay Shore Development Company as I had been with
+Captain Jed or Colton.
+
+“Shall I make a bid?” asked Keene.
+
+“No, not yet at any rate. Tell me, this: Whose land have you already
+bought?”
+
+He shook his head. “That, of course,” he said, with the same gracious
+smile, “I can hardly tell even to you. Some of the deals are not yet
+closed, and, as a business man yourself, Mr. Paine, you--”
+
+“I am not a business man,” I interrupted, impatiently. “At least, not
+much of a one. You say there are capitalists behind your scheme. Who are
+they?”
+
+He laid his hand on my knee. “Why, that,” he said, “is a secret no
+one is supposed to know. Men--financiers such as we are proud to
+serve--permit their names to be known only when the corporation is ready
+to begin actual operations. That is natural enough. If I were to
+mention names--well, some of your Yankee neighbors would want to become
+millionaires before selling.”
+
+There was truth in this. I imagine that he guessed he had made an
+impression, for he went on to shout his praises of the company and the
+greatness of its plan. He talked and talked; in fact he talked too much.
+I did not like to hear him. I did not like HIM, that was the trouble. He
+was too smooth and voluble altogether. And he made a mistake in patting
+my knee.
+
+“Very well,” said I, rising from my chair; “I'll think it over.”
+
+He was plainly disappointed. “I don't wish to hurry you, of course,” he
+said, not moving from his chair, “but we are anxious to close. This is
+to be cash, remember, and I stand ready to make an offer. I am sure we
+can reach an agreement, satisfactory to both sides, Mr. Paine.”
+
+“Perhaps, but I prefer to think the matter over before naming a price or
+hearing your offer.”
+
+As a matter of fact I did not intend to sell, or consider selling, until
+I had discussed the whole affair with Mother. But there was no need to
+tell him that.
+
+“I am sorry, I confess,” he said. “I hoped this particular deal might be
+closed. We have so many of these little details, Mr. Paine, and time
+is money. However, if you insist upon it, I presume the company will be
+willing to wait a few days.”
+
+“I am afraid it will have to.”
+
+“Very well, very well. I shall be down again in a day or two. Of course,
+waiting may have some effect upon the price. To-day I was empowered to
+. . . You don't care to hear? Very well. So glad to have met you, Mr.
+Paine. Of course you will not mention the subject of our interview to
+anyone. Business secrets, you know. Thank you, thank you. And I will see
+you again--Thursday, shall we say?”
+
+I refused to say Thursday, principally because he had said it first. I
+suggested Saturday instead. He agreed, shook hands as if I were an old
+friend from whom he parted with regret, and left me.
+
+No, I did not like Mr. Keene. He was too polite and too familiar. And,
+as I thought over his words, the whole prospectus of the Bay Shore
+Development Company seemed singularly vague. The proposal to buy my land
+was definite enough, but the rest of it was, apparently, very much in
+the air. There was too much secrecy about it. No one was to tell anyone
+anything. I was glad I had insisted upon time for consideration. I
+intended to consider thoroughly.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+
+When I left the boat house I did not go directly home, but wandered
+along the beach. I had puzzled my brain with Mr. Keene and his
+errand until I determined not to puzzle it any longer that day. If my
+suspicions were unfounded and existed merely because of my dislike of
+the Bay Shore Company's representative, then they were not worth worry.
+If they were well founded I had almost a week in which to discover the
+fact. I would dismiss the whole matter from my thoughts. The question
+as to whether or not I would sell the land at all to anybody, which was,
+after all, the real question, I resolved to put off answering until I
+had had my talk with Mother.
+
+I walked on by the water's edge until I reached the Lane; turning into
+that much coveted strip of territory I continued until I came opposite
+the Colton mansion, where, turning again, I strolled homeward by the
+path through the grove. Unconsciously my wandering thoughts strayed to
+Mabel Colton. It was here that I had met her on two occasions. I had an
+odd feeling that I should meet her here again, that she was here now.
+I had no reason for thinking such a thing, certainly the wish was not
+father to the thought, but at every bend in the path, as the undergrowth
+hid the way, I expected, as I turned the corner, to see her coming
+toward me.
+
+But the path was, save for myself, untenanted. I was almost at its end,
+where the pines and bushes were scattering and the field of daisies, now
+in full bloom, began, when I heard a slight sound at my left. I looked
+in the direction of the sound and saw her. She was standing beneath a
+gnarled, moss-draped old pine by the bluff edge, looking out over the
+bay.
+
+I stopped, involuntarily. Then I moved on again, as noiselessly as I
+could. But at my first step she turned and saw me. I raised my hat.
+She bowed, coldly, so it seemed to my supersensitive imagination, and
+I replaced the hat and continued my walk. I thought I heard the bushes
+near which she stood rustle as if she had moved, but I did not look
+back.
+
+Then, close behind me, I heard her voice.
+
+“Mr. Paine,” she said.
+
+I turned. She had followed me and was standing in the path, a bit out
+of breath, as if she had hurried. I waited for her to speak, but she did
+not.
+
+“Good afternoon, Miss Colton,” I said, awkwardly. Some one had to speak,
+we could not stand staring at each other like that.
+
+She said “Good afternoon,” also. Then there was another interval of
+silence.
+
+“You--you wished to speak to me?” I stammered.
+
+“I DID speak to you,” with significant emphasis on the “did.” “I thought
+you might, possibly, be interested to know that Don and I reached home
+safely the other day.”
+
+Considering that she had called upon Mother since, it seemed to me
+that my knowledge of her reaching home safely might have been taken for
+granted; but I said:
+
+“I am very glad to hear it, Miss Colton.”
+
+“We had no difficulty in finding the way after you left us.”
+
+The way being almost straight, and over the main traveled roads, this,
+too, was fairly obvious.
+
+“I felt sure you would have no trouble--after I left you,” I answered,
+with a significant emphasis of my own.
+
+She did not reply and, as I had nothing further to say, I waited for her
+to continue, or to break off the interview. She did neither, but stood,
+as if irresolute, looking down and stirring with her foot the leaves at
+the edge of the path. Suddenly she looked up.
+
+“Mr. Paine,” she said, “you are making it hard for me to say what I
+intended. But I think I should say it, and so I will. I beg your pardon
+for speaking as I did when I last saw you. I had no right to judge or
+criticize you, none whatever.”
+
+“You do not need to apologize, Miss Colton. What you told me was
+probably true enough.”
+
+The conventional answer to this would have been a half-hearted denial of
+my statement. I presume I expected something of the sort. But this girl
+was not conventional.
+
+“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “I think it was. If I had not thought so
+I should not have said it. But that makes no difference. You and I are
+strangers, almost, and I had no right to speak as I did. I am impulsive,
+I know it, and I often do and say things on impulse which I am sorry for
+afterward. I offended you.”
+
+“Oh no, no,” I put in, hurriedly. She had offended me, but this frank
+confession touched me more than the offense had hurt. She was doing a
+hard thing and doing it handsomely.
+
+“Yes, I offended you,” she repeated, firmly. “I have considered the
+matter a good deal since then, and it seems to me that you were right to
+feel offended. You had been very kind to me on several occasions and I
+had been your”--with a half smile--“your guest that day. I should not
+have hurt your feelings. Will you accept my apology?”
+
+“Why, yes, of course, since you insist, Miss Colton.”
+
+“Thank you.”
+
+She was turning to go; and I could not let her go thus. Although she had
+apologized for speaking her thought she had not retracted the thought
+itself. I was seized with a desire for justification in her eyes. I
+wanted to explain; forgetting for the moment that explanations were
+impossible.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said, impulsively.
+
+“Yes?”
+
+“May I--may I say a word?”
+
+“Certainly, if you wish.”
+
+She turned again and faced me.
+
+“Miss Colton, I--I--” I began, and paused.
+
+“Well?” she said, patiently, “What is it?”
+
+“Miss Colton,” I blundered on, “you should not have apologized. You were
+right. Your estimate of me was pretty nearly correct. I realized that
+when you gave it and I have been realizing it ever since. I deserved
+what I got--perhaps. But I should not wish you to think--that is,
+I--well, I had reasons, they seemed to me reasons, for being what I
+was--what I am. I doubt if they were altogether good reasons; I am
+inclined now to think they were not. But I had come to think them good.
+You see, I--I--”
+
+I stopped, face to face with the fact that I could not give those
+reasons to her or any one else. She was looking at me expectantly, and
+with, so it seemed to me, an expression of real, almost eager interest.
+I faltered, tried to go on, and then surrendered, absolutely, to the
+hopelessness of the situation.
+
+“It is no use,” I said, “I can't tell you what those reasons were.”
+
+I turned as I said it. I did not care to see her expression change. I
+knew what she must be thinking and I had no desire to read the thought
+in her eyes. I stood there, waiting for her to leave in disgust.
+
+“I can't tell you,” I repeated, stubbornly.
+
+“Very well.” Her tone was as coldly indifferent as I had anticipated.
+“Was that all you wished to say to me, Mr. Paine?”
+
+“Miss Colton, I should like to explain if I could. But I cannot.”
+
+“Pray don't trouble yourself. I assure you I had no intentions of asking
+for your--reasons. Good afternoon.”
+
+I heard her skirts brush the leaves at the border of the path. She was
+going; and the contemptuous slur at my “reasons” proved that she did not
+believe them existent. She believed me to be a liar.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said, sharply; “wait.”
+
+She kept on.
+
+“Wait,” I said again. “Listen to me.”
+
+She seemed to hesitate and then turned her head.
+
+“I am listening,” she said. “What is it?”
+
+“You have no right to disbelieve me.”
+
+“I disbelieve you? Why should you think I disbelieve you? I am not
+sufficiently interested to believe or disbelieve, I assure you.”
+
+“But you do. You judge me--”
+
+“_I_ judge you! You flatter yourself, Mr. Paine.”
+
+“But you do. You apologized just now for judging me without a hearing
+the other day. You acknowledged that you should not have done it. You
+are doing the same thing now.”
+
+“I apologized for presuming to offer advice to a stranger. I did not
+apologize for the advice itself. I think it good. I do not care to argue
+the matter further.”
+
+“You are not asked to argue. But your sneer at my reasons proves that
+you believe that I have none and am merely trying to justify myself with
+trumped up and lying excuses. You are wrong, and since you presumed to
+judge me then you must listen to me now. I have--or had--reasons for
+living as I have done, for being the idler and good-for-nothing you
+believe me to be. I can't tell you what they are; I can tell no one. But
+I do ask you to believe that I have them, that they are real, and that
+my being what you termed ambitionless and a country loafer is not my
+condition from choice. It is my right to insist upon your believing
+that. Do you believe it?”
+
+At last I had made an impression. My earnestness seemed to have shaken
+her contemptuous indifference. She looked at me steadily, frowning a
+little, but regarding me less as if I were a clod and more and more as
+if I were the puzzle she had once declared me to be. I did not shun her
+look now, but met it eye to eye.
+
+“Do you believe me?” I demanded.
+
+Slowly her frown was disappearing.
+
+“Do you believe me?” I said, again. “You must.”
+
+“Must?”
+
+“Yes, you must. I shall make you. If not now, at some other time. You
+must believe me, Miss Colton.”
+
+The frown disappeared altogether and she smiled.
+
+“If you order me to I suppose I must,” she said, with a shrug of mock
+resignation. “I should have learned by this time that it is useless to
+say no when you say yes, Mr. Paine.”
+
+“But do you?”
+
+She turned altogether and faced me.
+
+“I am very glad to believe you,” she said, with simple directness.
+
+I stammered a “Thank you” and was silent. I dared not trust myself to
+speak at the moment. Somehow the sincerity of her words moved me far
+more than their trifling import warranted. She had declared her belief
+that I was not a liar, that was all; and yet I stood there fighting down
+all sorts of ridiculous emotions. The situation was decidedly strained,
+but, as usual, she saved it.
+
+“It seems to me,” she said, with the twinkle which I had learned
+to recognize as a forerunner of mischief on her part, “that you are
+inclined to make mountains out of mole-hills, Mr. Paine. Was there any
+need to be quite so fiercely tragic? And, besides, I think that even now
+you have not told the whole truth.”
+
+“The whole truth? Why, Miss Colton, I have just explained that--”
+
+“Oh, not that truth! Your mysterious 'reasons' are not my affair. And
+I have told you that I was willing to take those on trust. But you have
+not been quite truthful in another particular. You intimated that you
+were an idler. I have been given to understand that you are far from
+being an idler just now.”
+
+I was relieved. “Oh, I see!” I exclaimed. “You mean--some one has told
+you of my employment at the bank.”
+
+“A number of persons have told me. Surely you did not expect to keep
+THAT a secret--in Denboro?”
+
+“Well, scarcely,” I admitted, with a laugh. “That was known almost
+before I was sure of it myself. You should have seen Eldredge's face
+when I announced my intention. And Lute--Mrs. Rogers' husband--hasn't
+completely recovered yet. The sight of me, actually trying to earn a
+living, was too much for him. You see what a miracle worker you are,
+Miss Colton.”
+
+“Did you really accept the position simply because of what I said to
+you?”
+
+“Yes. The chance had been offered me before, but it was your frankness
+that shocked me into taking it.”
+
+“Not really? You are joking.”
+
+“No, I'm not. You are responsible. Are you sorry?”
+
+Her answer was a question.
+
+“Are you?” she asked.
+
+“No. At first it seemed ridiculous and strange, even to myself; but now
+I like the work. It is like old times.”
+
+“Old times?”
+
+I was forgetting myself again; talking too much was a dangerous
+train--for me. I laughed, with pretended carelessness.
+
+“Why, yes; I was employed in a bank at one time. I think I told you
+that. Have you been motoring much of late, Miss Colton?”
+
+“Yes. Tell me, please: You really like your work?”
+
+“Yes, I do.”
+
+“Then I will answer your question. I am not a bit sorry. I am glad I was
+impertinent and intrusive, especially now that I have apologized and
+you have accepted the apology. I am very glad I told you you should do
+something worth while.”
+
+“Even if it were nothing more than to follow Thoph Newcomb's example and
+sell fish.”
+
+“Yes,” laughingly, “even that. I WAS impertinent, wasn't I! I don't
+wonder you were offended.”
+
+“I needed the impertinence, I guess. But frankly, Miss Colton, I can't
+see why you should be glad because I have gone to work. I can't see what
+difference my working or idling can possibly make to you.”
+
+“Oh, it doesn't, of course--except on general principles. I am a
+dreadful idler myself; but then, I am a woman, and idleness is a woman's
+right.”
+
+I thought of Dorinda and of the other housewives of Denboro and how
+little of that particular “right” they enjoyed; which thought brought
+again and forcibly to my mind the difference between this girl's life
+and theirs--and Mother's--and my own.
+
+“A man,” continued Miss Colton, sagely, “should not idle. He should work
+and work hard--so that the rest of us may be as good for nothing as we
+please. That is philosophy, isn't it?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You were good enough not to say what sort of philosophy. Thank you. But
+seriously, Mr. Paine, I am fond of your mother--very fond, considering
+our short acquaintance--and when I saw her lying there, so patient, and
+deprived of the little luxuries and conveniences which she needs, and
+which a little more money might bring to her, it seemed to me . . .
+Gracious! what a lot of nonsense I am talking! What is the matter with
+me this afternoon? Do let's change the subject. Have you sold your land
+yet, Mr. Paine? Of course you haven't! That is more nonsense, isn't it.”
+
+I think she had again spoken merely on the impulse of the moment;
+doubtless there was no deliberate intention on her part to bring me to a
+realization of my position, the position I occupied in her thoughts;
+but if she had had such an intent she could not have done it more
+effectively. She believed me to have been neglecting Mother, and her
+interest in my “doing something worth while” was inspired merely because
+she wished Mother to be supplied with those “luxuries and conveniences”
+ she had mentioned. Well, my question was answered; this was the
+difference my working or idling made to her. And, for a minute or two,
+I had been foolish enough to fancy her interested, as a friend, in my
+success or failure in life. I might have known better. And yet, because
+of the novelty of the thing, because I had so few friends, I felt a pang
+of disappointment.
+
+But I resolved she should not know she had disappointed me. I might have
+been a fool, but I would keep my foolishness a secret.
+
+“No, Miss Colton,” I said, with a smile, “I haven't sold yet.”
+
+“Father said he saw you at the bank. Did he say anything about the
+land?”
+
+“He said his offer was still open, that was all.”
+
+“You are resolved not to sell.”
+
+“To him? Yes, I am resolved. I think he knows it. I tried to make it
+plain.”
+
+“You say to him. Are you thinking of selling to any one else? To the
+town?”
+
+“No. Probably not to any one. Certainly not to your father or the town.”
+
+She looked at me, with an odd expression, and seemed to hesitate.
+
+“Mr. Paine,” she said, slowly, “would you resent my giving you another
+bit of--advice?”
+
+“Not at all. What is it this time?”
+
+“Why, nothing. I must not give you any advice at all. I won't. Instead
+I'll give you one of Father's pet proverbs. It isn't an elegant one, but
+he is very fond of repeating it. 'There are more ways of killing a cat
+than choking it to death with butter.' There! you will admit it is not
+elegant.”
+
+“But Miss Colton! Killing a cat! What in the world?”
+
+“You mustn't ask me. I shouldn't have said even that. But remember, it
+is father's pet proverb. I must go. Please give my love to your mother
+and tell her I shall call again soon. Good-by.”
+
+She walked briskly away and did not look back. I went home. I thought a
+great deal during the evening and until late that night. When, at last,
+I did go to bed I had not made much progress in the problem of the cat,
+but I did believe that there was a rat in the vicinity. I was beginning
+to scent one. If I was not mistaken it called itself the Bay Shore
+Development Company.
+
+I said nothing to Mother of the new proposal to buy our land, but next
+morning at the bank I wrote a letter to the cashier of a bank in Boston,
+one of our correspondents, and with which our little institution was on
+very friendly terms. I asked the cashier to make some guarded inquiries
+concerning the Bay Shore Company, to find out, if possible, who was
+behind it and also to inquire concerning Barclay and Keene, the real
+estate brokers of Milk Street.
+
+The reply to my letter reached me on Friday. It was satisfactory,
+eminently so. And when, on Saturday afternoon, Mr. Keene, bland and
+smiling as ever, made his appearance at the house, I was ready for him.
+I stood on the step and made no move to invite him within. “Well, Mr.
+Paine,” he said, cordially, “are you ready to talk business?”
+
+“Quite ready,” I answered.
+
+He beamed with satisfaction.
+
+“Good!” he exclaimed. “Then what is your figure?”
+
+“My figure is a naught,” I replied, with emphasis. “You may tell your
+employer that I do not care to sell the land to him, no matter whether
+he calls himself James Colton or the Bay Shore Development Company. Oh
+yes; and, if you like, you may add that this particular cat declines to
+be choked.”
+
+Mr. Keene showed signs of choking, himself, and I shut the door and left
+him outside. Lute, who had been listening at the dining-room window and
+had heard only fragments of the brief interview, was in a state of added
+incoherence.
+
+“Well, by time!” he gasped. “What--what sort of talk was that? Chokin' a
+cat! A cat!! We ain't got no cat.”
+
+“Haven't we?” I observed. “Why, no, so we haven't! Perhaps you had
+better explain that to Mr. Keene, Lute. It may help him to understand
+the situation. And add that I suggest his telling the person who sent
+him here that soft-soap is no improvement on butter.”
+
+I think Lute did tell him just that, doubtless with all sorts of excuses
+for my insanity, for the next day, Sunday, as I walked along the beach,
+a big body came ploughing down the sandy slope and joined me.
+
+“Hello!” said Colton.
+
+“Good morning,” said I.
+
+“How are independence and public spirit these days?”
+
+“Very well, thank you. How are Development Companies developing?”
+
+He put back his head and laughed. He did not seem a bit chagrined or
+discomfited. The joke was on him, but he could enjoy it, nevertheless.
+In spite of my antagonism toward this man I could not help admiring
+certain traits of his character. He was big, in every way. Little
+repulses or setbacks did not trouble him.
+
+“Say,” he said, “how did you know about that cat?”
+
+“Saw his footprints,” I replied. “They were all over the scheme. And
+your friend Keene purred too loud.”
+
+“I don't mean that. Keene was a fool; that was plain enough for anyone
+to see. I had to use him; if Barclay hadn't been sick it might have
+been different. But how did you come to send me that message about the
+butter? Man, that is one of my favorite sayings--the choking the cat
+thing! How did you know that? I never said it to you.”
+
+“Oh, it is an old saying. I have heard it often; and it did seem to fit
+in this case. I imagined you would understand and appreciate.”
+
+“Um--yes,” dryly. “I appreciated all right. As to understanding--well,
+I'll understand later on. That's another little conundrum for me to
+work out. Somebody's been talking, of course. Here! hold on!” as I was
+walking away: “Don't go. I want to talk to you.”
+
+He characteristically did not ask whether or not I wanted to talk to
+him, but, as I happened to be in no hurry, I stopped and waited for him
+to continue. He thrust his hands into his pockets and looked me over,
+very much as he might have looked over a horse he was thinking of
+buying.
+
+“Paine,” he said, suddenly, “do you want to go to work?”
+
+“Work?” I repeated. “I am at work already.”
+
+“You've got a job, such as it is. It might be work for the average jay,
+but it isn't for you. I'll give you something to work at--yes, and work
+for.”
+
+I stared at him in wondering suspicion.
+
+“What is this; another Development Company?” I demanded.
+
+“Ha! ha! not this time. No, this is straight. If you'll say that you'll
+work for me I'll make an opening for you in my New York office.”
+
+I did not answer. I was trying to fathom the motive behind this new
+move.
+
+“I'll put you to work in my office,” he went on. “It may not be much to
+begin with, but you can make it anything you like; that'll be up to you.
+As to salary--well, I don't know what you're getting in that one-horse
+bank, but I'll double it, whatever it is. That will be the start, of
+course. After that it is up to you, as I said.”
+
+“Mr. Colton this may be a good joke, but I don't see it--yet.”
+
+“I don't joke often in business; can't afford to.”
+
+“You are really serious? You mean what you say?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“But why? You don't know anything about me.”
+
+“I know all that is necessary. And I have found out that you are all
+right, so far as bank work goes. That fellow Taylor and some others told
+me that. But I didn't need their telling. Why, man, it is part of my
+trade to know men when I see them. I have to know 'em. I said a while
+ago that you didn't belong in this forsaken hole of a town. God knows
+it IS forsaken! Even my wife is beginning to admit that, and she was the
+keenest to come here. Some day I shall get sick of it and sell out, I
+suppose.”
+
+“Sell out?”
+
+“Oh, not yet. Mabel--my daughter--seems to like it here, for some
+unknown reason, and wants to stay. And I don't intend to sell until I've
+bought--what I set out to buy. But I'm not the subject we're talking
+about just now. You are. Come! here's your chance to be somebody. More
+chance than I had, I'll tell you that. You can go to work in my office
+next week, if you want to. Will you?”
+
+I laughed at the idea. I believed I had found the motive I was seeking.
+“Of course not,” I said. “You can't close the Lane by that kind of
+bribery, Mr. Colton.”
+
+“Bribery be hanged! Come, come, Paine! Wake up, or I shall think your
+brains aren't up to standard, after all. When I bribe I bribe. When I
+ask a man to work for me there are no strings tied to the offer. Forget
+your picayune land for a minute. Time enough to remember that when I've
+got it, which will be some day or other, of course. I'm making you this
+offer because I want you. You're sharp; you saw through that Development
+game. You're clever--your sending me that 'cat' message proves it. And
+your not telling me where the idea for the message came from proves that
+you can keep your mouth shut. I could use a dozen fellows like you, if
+I could get them. You interested me right at the start. A chap with sand
+enough to tell Jim Colton to go to the devil is always interesting. I'm
+offering you this chance because I think it is a good chance for both
+of us. Yes, and because I like you, I suppose, in spite of your
+pig-headedness. Will you take it?”
+
+“No, thank you,” I answered.
+
+“Why? Because you can't leave your sick mother? She'll be all right.
+I was talking with the doctor--Quimby, his name is, isn't it--and he
+happened to mention that he was encouraged about her. Said she had been
+distinctly better for the last month.”
+
+I could not believe it. Doctor Quimby had said nothing of the sort to
+me. It was impossible. Mother BETTER!
+
+“That doesn't mean she is going to be well and strong again, of course,”
+ he added, not unkindly. “But I think Quimby believes she may be well
+enough to--perhaps--sit up one of these days. Be wheeled about in a
+chair, or something of that sort . . . Why! what is the matter? You
+looked as if I had knocked you out. Hasn't the doctor said anything to
+you?”
+
+“No,” I stammered. I WAS knocked out. I could not believe it. Mother,
+the bed-ridden invalid of six long years, to be well enough to sit up!
+to use a wheeled chair! It could not be true. It was too good to be
+true.
+
+“So, you see, you could leave her all right,” went on Colton. “If it was
+necessary you could get a nurse down here to look after her while you
+were away. And you might get home every fortnight or so. Better take my
+offer, Paine. Come!” with a grunt of impatient amusement, “don't keep me
+waiting too long. I am not used to coaxing people to work for me; it is
+usually the other way around. This offer of mine happens to be pretty
+nearly a disinterested one, and,” with one of his dry smiles, “all my
+offers are not that kind, as you ought to know. Will you say yes now? Or
+do you want till to-morrow to think it over?”
+
+The news concerning Mother had upset me greatly, but my common-sense was
+not all gone. That there was something behind his offer I believed, but,
+even if there were not--if it was disinterested and made simply because
+my unearthing of the Bay Shore “cat” had caught his fancy--I did not
+consider for a moment accepting it. Not if Mother was like other women,
+well and strong, would I have accepted it. In Denboro I was Roscoe
+Paine, and my life story was my own secret. In New York how long would
+it be before that secret and my real name were known, and all the old
+disgrace and scandal resurrected?
+
+“What do you say?” asked Colton, again. “Want more time to think about
+it, do you?”
+
+I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “I have had time enough. I am obliged
+for the offer and I appreciate your kindness, but I cannot accept.”
+
+I expected him to express impatience or, perhaps, anger; at least to ask
+my reasons for declining. But his only utterance was a “Humph!” For a
+moment he regarded me keenly. Then he said:
+
+“Haven't got the answer yet, have I? All right. Well,” briskly, “when
+are you and I going on that shooting trip?”
+
+“There is no shooting at present,” I answered, as soon as I could adjust
+my mind to this new switch in the conversation.
+
+“That so? Any fishing?”
+
+“I believe the squiteague are running outside. I heard they were.”
+
+“What? Squit--which?”
+
+“Squiteague. Weakfish some people call them.”
+
+“They are pretty fair sport, aren't they?”
+
+“Yes, fair. Nothing like bluefish, however.”
+
+“All right. What is the matter with our going squint--squint--something
+or othering one of these days? Will you go? Or are you as pig-headed
+about that as you are about other things?”
+
+I laughed. “Not quite,” I said. “I should be glad of your company, Mr.
+Colton.”
+
+“Next Saturday suit you?”
+
+“Yes. After bank hours.”
+
+“All right. I'll look after the boat. You provide the bait and tackle.
+That's fair, isn't it? Right. Be on hand at my dock at one o'clock.
+Morning.”
+
+He walked off. Neither of us had thought of the tide--he, probably, not
+realizing that high water was an important factor, and I being too much
+agitated by what he had said about Mother, and the suddenness with which
+the fishing trip was planned, to think calmly of anything.
+
+That week was a strange one to me, and the first of many strange ones.
+My manner of life was changing, although I did not realize it and
+although the change came through no effort of my own. Our house, which
+had been so long almost a hermitage, if a home containing four persons
+might be called that, was gradually becoming a social center. Matilda
+Dean had called once a week regularly for some time and this particular
+week Captain Jed came with her. Captain Elisha Warren and his cousin and
+housekeeper, Miss Abbie Baker, drove down for a half-hour's stay. George
+Taylor and Nellie spent an evening with us. I feared the unaccustomed
+rush of company might have a bad effect upon Mother, but she seemed
+actually the better for it. She professed to believe that Denboro was
+awakening to the fact of my merits as a man and a citizen. “They are
+finding you out at last, Boy,” she said. I laughed at her. I knew
+better. It was because of my position in the bank that these people
+came. I was making good there, apparently, and the surprise at
+this caused Captain Warren and the rest to take a new, and no doubt
+transitory interest in me.
+
+And I thought I knew Captain Jed's reason for coming. An interview
+between us gave me the inkling. Matilda was in Mother's room and Dean
+and I were together in the dining-room.
+
+“Ros,” said the captain, suddenly, “you ain't backin' water, are you?”
+
+“Backing water? What do you mean by that?”
+
+“In this Lane business. You ain't cal'latin' to sell out to Colton,
+after all?”
+
+“Well, hardly. Why do you say that?”
+
+“Nothin', maybe. But they tell me you're kind of thick with the R'yal
+family lately. Beriah Holt says he see you and the Colton girl come out
+of the woods back of his place one afternoon a spell ago. She was on
+horseback and you was walkin', but Beriah says you and she was mighty
+friendly.”
+
+I might have expected this. In Denboro one does few things unnoticed.
+
+“She had lost her way in the woods and I helped her to find the road
+home,” I said, “that was all.”
+
+“Hum! You helped her to find the road the night of the strawberry
+festival, too, didn't you?”
+
+“How in the world did you find that out?”
+
+“Oh, it just sort of drifted around. I've got pretty big ears--maybe
+you've noticed 'em--and they gen'rally catch some of what's blowin'
+past. There was a coachman mixed up in that night's work and he talked
+some, I shouldn't wonder; most of his kind do.”
+
+“Well, what of it?” I asked, sharply. “I helped her as I would your
+daughter if she had been caught alone in a storm like that. I should
+have been ashamed not to.”
+
+“Sartin! Needn't get mad about it. What's this about your takin' his
+Majesty off fishin' next Saturday?”
+
+All of my personal affairs seemed to be common property. I was losing my
+temper in spite of my recent good resolutions.
+
+“Look here, Captain Dean,” I said, “I have a right to take any one
+fishing, if I choose. Mr. Colton asked me to do it and I saw no reason
+for saying no.”
+
+“Funny he should ask you. He ain't asked anybody else in town.”
+
+“I don't know that and I don't care. I shall do as I please. I have
+no grievance against the Coltons. I shall not sell them my land, but I
+reserve the right to meet them--yes, and to associate with them--if I
+choose. You and your friends may as well understand that, Captain.”
+
+“There! there! don't get huffy. I ain't got the right to say what your
+rights are, Ros. And I don't think for a minute you'd back water on the
+Lane business a-purpose. But I do think you're takin' chances. I tell
+you, honest, I'm scart of old Colton, in a way, and I ain't scart
+of many folks. He's a fighter and he's smart. He and I have had some
+talks--”
+
+“You have?” I interrupted.
+
+“Yup. Lively squabbles they was, too. Each of us expressin' our opinion
+of t'other and not holdin' back anything to speak of. I don't know how
+he felt when we quit, but I know I respected him--for his out and open
+cussedness and grit, if nothin' else. And I think he felt the same way
+about me. But he's smart--consarn him, he is! And HE never backs water.
+That's why I think you're takin' chances in bein' too friendly with him.
+He's layin' low and, if you get off your guard just once he'll grab.”
+
+I hesitated; then I made up my mind.
+
+“Captain Dean,” I said, “his smartness hasn't caught me yet. I'm going
+to tell you something, but first you must promise not to tell anyone
+else.”
+
+He promised and I told him of Mr. Keene and the Bay Shore Company.
+He listened, interrupting with chuckles and exclamations. When I had
+finished he seized my hand and wrung it.
+
+“By the everlastin'!” he exclaimed, “that was great! I say again, you're
+all right, Ros Paine. Even _I_ swallered that Development Company, hook,
+line, and sinker. But YOU saw through it!”
+
+“I tell you this,” I said, “so that you will understand I have no
+intention of backing water.”
+
+“I know you ain't. Knew it afore and now I know it better. But I can't
+understand what the Colton game is--and there is a game, sure. That
+daughter of his, now--she may be in it or she may not. She's pretty
+and I will give in that she's folksy and sociable with us natives; it's
+surprisin', considerin' her bringin' up. Nellie and Matildy like her,
+Nellie especial. They're real chummy, as you might say. Talk and talk,
+just as easy and common as you and I this minute. I've heard 'em two or
+three times at my house when they thought I wasn't listenin' and twice
+out of the three they was talkin' about you.”
+
+“About ME?” I repeated.
+
+“Yes. I don't wonder you're surprised. I was myself. Asked Nellie about
+it and she just laughed. Said you was the principal object of
+interest in town just now, which is more or less true. But it makes me
+suspicious, all the same. Why should a girl like that Colton one talk
+about a feller like you? You're as fur apart, fur's anything in common
+is concerned, as molasses is from vinegar. Ain't that so?”
+
+It was so, of course, but he need not have been so brutally frank in
+telling me. However, I nodded and admitted that he was right.
+
+“Yes,” he said. “A blind horse could see there was no sensible, open and
+above-board reason for HER bein' interested in YOU. So there's another
+reason, the way I look at it, and that's why I'd be mighty careful,
+mighty careful, Ros. Her pa's got a new trick up his sleeve and she's
+helpin' him play it, that's my notion. So be careful, won't you.”
+
+“I'll be careful,” said I. I knew, as well as I knew my real name--which
+he did not--that Mabel Colton was not helping her father play any
+tricks. I had seen enough of her to be certain she was not tricky. And,
+besides, if she were in sympathy with her parent, why had she given me
+the hint which put me on the trail of the Development Company? Why had
+she given me the hint at all? That was the real riddle, and I had
+not, as yet, hit upon a plausible answer. Those I had hit upon were
+ridiculous and impossible, and I put them from my mind. But she was not
+tricky, that I knew.
+
+Captain Jed changed the subject and we talked of Nellie's wedding, which
+was to take place in a month. The captain was full of various emotions,
+regret at losing his daughter and joy because of her getting such a good
+husband. His last words were these:
+
+“Ros,” he said, “be careful, for my sake full as much as yours. This
+Lane business and Nellie's gettin' married have sort of possessed me,
+same as the evil spirits did the swine, in scriptur'. I lay awake nights
+fussin' for fear the marriage won't turn out happy or for fear
+you'll sell the Lane after all. And one's just as likely to happen as
+t'other--which means they're both impossible, I cal'late. But look out
+for that Colton girl, whatever else you do. She's a good deal better
+lookin' than her dad, but she's just as dangerous. You mark my words,
+son, the feller that plays with fire takes chances. So don't be TOO
+sociable with any of the tribe.”
+
+And the very next afternoon the dangerous person herself called and she
+and I spent an hour in Mother's room, where the three of us chatted
+like old friends. She had the rare power of making one forget self and
+personal worries and I could readily understand why Mother had been so
+completely won by her. She was bright and cheery and sympathetic. Here
+there was no trace of the pride of class and the arrogance which had
+caused me to hate her so heartily at first. It seemed almost as if
+she had set herself the task of making me like her in spite of my
+prejudices. My reason told me that this could not be; it was merely her
+fancy for Mother which caused her to notice me at all; she had as much
+as said so more than once. But I did like her; I acknowledged it in
+my thoughts; and, after she had gone, the room, with its drawn shades,
+seemed doubly dark and gloomy. Mother was silent for a few minutes and
+I, too, said nothing. Then:
+
+“She is a wonderful girl, isn't she, Roscoe,” said Mother.
+
+She was altogether too wonderful, that was the trouble. A girl like
+her had no place in our lives. I went out for a walk and a smoke by the
+bluff edge; and, almost before I knew it, I found myself standing at
+the border of the grove, looking at the great house and trying to guess
+which was her room and if she was there and of what or whom she might be
+thinking just then. “Mark my words, son,” Captain Jed had declared, “the
+feller that plays with fire takes chances.”
+
+I turned on my heel and set out for home. I would take no chances. I
+must not play with fire, even though the flames had, for the moment,
+dazzled me. I had called myself a fool many times in the past few years,
+but I would not be so great a fool as that.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+
+So I resolved, more resolutely than ever, to keep out of her way, to
+see as little of her as possible! and, as had happened before to similar
+resolutions of mine with which she was concerned, this one was rendered
+non-effective, through no fault of my own, almost as soon as it was
+made. For on Saturday afternoon, as I approached the Colton wharf, laden
+with bait and rods for the fishing excursion in the Colton boat, I saw
+her standing there beside her father, waiting for me.
+
+“We've got a passenger, Paine,” said “Big Jim.” “You've met her before,
+I believe--on the water and in it. No objections to my daughter's going
+along, have you?”
+
+What could I say; except to announce delight at the addition to our
+party? Perhaps I did not say it as heartily as I might, for, Miss
+Colton, who was regarding me with a mischievous smile, observed
+demurely:
+
+“I am sure he must be delighted, Father. Mr. Paine knows I am very fond
+of fishing; don't you, Mr. Paine?”
+
+“Yes; oh, yes, of course,” I stammered.
+
+“He does, eh!” Her father seemed surprised. “How did he find that out?”
+
+I thought the question was addressed to her, so I did not answer. She
+seemed to think otherwise, for she said:
+
+“Did you hear, Mr. Paine? Father asks how you knew I was fond of
+fishing.”
+
+“Why--er--you told me so, Miss Colton,” I replied. If she had not
+related her Seabury Pond experience to her parents I did not propose to
+be trapped into doing so. She laughed merrily.
+
+“Did I?” she asked. “Yes, I believe I did.”
+
+Mr. Colton looked at us, each in turn.
+
+“Humph!” he observed; “I don't seem to be aboard this train. What's the
+joke?”
+
+She saved me the problem of inventing a satisfactory answer.
+
+“Oh, it's a little joke of Mr. Paine's and my own,” she explained. “I'll
+tell you about it by and by, Father. It would take too long to tell now.
+He saved my life once more, that's all.”
+
+“Oh! that's all! Humph! And you did not think a trifle like that worth
+mentioning to me, I suppose. Would you mind telling me what it was he
+saved you from this time?”
+
+“From starvation. I was a famished wayfarer and he took me in. There,
+Daddy, don't puzzle your poor brain any longer. It is all right and
+I'll tell you all about it when we get home. Now I am sure we should
+be starting if we are to have any fishing at all. Shall we cast off,
+Mr.--that is, Captain Paine?”
+
+That fishing trip was not a huge success if judged solely by the size
+of the catch. The weakfish were not hungry or we did not tempt them with
+bait to their taste that day. We got a half dozen, of which I caught
+three, Miss Colton two, and her father but one. His, however, was a big
+one, much the biggest of the six, and he had a glorious time landing it.
+He fished as he appeared to do everything else, with intense earnestness
+and determination. He evidently considered the struggle a sort of
+personal disagreement between the fish and himself and, as usual,
+intended to have his way. He succeeded after a while, and announced that
+he had not enjoyed anything as much since arriving in Denboro.
+
+His daughter also seemed to be enjoying herself. She was quite as good a
+fisher as her father, and, when the sport was over, and we reeled in
+our lines preparatory to starting for home, rallied him not a little
+at having been the least successful of the party. He took her teasing
+good-naturedly.
+
+“You think it is quite a feat to get the better of your old dad, don't
+you, my lady,” he observed.
+
+“Of course I do. It is, isn't it?”
+
+He chuckled. “Well, maybe you're right,” he admitted. “You do it oftener
+than any one else, that is certain. Paine, you might take lessons from
+her, if you are still hoping to keep up your end in the little fight you
+and I have on hand.”
+
+She turned to me and smiled. Her graceful head was silhouetted against
+the red glow of the sunset and a loosened strand of her hair waved in
+the light breeze.
+
+“I think Mr. Paine does not need lessons from any one,” she said. “He
+seems to be holding his own very well.”
+
+“But he's frightened, all the same. Come, Paine, own up now. You know
+you are frightened, don't you?”
+
+“Not very,” I answered, truthfully.
+
+“So? Then you aren't as sensible as you ought to be. A wise man knows
+when to be scared. Let's make a little bet on it. I'll bet you two to
+one that I'll own that land of yours inside of six months.”
+
+I shook my head. “I never bet on certainties,” I declared. “I should be
+ashamed to collect my winnings.”
+
+This seemed to amuse them both, for they both laughed.
+
+“Father,” said Miss Colton, “I am afraid you don't learn by experience.
+You have lost one bet already, you know.”
+
+“That's so. And I haven't paid it yet, either. I must, or you'll be
+telling every one that I am a poor sport. Paine, this young lady bet me
+a new pipe against a box of gloves that you wouldn't--”
+
+“Father,” broke in the young lady, herself, “stop.”
+
+“Oh, all right, all right. Just as you say. But I tell you this, Paine;
+SHE hasn't any scruples against betting on certainties.”
+
+She was leaning against the cockpit rail, looking forward, and I could
+not see her face. She spoke without turning.
+
+“You thought yours was the certainty,” she said. “You warned me that I
+was sure to lose.”
+
+“Did I? Well, you may, even yet. On the whole, I think I'll wait a while
+before buying those gloves. Remember, there was no time limit. When you
+said that--”
+
+“Father,” more firmly, “please be quiet. You have said quite enough. Mr.
+Paine is not likely to be interested in the family gambling.”
+
+I was interested in this particular “gamble.” The wager had, obviously,
+something to do with me. I suppose I should have felt flattered at being
+made the subject of a bet in such select circles, but I did not. I had
+not been informed as to the details of that bet.
+
+There was nothing more said about it at the time and my passengers
+talked of other things as we sailed home before the fast dying breeze.
+It died almost altogether as we passed the lighthouse at Crow Point and
+entered the bay and, for an hour, we barely held our own against the
+tide. The sun set, twilight came, and the stars appeared one by one.
+Colton, lying at full length on the deck forward of the cockpit, smoked
+in lazy enjoyment. His only remark in ten minutes was to the effect that
+his wife had probably drowned us all, in her mind, a dozen times over by
+now.
+
+His daughter, sitting by the rail and looking out over the smooth,
+darkly glimmering water, bade him be quiet.
+
+“You must not talk,” she said. “This is the most wonderful night I ever
+experienced. How still it is! You can hear every sound. Hark!”
+
+From the dusk, to port, came the clear strokes of a church bell striking
+eight.
+
+“That is the clock at the Methodist Church, isn't it?” asked Miss
+Colton.
+
+“Yes,” said I.
+
+“The church where the strawberry festival was held?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+Colton struck a match to relight his cigar.
+
+“Shouldn't think that would be a pleasant reminder to either of you,” he
+observed. “I am mighty sure it wasn't to me.”
+
+Miss Colton did not answer, nor did I.
+
+The breeze sprang up again soon after, from a different quarter this
+time, but the tide had ebbed so far that I was obliged to make the
+detour around the end of the flat upon which Victor had grounded the
+dingy. “Big Jim” raised himself on his elbow.
+
+“Hello!” he exclaimed, “here's another joyful spot. Mabel, it was along
+here somewhere that Paine acquired the habit of carrying you about like
+a bundle. It must have been a picturesque performance. Wish I might have
+seen it.”
+
+He laughed heartily.
+
+“Father,” said the young lady, coldly, “don't be silly--please.”
+
+He chuckled and lay down again, and no one spoke during the rest of the
+voyage. It was after nine when I brought the boat up to the wharf, made
+her fast, and lowered and furled the sail.
+
+“Better come up to the house with us and have a bit to eat, Paine,”
+ urged Colton. “You must be hungry; I know I am.”
+
+“Oh, no, thank you,” said I. “Supper will be waiting for me at home.”
+
+“Glad to have you, if you'll come. Tell him to come, Mabel.”
+
+Miss Colton's invitation was not over-cordial.
+
+“I presume Mr. Paine knows what is best for him to do,” she said. “Of
+course we shall be glad to have him, if he will come.”
+
+I declined, and, after thanking me for the sail and the pleasure of the
+fishing trip, they left me, Colton carrying his big squiteague by the
+gills, its tail slapping his leg as he climbed the bluff. A moment later
+I followed.
+
+The night was, as my feminine passenger had said, wonderfully quiet, and
+sounds carried a long way. As I reached the juncture of the path and
+the Lane I heard a voice which I recognized as Mrs. Colton's. She was
+evidently standing on the veranda of the big house and I heard every
+word distinctly.
+
+“You are so unthinking, James! You and Mabel have no regard for my
+feelings at all. I have been worried almost to death. Do you realize the
+time? I warned you against trusting yourself to the care of that common
+FELLOW--”
+
+The “fellow” heard no more. He did not wish to. He was tramping heavily
+through the dew-soaked undergrowth. He needed now no counsel against
+“playing with fire.” The cutting contempt of Mrs. James W. Colton's
+remark was fire-extinguisher sufficient for that night.
+
+Miss Colton and I met again at the door of the bank a day or two later,
+just at closing time. Sam Wheeler had already gone and I left George at
+his desk, poring over papers and busily figuring. He was working
+over time much of late and explained his industry by the fact of his
+approaching marriage and his desire to make things easy for me to handle
+while he was on his brief wedding trip. I was not much alarmed by the
+prospect. He was to be gone but a week and I had become sufficiently
+familiar with the routine to feel confident in assuming the
+responsibility. Small, my predecessor, had a brother who had formerly
+been employed in the bank and was now out of work, and he was coming in
+to help during the cashier's absence. I was not worried by the prospect
+of being left in charge, but I was worried about George. He, so it
+seemed to me, had grown pale and thin. Also he was nervously irritable
+and not at all like his usual good-natured self. I tried to joke him
+into better humor, but he did not respond to my jokes. He seemed, too,
+to realize that his odd behavior was noticeable, for he said:
+
+“Don't mind my crankiness, Ros. I've got so much on my mind that I'd be
+mean to my old grandmother, if I had one, I guess likely. Don't let my
+meanness trouble you; it isn't worth trouble.”
+
+I laughed. “George,” I said, “if I ever dreamed of such a thing as
+getting married myself, you would scare me out of it. You ought to be a
+happy man, and act like one; instead you act as if you were about to be
+jailed.”
+
+He caught his breath with a sort of gasp. Then, after a pause and
+without looking up, he asked slowly:
+
+“Jailed? What in the world made you say that, Ros?”
+
+“I said it because you act as if you were bound for state's prison
+instead of the matrimonial altar. George, what IS troubling you?”
+
+“Troubling me? Why--why, nothing special, of course. Catching up with my
+work here makes me nervous and--and kind of absent-minded, I guess. Act
+absent-minded, don't I?”
+
+He did, there was no doubt of that, but I did not believe it was his
+work which caused the absent-mindedness.
+
+“If there is any trouble, George,” I said, earnestly; “if you're in any
+difficulty, personally, I shall be very glad to help you, if I can. I
+mean that.”
+
+For a moment I thought he hesitated. Then he shook his head.
+
+“I know you mean it, Ros,” he answered. “I'm much obliged to you, too.
+But there's nothing to help me with. I'm just nervous and tired, that's
+all.”
+
+I did not believe it, but I felt that I had said all I could,
+considering his attitude. I bade him good night and left the building.
+As I came down the steps Miss Colton was just crossing the road from
+Eldredge's store, a good sized brown paper parcel in her hand.
+
+Ever since the day when Captain Jed had given me his warning I had been
+strengthening my resolution. The remark of Mrs. Colton's which I had
+overheard on the night of the fishing trip, although it revealed to me,
+as I believed, my real standing in the minds of my neighbors, whatever
+they might pretend when in my company, was, after all, only a minor
+detail. I knew that I must break off my acquaintance with this girl. By
+all that was sensible and sane it must be broken off. I must not, for
+my own sake, continue to meet her, to see her and speak with her. No;
+I would avoid her if I could, but, at all events, I would break off the
+association, even if I were obliged to offend her, deliberately offend
+her, to accomplish my purpose. I swore it; and then I swore at myself
+for being so weak-minded as to need to swear. That I should be afraid
+of a girl, a mere girl, ten years younger than I, who, as the casual
+pastime of an idle summer, had chosen to pretend an interest in me! I
+was not afraid of her, of course; I was afraid of myself. Not that I was
+in danger of falling in love with her--that idea was too ridiculous
+to be even funny. But she was becoming a disturbing influence in my
+life--that was it, a disturbing influence--and I must not permit myself
+to be disturbed.
+
+So now, as I saw the disturbing influence crossing the road in my
+direction, my first thought was to retreat to the bank. But it was
+too late to retreat; she had seen me, and she bowed pleasantly as she
+approached.
+
+“Good afternoon,” she said.
+
+I bowed and admitted that the afternoon was a good one, conscious as I
+did so that Sim Eldredge had followed her to the door of his store and
+was regarding us with marked interest.
+
+She exhibited the package. “I am acting as my own errand boy, you see,”
+ she said, smiling. “It was such a beautiful day that I refused to send
+any one for this, or even to ride. I did not realize that a few yards
+of muslin would make such a bundle. Now I must carry it, I suppose, in
+spite of appearances.”
+
+I believed I saw an opportunity to escape.
+
+“I am going directly home,” I said. “Let me carry it down for you. I
+will send it over to your house by Lute.”
+
+“Oh, no thank you. I could not think of troubling Mr. Rogers. But do you
+really want to carry it? You may, for a while. We will take turns. I
+am going directly home, too; and we will walk down together. Unless, of
+course, you are in a hurry.”
+
+I think it was the expression of my face which led her to add the last
+sentence. If I had had time to think, to summon my resolution, it is
+possible--yes, it is possible that I should have declared myself to
+be in a hurry and gone on alone. But she had caught me unawares and
+resolution was wanting. I announced that I was in no hurry at all, and
+took the parcel.
+
+We walked on together, she chatting easily, and I pretending to listen,
+although aware that our progress was watched by eager eyes and commented
+upon and exclaimed over by many tongues. The drawn shades of parlor
+windows moved significantly as we passed and, as we turned into the
+Lower Road, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Sim Eldredge and his
+clerk and Thoph Newcomb and Alvin Baker on the store platform, staring
+after us. As if this audience was not sufficient, and to make the affair
+complete, we met Captain Dean strutting importantly on his way to the
+post-office. He bowed and said “Afternoon,” but the look he gave me was
+significant. There was surprise in it, and distrust. I knew I should
+have to do more explaining at our next meeting. And I knew, too, or
+could guess, what was being said that very moment at the store, and of
+the surmising and theorizing and strengthening of suspicions which would
+go on at a dozen supper tables that evening.
+
+My companion, however, appeared to be quite unconscious of all this.
+That I might be suspected and misjudged because she had chanced to
+prefer my company to a walk home alone did not, evidently, occur to
+her. There was no reason why it should, of course; she was not in the
+position where the opinion or suspicions of Denboro's inhabitants need
+concern her in the least. But I, angry at Captain Jed for his look and
+with Sim Eldredge and his companions for their impudent stares and the
+trouble I knew their gossipy tongues would make for me, was gloomy and
+resentful.
+
+She did most of the talking and I walked beside her, putting in a word
+occasionally and doing my best to appear as unconcerned as she really
+was. We crossed Elnathan Mullet's bridge and continued down the Shore
+Lane. Suddenly I was aware that she had not spoken for some minutes.
+
+“Eh? Yes, Miss Colton; what is it?” I stammered. Then I realized that
+we were standing beside the granite posts marking the entrance to the
+Colton grounds. I had been so wrapped in my unpleasant thoughts and
+forebodings that we had reached our journey's end without my noticing
+it.
+
+“Well!” I exclaimed, and then added the brilliant observation, “We are
+here, aren't we.”
+
+“We are,” she said, dryly. “Didn't you know it?”
+
+“Why, I had not realized. The walk has seemed so short.”
+
+“Yes, I'm sure it must. I think you have spoken exactly six words in the
+last five minutes. Will you come in?”
+
+“Oh no; no, thank you.”
+
+“Why not? Father is in and will be glad to see you.”
+
+“I--I must be getting on toward home. Supper will be ready.”
+
+She bit her lip. “Far be it from me to criticize your domestic
+arrangements, Mr. Paine,” she said, “but it does seem to me that your
+housekeeper serves meals at odd hours. It is only a few minutes after
+four, by my watch.”
+
+She had me at a disadvantage. I imagined I must have appeared
+embarrassed. I know I felt that way.
+
+“I did not realize . . . I thought it much later,” I stammered.
+
+“Then you will come in? Father will like to discuss the fishing with
+you, I know. He has talked of little but his wonderful weakfish ever
+since he caught it.”
+
+“No, thank you, Miss Colton. Really, I must not stop.”
+
+She took the parcel from my hands.
+
+“Very well,” she said, indifferently; “as you please. I thank you for
+your kindness in walking down with me. Good afternoon, Mr. Paine.”
+
+She turned away. Here was the opportunity I had been waiting for, the
+opportunity of breaking off our acquaintance. If I knew anything I knew
+the tone of that “Good afternoon” meant that, for some reason or other,
+she was offended, just as I had been certain I wished her to be. Here
+was the opportunity, Heaven sent, to rid my life of its disturbing
+influence. Just what I had prayed for had come to pass.
+
+And so, to prove the sincerity of my prayers and the worth of my high
+resolve, I--called her back.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said.
+
+She, apparently, did not hear me, so I called again.
+
+“Miss Colton.”
+
+“Yes?”
+
+“I seem somehow or other to have offended you.” And even as I said it I
+realized the completeness of the back-down, realized it and blushed. I
+was ashamed of my weakness. Yet when she asked me to repeat my words I
+did so.
+
+“You spoke to me?” she said, coldly.
+
+“I--I said I had not meant to offend you.”
+
+“Why should you imagine that I am offended, pray? You seem to think
+other people must necessarily regard you as seriously as you do
+yourself. I am not offended.”
+
+“But you are.”
+
+“Very well; then I am. We won't argue the matter; it is scarcely worth
+argument, is it?”
+
+This observation called for no answer in particular, at least I could
+not think of one. While I was groping for a word she spoke again.
+
+“Don't let me detain you, Mr. Paine,” she said. “I am sure your--supper,
+was it?--must be waiting.”
+
+“Miss Colton, you--you seem to resent my not accepting your invitation
+to visit your father. I assure you I--I should be very glad to call upon
+him.”
+
+“Thank you. I will tell him so. He will be grateful, doubtless. Your
+condescension is overwhelming, Mr. Paine.”
+
+“Miss Colton, everything I say seems to be wrong this afternoon. I don't
+know what I have done. Twice you have spoken of my condescension.”
+
+Her foot was beginning to pat the grass. I recognized the battle signal,
+but I kept on.
+
+“I don't understand what you mean by condescension,” I said.
+
+“Don't you, indeed? You are very dense all at once, Mr. Paine.”
+
+“Possibly. But I don't understand.”
+
+For an instant she hesitated. Then she turned on me with a gust of
+fierce impatience which took my breath away. Her eyes flashed.
+
+“You do,” she declared. “You do understand, I am not blind. Do you
+suppose I could not see that you wished to avoid me when I met you at
+the bank just now? That my company was neither welcome nor desired? That
+you accepted my suggestion of walking down together merely because you
+could think of no excuse for declining?”
+
+This was a staggerer. And the worst of it was its truth.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I faltered, “I can't understand what you mean. I--”
+
+“You do understand. And please,” with a scornful laugh, “oh, PLEASE
+understand that I am not troubled because of THAT. Your charming and
+cultivated society is not indispensable to my happiness, Mr. Paine,
+strange as that may appear to you. Really,” with cutting contempt, “it
+is not.”
+
+“That I quite understand, Miss Colton,” I said, “but--”
+
+“But you are like every one else in this horrid, narrow, bigoted place.
+Don't you suppose that I see it everywhere I go! Every one here hates
+us--every one. We are intruders; we are not wanted here, and you all
+take pains to make us feel as uncomfortable as you can. Oh, you are all
+snobs--all of you.”
+
+I actually gasped.
+
+“Snobs!” I repeated. “We--snobs?”
+
+“Yes. That is exactly what you are. When Father came here he meant to be
+a citizen, a good citizen, of the town. He had intended to do all sorts
+of things to help the village and the people in it. He and I discussed
+ever so many plans for doing good here. And we wanted to be friendly
+with every one. But how have you treated us! No one comes to see us. We
+are avoided as if we had the small-pox. The majority of people scarcely
+speak to us on the street. I am so lonely and--”
+
+She stopped. I had never seen her so agitated. As for me, astonishment
+is much too mild a term to use in describing my feelings. That these
+people, these millionaires and aristocrats should feel that they had
+been avoided and slighted, that we Denboroites were the snobs, that THEY
+should be lonely because no one, or almost no one, came to call upon
+them--this was too much for my bewildered brain to grasp all at once.
+
+The young lady went on.
+
+“And you!” she exclaimed. “You are as bad as the rest. Father has called
+upon you several times. I have called on your mother. Father and I have
+tried to be friendly and neighborly. Not that we are lacking in friends.
+We,” haughtily, “are not obliged to BEG for friendship. But we felt it
+our duty to--”
+
+I interrupted. There is a limit to forbearance and I considered that
+limit reached.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I declared, “you are talking nonsense. Considering the
+manner in which your father treated me when we first met, I--”
+
+“How did you treat him? How did you treat Mr. Carver and me when you
+first met us in the auto? You insulted us. It was plain enough then that
+you hated us.”
+
+“I--why, Miss Colton, I did not know who you were.”
+
+“Indeed! Would it have made any difference if you had known? I doubt it.
+No, you are like the rest of the people here. Because we have come from
+the city you have chosen to be as envious and petty and disagreeable
+as you can. Even Nellie Dean, whom I know better than any one here, has
+never returned my call. There is a concerted plan to make us feel we are
+neither welcome nor wanted. Very well,” disdainfully, “we know it. I,
+for one, shall not force my presence upon any one of you again. And it
+is probable that I shall manage to exist even without the delights of
+Denboro society. Good-by, Mr. Paine.”
+
+“But, Miss Colton--”
+
+“Good-by.”
+
+“Miss Colton, listen to me. You are wrong, all wrong, I tell you. There
+is no plan or plot to make you feel uncomfortable. We are plain village
+people here, and you are wealthy and have been used to associating with
+those of your class. Every one in Denboro knew that when you came, and
+they have been shy of intruding where they might not be welcome. Then
+there was that matter of the Lane here.”
+
+“Oh, that precious Lane! I wish I had never seen it.”
+
+“I have wished that a number of times in the past few months. But it is
+here and the question overshadows everything else in the village just
+now. It does not seem of much importance to you, perhaps; perhaps it is
+not so very important to me; but--”
+
+Again she interrupted me.
+
+“I think it is important enough to make you forget--ordinary courtesy,”
+ she declared. “Yes, courtesy. DON'T look at me like that! You know what
+I mean. As I told you before, I am not blind. Do credit me with some
+intelligence. All the way during this cheerful walk of ours you scarcely
+spoke a word. Did you suppose I did not know what was troubling you? I
+saw how that Captain Dean looked at you. I saw those people staring from
+the post-office door. I knew what you were afraid of their saying: that
+you are altogether too companionable with Father and me; that you intend
+selling the land to us, after all. That is what you thought they would
+say and you were afraid--AFRAID of their gossip. Oh, it is humiliating!
+And, for a time, I really thought you were different from the rest and
+above such things.”
+
+I began to feel as if I were once more a small boy receiving a lecture
+from the governess.
+
+“I am not at all afraid of them, Miss Colton,” I protested.
+
+“You are. Why? Your conscience is clear, isn't it? You don't intend
+selling out to my father?”
+
+“Certainly not.”
+
+“Then why should you care what people like that may think? Oh, you weary
+me! I admired you for your independence. There are few persons with the
+courage to face my father as you have done and I admired you for it. I
+would not have had you sell us the land for ANYTHING.”
+
+“You would not?” I gasped.
+
+“Certainly not! I have been on your side all the time. If you had sold
+I should have thought you, like all the rest, holding back merely for
+a higher price. I respected you for the fight you were making. You must
+have known it. If I had not why do you suppose I gave you that hint
+about the Development Company?”
+
+“Goodness knows!” I exclaimed, devoutly.
+
+“And I was sure you could not be bribed by an offer of a position
+in Father's office. It was not really a bribe--Father has, for some
+unexplainable reason, taken a fancy to you--but I knew you would believe
+it to be bribery. That is why I was so positive in telling him that you
+would not accept. And now you--oh, when I think of how I have LOWERED
+myself! How I have stooped to . . . But there! I am sure that supper
+of yours must be waiting. Pray condescend to convey my regrets to the
+faithful--what is her name? Odd that I should forget a name like THAT.
+Oh, yes! Dorinda!--Pray convey my regrets to the faithful Dorinda
+for being unwittingly the cause of the delay, and assure her that the
+offense will NOT be repeated. Good-by, Mr. Paine.”
+
+She walked off, between the granite posts and along the curved drive.
+This time I made no attempt to call her back. The storm had burst so
+unexpectedly and had developed into such a hurricane that I had had time
+to do little more than bend my head before it. But I had had time enough
+to grow angry. I would not have called her back then for the world. She
+had insulted me, not once only, but again and again. I stood and watched
+her go on her way, and then I turned and went on my own.
+
+The parting had come. The acquaintance was broken off; not precisely as
+I had intended it to be broken, but broken, nevertheless, and ended
+for good and all. I was glad of it. There would be no more fishing
+excursions, no more gifts of flowers and books, no more charity calls.
+The “common fellow” was free from the disturbing influence and he was
+glad of it--heartily glad of it.
+
+Yet his gladness was not as apparent to others as it should, by all
+that was consistent, have been. Lute, evidently, observed no traces of
+transcendent happiness, when I encountered him in the back yard, beside
+the woodpile, sharpening the kindling hatchet with a whetstone, a
+process peculiarly satisfying to his temperament because it took such a
+long time to achieve a noticeable result.
+
+“Hello, Ros!” he hailed. “Why! what ails you?”
+
+“Ails me?” I repeated, crossly. “Nothing ails me, of course.”
+
+“Well, I'm glad to hear it. You look as if you'd lost your last friend.”
+
+“I haven't lost any friends. Far from it.”
+
+“Nobody's dead, then?”
+
+“No. Though I could find some who are half dead without trying very
+hard.”
+
+More perfectly good sarcasm wasted. Lute inquired eagerly if I meant
+old Mrs. Lobelia Glover. “I heard yesterday she was pretty feeble,” he
+added. “'Tain't to be expected she'll last a long spell, at her age.
+Doctor Quimby says she had a spine in her back for twenty years.”
+
+I made no comment upon poor Mrs. Glover's surprising affliction. I
+merely grunted and went into the house. Dorinda looked at me curiously.
+
+“What's the trouble?” she asked.
+
+“Trouble! There isn't any trouble. You and Lute seem to be looking for
+trouble.”
+
+“Don't have to look far to find it, in this world. Anything wrong at the
+bank?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Um-hm. Settin' so long on the fence make you uneasy? I told you the
+pickets would wear through if you roosted on 'em too long.”
+
+“There is nothing the matter, I tell you. How is Mother?”
+
+“She ain't any wuss. If 'twan't an impossibility I'd say she was better
+the last month than I'd seen her since she was took. Nellie Dean called
+on her this afternoon.”
+
+“Humph! I should think a next week's bride would be too busy to call on
+any one except possibly the dressmaker.”
+
+“Um-hm. Well, Nellie looks as if she'd been callin' on the dressmaker
+pretty often. Anyhow she looked worried and Olindy Cahoon's dressmakin'
+gabble is enough to worry anybody. She left a note for you.”
+
+“Who? Olinda?”
+
+“Land sakes! no! What would Olindy be doin' down here? There ain't
+any brides to dress in this house, or bridegrooms either unless you're
+cal'latin' to be one, or Lute turns Mormon. That last notion ain't such
+a bad one,” with a dry smile. “Another wife or two to help me take care
+of him would come in handy.”
+
+“Who did leave the note for me, then?”
+
+“Nellie, of course. She wanted me to be sure you got it. Somethin' about
+that wonderful weddin', I s'pose. I left it upstairs on your bureau.”
+
+I found the note and put it in my pocket to read later on. I did not
+feel like reading it then. I did not feel like doing anything or seeing
+any one; yet least of all did I feel like being alone. For if I was
+alone I should think, and I did not want to think. I prowled about my
+room for a time and then went down and spent a short time with Mother.
+Her first question was concerning my day at the bank, and her second if
+I had seen any of the Coltons recently. “I rather hoped Miss Mabel would
+come to see me to-day,” she added. “I look forward to her visits so, I
+think she's a real friend of ours, Roscoe. I know you don't, dear,
+or you try to believe you do not; but she is--I am convinced of it. I
+wonder if she will come to-morrow.”
+
+I could have put a stop to her wondering on that subject, but I was in
+no mood to do it then. I went into the dining-room. Dorinda warned me
+not to go far from the house because supper would be ready in a few
+minutes. The word “supper” reminded me of my unfortunate choice of an
+excuse and the sarcastic reference to our odd domestic arrangements;
+which reminded me, in its turn, of other sarcasms which had followed it.
+My “charming and cultivated society” was not necessary to her happiness
+. . . When she thought of how she had lowered herself . . . Other people
+did not necessarily regard me as seriously as I did myself . . . And so
+on . . . until Dorinda called me in to sit at the table, and pretend
+to eat while she and Lute commented on my lack of appetite and my
+absent-mindedness.
+
+It was eight o'clock, and I had gone up to my room to escape from their
+solicitude and pointed questioning, when I happened to think of Nellie's
+note. I had not been curious concerning its contents, for, as I had
+agreed to act as best man at the wedding, I assumed, as Dorinda had
+done, that she had written on that, to her, all-important topic. I took
+the note from my pocket and tore open the envelope.
+
+Nellie had not written about the wedding. Her letter was a long
+one, evidently written in great agitation and with words blotted and
+underscored. Its subject was the man she loved, George Taylor. She was
+so anxious about him. Did I remember, that night when my mother was ill,
+how she had spoken of him to me and asked if I had noticed how troubled
+and worried he seemed of late?
+
+“And, Roscoe,” she wrote, “I have noticed it more and more since then.
+He IS in trouble. There is something on his mind, something that he will
+not tell me and that I can see is worrying him dreadfully. He is not
+like himself at all. I KNOW something is wrong, and I cannot find out
+what it is. I want to help him SO much. Oh, please, Roscoe, don't
+think this is just a foolish girl's imagination, and does not amount to
+anything. It does. I know it does. You are his best friend. Can't YOU
+find out what is troubling him and help him, for my sake? I have meant
+to speak to you about this ever so many times, but I seldom see you
+alone and I could not speak while he was with me. So I decided to write
+this letter. If you will try, just TRY to find out what ails him and
+help him I shall never, NEVER forget your kindness. Perhaps he does not
+want to marry me. Perhaps he does not care for me as much as he thought
+he did and will not tell me because he does not want me to feel bad.
+If that is it tell him not to mind my feelings at all. I want him to be
+happy. If it would make him happier to have me give him up I will do it,
+even though I shall pray to die right away. Oh can't you help him and
+me, Roscoe? Please, PLEASE try. A girl ought to be perfectly happy who
+is going to be married. And I am so miserable. I can't tell Mother
+and Father because they would not believe me. They would think I just
+imagined it all. But YOU won't think that, will you? You will see him
+and try to help him, for my sake.”
+
+And so on, eight closely written pages, ending with another plea to me
+to see “poor George” and help him, and begging me to “burn this letter,
+because I should be so ashamed to have any one else see it.”
+
+It was a pitiful letter and, even in the frame of mind I was then in,
+disgusted with humanity and hating the entire feminine sex, I could
+not help feeling sorry for Nellie Dean. Of course I was surprised at
+receiving such a letter and I believed, just as she begged me not to
+believe, that the cause of her distress and anxiety was more imaginary
+than real. But that something was troubling George Taylor I had felt
+certain for a good while. The idea that he did not love Nellie I knew
+was preposterous. That was not it. There was something else, but what I
+could not imagine. I wanted to help the girl if I could, but how could I
+ask George to tell me his secrets? I, with a secret of my own.
+
+After pondering for some time I decided to walk up to George's boarding
+place and talk with him. Nothing would come of the interview, probably,
+but I might as well do that as anything else. I must do something,
+something besides sit in that room and see mocking faces in every
+corner, faces with dark eyes and scornful lips which told me that my
+charming and cultivated society was not necessary to their happiness.
+
+Taylor rented the upper floor of a house a quarter of a mile from the
+bank. His housekeeper answered my ring and informed me that her employer
+had not yet come home.
+
+“He did not even come home for supper,” she said. “Stayed over to
+Nellie's probably. You'll most likely find him there.”
+
+But I was pretty certain he was not at the Deans', for as I passed their
+house, I noticed the windows were dark, indicating that the family, like
+most of respectable Denboro, had already retired. I walked on to the
+Corners. Eldredge's store was closed, but the billiard room was radiant
+and noisy. I could hear Tim Hallet's voice urging some one to take a new
+cue, “'cause that one ain't pocketed many balls yet.”
+
+I looked across at the bank. The front portion of it was black enough,
+but the window of the directors' room was alight. I had located the
+object of my search; the cashier was there, working overtime, as he did
+so often nowadays.
+
+I had my key in my pocket and I unlocked the big door and entered
+quietly. The door of the directors' room was open a little way and I
+tiptoed over and peeped in through the crack. Taylor was seated in a
+chair beside the big table, his elbows upon the table and his head in
+his hands. As I stood there, watching him, he took his hands away and
+I saw his face. Upon it was an expression of abject misery and utter
+despair. I opened the door and entered.
+
+He heard the sound of the opening door and leaped to his feet. His chair
+fell backward on the floor with a clatter, but he paid no attention to
+it.
+
+“Good God!” he cried, wildly. “Who's that?”
+
+He was deathly pale and trembling violently. His appearance startled and
+alarmed me.
+
+“It's all right,” I said, hastily. “It is I--Paine. I saw the light and
+knew you must be here. What ails you? What IS the matter?”
+
+For a moment he stood there staring. Then he turned and picked up the
+fallen chair.
+
+“Oh, it's you, Ros, is it?” he faltered. “I--I--Lord, how you scared me!
+I--I--”
+
+“George! what IS the matter with you? For heaven's sake! stand up, man!”
+ He was swaying and I thought he was going to faint. “George! George
+Taylor! Are you ill? I am going for the doctor.”
+
+“No, no! Stay where you are. I ain't sick. I'll be all right in a
+minute. You--you scared me, creeping in that way. Sit down, sit down.”
+
+He steadied himself with one hand on the table and with the other
+reached to shut a drawer which had been open beside him. The drawer was
+almost full of papers, and, lying upon those papers, was a revolver.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+
+Before he could close the drawer completely I caught his arm and held
+it.
+
+“George,” I cried, “George, what is the matter? Tell me; you must tell
+me.”
+
+He tried to pull his arm free. Finding that I would not let him do this
+he gave up the attempt and, with a poor attempt at a laugh, answered,
+“Matter? Why, nothing is the matter. I am tired and nervous, same as
+I've told you I've been for the last two or three months, and you scared
+me, tiptoeing in like a sneak thief, this time of night.”
+
+“Time of night! It is but a little after nine. What is the matter with
+you?”
+
+“Nothing is the matter, I tell you. Let go of my arm, Ros. What do you
+mean by holding on to me like this?”
+
+“What do YOU mean, George? What does THAT mean?”
+
+I pointed to the drawer. He looked and, with a sudden effort, jerked his
+arm free and closed the drawer.
+
+“That?” with a forced laugh. “Oh, that's nothing. It was late and I was
+alone here, so--”
+
+“I know better. George, you're frightening us all. Don't you suppose we
+can see that something is wrong with you? I have seen it ever since I
+came here to work. You are worrying your friends. You worry me. Give us
+a chance to help you. Give ME a chance. You owe me that. Tell me your
+trouble and I'll pull you out of it; see if I don't.”
+
+My confidence was, of course, only pretence, but my earnestness had some
+effect. He looked at me wistfully, and shook his head.
+
+“Nobody can pull me out,” he said. “You're a good fellow to want to
+help, but you can't. There ain't any trouble. I'm just nervous--”
+
+“I know better. You're lying, George. Yes, you are; you're lying.”
+
+“Humph! You're pretty plain spoken, Ros Paine. There ain't many people
+I'd take that from.”
+
+“You'll take it from me, because you can't help it and because you know
+it is true. Come, George; come. You have been a friend to me; the only
+real friend I have had in years. I have been looking for a chance to
+get even for what you have done for me. Maybe here is the chance. Let me
+help you. I will.”
+
+He was wavering; I could see it. But again he shook his head.
+
+“Nobody can help me,” he said.
+
+“George, for my sake--well, then, if not for my sake or your own, then
+for Nellie's, give me a chance. You aren't treating her right, George.
+You should think of her. You--”
+
+“Stop! Damn you, Ros Paine! what right have you to--”
+
+“The right of a friend, her friend and yours. You're frightening the
+poor girl to death. She is beginning to be afraid you don't care for
+her.”
+
+“I? I don't care for HER? I don't--Oh, my God!”
+
+To my utter amazement he began to laugh. And then, all at once, his
+laughter ceased, he swayed, choked, and, suddenly collapsing in the
+chair, dropped his head upon his arms on the table and sobbed, sobs that
+shook him from head to heel.
+
+For one strong, healthy, normal man to see another cry is a
+disconcerting and uncomfortable experience. Masculine tears do not flow
+easily and poor George, on the verge of hysterics, was a pitiful and
+distressing spectacle. I was almost as completely disorganized as he. I
+felt ashamed for him and ashamed of myself for having seen him in such
+a condition. I wanted desperately to help him and I did not know what
+to do, so beyond patting him on the back and begging him repeatedly
+to brace up and not behave like that, I did nothing. At last his sobs
+ceased and he was silent. I had risen from my chair and now I
+stood there with a hand on his shoulder; the ticking of the ancient
+eight-sided clock on the wall sounded loud in the room.
+
+Suddenly he sat up and threw off my hand.
+
+“Well,” he said, bitterly, “I'm a fine specimen of a man, ain't I. Ain't
+you proud of me?”
+
+“I am mighty sorry for you,” I answered. “And I mean to help you.”
+
+“You can't.”
+
+“How do you know?”
+
+“Because I do know, Ros,” he turned and looked me straight in the eye.
+“I am going to give you some good advice. Take it, for your own sake.
+Clear out of here and leave me. Don't have anything more to do with me.
+Clear out.”
+
+I did not move.
+
+“Are you going to do as I tell you?” he demanded. “Mind, I'm telling you
+this for your own good. Will you clear out and leave me?”
+
+I smiled. “Of course not,” I answered.
+
+“Don't be a fool. You can't afford to be my friend. Clear out and leave
+me, do you hear?”
+
+“I hear. Now, George, what is it?”
+
+His fingers tapped the table. I could see he was making up his mind.
+
+“You want to know?” he said. “You won't be satisfied until you do?”
+
+“I have made that fairly plain, I hope. At least I've tried to.”
+
+His fist clenched and he struck the table.
+
+“Then, by the Almighty, I'll tell you!” he cried, fiercely. “It'll be
+all over the county in a week. You might as well know it now. I'm a
+crook. I'm a thief. I've stolen money from this bank and I can't pay it
+back because I haven't got it and can't get it. I'm a crook, I tell you,
+and in a week or so it'll be the county jail for mine. Unless--unless,”
+ with a significant glance at the drawer, “something else happens to me
+in the meantime. There; now you know. Are you satisfied? Are you happy
+because you've found out?”
+
+I did not answer. To tell the truth I was not entirely overcome by
+surprise at the disclosure. I had begun to suspect something of the
+sort. Yet, now that my suspicions were confirmed, I was too greatly
+shocked and horrified to speak at once.
+
+“Well?” he sneered. “Now will you clear out and let me settle this my
+own way?”
+
+I pulled my chair forward and sat down.
+
+“Tell me all about it, George,” I said, as calmly as I could. “How much
+is it?”
+
+He stared at me aghast. “You won't go?” he cried. “You--you are going to
+stick by me even--even--”
+
+“There! there! pull yourself together, old fellow. We won't give up the
+ship yet. How much is it? It can't be a great sum.”
+
+“It ain't. But, Ros--you--you can't--you mustn't be mixed up in this. I
+shan't let you. Don't you see?”
+
+I argued and pleaded and reasoned with him for what seemed a long time
+before he would consent to tell me the whole story. And when it was told
+there was nothing new or novel in it. The old tale of an honest man who
+had not meant to go wrong, but, tempted by one of those wiles of the
+devil, an “inside tip” on the stock market, had bought heavily on
+margins, expecting to clear a handsome profit in a short time. The stock
+was Louisville and Transcontinental and the struggle for its control by
+certain big interests had made copy for financial writers for nearly
+a year. George had bought at a time when one syndicate had, so it
+believed, secured the control.
+
+Then something went wrong in the deal and the shares began to decline
+in value. He put up more margins and still more, but it continued to
+decline. Finally under the spur of another “tip,” the last of his own
+savings having gone to the insatiate brokers, he sent, to bolster his
+account and to save him from utter ruin, some bonds belonging to the
+bank.
+
+“Not much,” he declared, “only about thirty-five hundred dollars' worth,
+that's all. I never would have done it, Ros, but I was wild, desperate,
+you see. Here I was, getting ready to be married; Nellie and Cap'n Jed
+and the rest believing me to be comfortably fixed. It's easy enough now
+to say that I ought to have gone to her and told her. If I hadn't been
+certain that the market would turn and I'd be all right in a week, I'd
+have done it. But I was sure I'd be all right and I couldn't take the
+chance. I knew what her father would say about her marrying a pauper,
+and I just couldn't take the risk of losing her; I couldn't. She means
+more to me than--than--oh, wait until your time comes! Wait until the
+girl comes along that you care for more than the whole world. And
+then see what you'd do. See what it would mean to give her up! Just
+wait--wait and see!”
+
+“Yes, yes,” I put in, hastily. “I understand, George. But the stock,
+Louisville and Transcontinental, how is it now?”
+
+“Just the same. It is dead, practically speaking. It hasn't moved half
+a point for six weeks. I've been expecting it would, but it hasn't. It's
+all right; the value is there; I know it. If I could only hang on and
+wait I could get my money back, part of it, anyhow. But I can't. I
+can't wait. And the broker people have got those bonds. Ros, I've been
+fighting this thing for weeks and weeks. I ain't slept a night for
+years, or so it seems. And next week--next WEEK I was to be married. My
+God! think of it!”
+
+“Here, here! Don't do that,” I urged. “Brace up. You and I must work
+this out. Wasn't there any one you could go to? Anyone you could borrow
+the money of? Thirty-five hundred isn't such a lot.”
+
+“Whom could I go to? I tried. Lord knows I tried! I did borrow a
+thousand of Cap'n Elisha Warren; trumped up some excuse or other and got
+that. But that was all he could let me have. And I know he thought my
+asking for that was queer.”
+
+“Did you consider going straight to Cap'n Dean and--”
+
+“Dean? Cap'n Jed? Her father? Oh, Ros, don't be a fool altogether! I
+beg your pardon, old man! I don't mean it. You mustn't mind. I ain't
+responsible for what I say just now. But I couldn't go to Cap'n Jed. You
+know him. He's as straight and square and honest as he is obstinate and
+cranky. If I went to him I couldn't tell him the truth. And if I
+lied he'd suspect and want to know why I needed to borrow money. And
+Nellie--don't you see? There's the real awfulness of the whole thing. I
+couldn't go to her and tell her I was a thief. I couldn't see her face
+when I told her. And yet she's got to know it. She's got to know it!”
+
+“But why? The stock may go up any day and then you could withdraw part
+of your margin.”
+
+He struck the table with another blow. “The stock ain't moved for six
+weeks, I tell you,” he declared. “And, Ros,” he leaned forward, his
+haggard face working with emotion, “those bonds ain't in our safe here,
+where they should be, and the bank examiner is due here within the next
+four days. He's at Middleboro now. I 'phoned Bearse, the cashier there,
+this very forenoon on a matter of business, and he happened to mention
+that the examiner was in his bank and working his way down the Cape.
+It's all up with me! All up! And Nellie! poor girl; I can't be here when
+she finds it out. I know you think I'm a poor specimen of a man, Ros,
+but I can't face the music. No,” desperately, “and I won't.”
+
+He was giving way again, but I seized his shoulder and shook him.
+
+“Stop it!” I commanded. “Stop it, George! Let me think. Be quiet now and
+let me think. There must be a way out somewhere. Let me think.”
+
+He leaned back in his chair. “All right,” he said, hopelessly; “think,
+if you want to. Though why you should want to think about a thing like
+me I don't see. And I used to despise a crook as much as any one! and a
+coward still more! And now I'm both a crook and a coward.”
+
+I knew his cowardice was merely on Nellie's account. George Taylor was
+no coward in the ordinary sense of the word, nor was he a crook. I rose
+and paced up and down the room. He watched me listlessly; it was plain
+that he felt no confidence whatever in my being able to help him. After
+a time he spoke.
+
+“It's no use, Ros,” he said. “Don't worry your head about me; I ain't
+worth it. If there was any way out, any way at all, I'd have sighted it
+long ago. There ain't. Take my advice and leave me. You don't want to be
+mixed up with an embezzler.”
+
+I turned on him, impatiently. “I have been mixed up, as you call it,
+with one before,” I said, sharply. “Is my own family record so clean
+that I need to pretend--there, George! don't be an idiot. Let me think.”
+
+The clock chimed ten. I stopped in my walk and turned to him.
+
+“George,” I said, “tell me this: If you had the money to buy back these
+bonds belonging to the bank you would be all right, wouldn't you? If you
+had it in your hands by to-morrow morning, I mean.”
+
+“Yes; IF I had it--but I haven't.”
+
+“You could send the money to the brokers and--”
+
+“Send! I wouldn't send; I'd go myself and fetch the bonds back with me.
+Once I had them in that safe again I--”
+
+“And you would not take any more risks, even if the market dropped and
+they had to sell out your account? Even if you lost every cent of your
+investment?”
+
+The fierce earnestness of his answer satisfied even me. “What do you
+think I am?” he demanded. “Investment be hanged! It's my name as an
+honest man that I care about. Once let me get that back again and I'll
+face the poorhouse. Yes, and I'll tell Nellie the truth, all except that
+I was a thief; I can't tell her that. But I will tell her that I haven't
+got a cent except my salary. Then if she wants to give me up, all right.
+I'll bear it as best I can. Or, if she doesn't, and I lose my job here,
+I'll get another one somewhere else; I'll work at anything. She and I
+can wait and . . . But what is the use of talking like this? I've been
+over every inch of the ground a thousand times. There ain't a ray of
+light anywhere. The examiner will be here, the bonds will be missing,
+and I--I'll be in jail, or in hell, one or the other.”
+
+“No, you won't,” I said, firmly.
+
+“I won't! Why not?”
+
+“Because there IS a ray of light. More than a ray. George, you go home
+and go to bed. To-morrow morning I may have news for you, good news.”
+
+The blood rushed to his face. He seized the arm of his chair.
+
+“Good news!” he gasped. “Good news for ME! Ros--Ros, for the Lord's
+sake, what do you mean? You don't mean you see a way to--”
+
+“Never mind what I mean. But I should like to know what you mean by not
+coming to me before? What are friends for, if not to help each other?
+Who told you that I was dead broke?”
+
+“You? Why, you ain't got . . . Have you? Ros Paine, you ain't got
+thirty-five hundred to spare. Why, you told me yourself--”
+
+“Shut up! Get up from that chair and come with me. Yes, you; and now,
+this minute. Give me that thing you've got in the drawer there. No, I'll
+take it myself. You ought to be ashamed of its being there, George. I am
+ashamed of you, and, if I thought you really meant to use it, I should
+be still more ashamed. Come! don't keep me waiting.”
+
+“But--but Ros--”
+
+“Will you do as I tell you?”
+
+I dragged him, almost literally dragged him, from the chair. Then, after
+extinguishing the lamp, I led him to the door of the bank and locked it,
+putting the key in my pocket.
+
+“Now,” said I, “I want you to make me a promise. I want you to quit
+behaving like a coward, because you are not one, and promise me that you
+will go straight home and to bed. I'll see you again the first thing in
+the morning. Then, I think--yes, I think your troubles, the worst part
+of them, will be over.”
+
+“But, Ros, PLEASE--I can't believe it! Won't you tell me--”
+
+“Not a word. Will you promise me to behave like a man and go home? Or
+must I go with you?”
+
+“No. I'll--I'll promise. I'll go straight home. But, oh Ros, I can't
+understand--”
+
+“Good night.”
+
+I left him standing there, stammering incoherently like a man awakening
+from a nightmare, and hurried away.
+
+I could not describe my progress down the dark Lower Road and along the
+Shore Lane. I do not remember any portion of it. I think I ran most
+of the way and if I met any one--which is not likely, considering the
+time--he or she must have thought me crazy. My thoughts were centered
+upon one fixed purpose. I had made up my mind to do a certain thing and,
+if possible, to do it that very night. If I did not, if I had time in
+which to reflect, to consider consequences, I might lose my nerve and it
+would not be done at all.
+
+It was with a feeling of great relief that, as I came in sight of the
+Colton house, I saw lights in the rooms on the lower floor. The family,
+not being native born Denboroites, had not retired even though it was
+well after ten. I hastened up the long drive, and stood before the big
+door, my hand upraised to the knocker. And then, just for a moment, I
+hesitated.
+
+If I lifted that knocker and let it fall; if I summoned the servant and
+announced that I wished to speak with Mr. Colton; if I did what I had
+come there to do, it would be all over with me in the village. My new
+born popularity, the respect which Cap'n Warren and Cap'n Jed and
+the rest of the townspeople had shown toward me of late, the cordial
+recognition which had been mine during the past few weeks and which,
+in spite of pretended indifference, I had come to expect and enjoy, all
+these would be lost if I persisted in my purpose. My future in Denboro
+depended upon whether or not I knocked at that door. And it was not too
+late to back out, even yet. I had only to turn quietly away and tell
+George, when I saw him in the morning, that I could not help him as I
+had hoped. And then I thought of his face as I saw it when I entered the
+bank--and of Nellie's letter to me.
+
+I seized the knocker and rapped sharply.
+
+For a few moments my knock was unanswered. Then I heard footsteps and
+the door was opened. Johnson, the butler, opened it, and his clerical
+countenance assumed a most astonished expression when he saw me standing
+before him.
+
+“Is Mr. Colton in?” I asked.
+
+“What? What--sir?” stammered Johnson. The “sir” was added under protest.
+He did not wish to show more respect than was absolutely necessary to a
+countryman, but he scarcely dared speak as disrespectfully as he felt.
+Therefore he compromised by voicing the respect and looking the other
+way.
+
+“Is Mr. Colton in?” I repeated.
+
+“I don't know. I--I don't think so--sir.”
+
+The windows at my left were, I knew, those of the library, the room
+where “Big Jim” and I had had our first lively discussion of the Shore
+Lane matter. I glanced at them.
+
+“I think he is,” I said. “In fact I know it; there is his shadow on the
+curtain. Tell him Mr. Paine wishes to speak with him.”
+
+Johnson looked as insolent as he dared, and still hesitated.
+
+“It is very late,” he said. “Mr. Colton is not in the 'abit of receiving
+callers at this time of night and--”
+
+He was interrupted. The door behind him, the door leading from the
+library to the hall, opened and Colton himself appeared.
+
+“What is it, Johnson?” he asked. “Anything wrong?”
+
+The butler hastened to explain.
+
+“No sir,” he said; “nothing wrong exactly, sir. There is a person 'ere
+to see you, sir, and--”
+
+“To see me, eh? Who is it? Why, hello, Paine! is that you?”
+
+“Mr. Colton,” said I, “I am sorry to disturb you at such a late hour,
+but--”
+
+“Come in, come in,” he interrupted. “What are you standing out there
+for? Johnson, why didn't you ask Mr. Paine in? What do you mean by
+keeping him out there?”
+
+Mr. Johnson looked troubled.
+
+“It was so late, sir,” he stammered, “I thought--”
+
+“You thought! If I had wanted any one to think I never should have hired
+you. Come in, Paine. Come into the library.”
+
+He led the way to the library and I followed him. It was my second
+visit to the big, handsomely furnished room and again, as on the first
+occasion, the sight of the books and all the other refinements and
+luxuries which money brings to its possessor gave me a pang of envy
+and resentment. It added increased bitterness to the humiliation of my
+errand. I had left that room defiantly expressing my independence. I had
+come back to it--
+
+“Sit down,” ordered Colton, pulling forward the big, leather-covered
+chair. “Have a cigar?”
+
+“No thank you.”
+
+“Humph! That's what you said when you were here before. You're young,
+Paine. When you get to be as old as I am you'll never refuse a good
+cigar, or anything else that is good, when it is offered you. Well,
+you're still standing. Aren't going to refuse to sit down, are you?”
+
+That was exactly what I was going to do. I would not sit down in that
+house. I would not accept the slightest courtesy from this man or any of
+his people. I would get rid of the unpleasant task I had come to do and
+then go away, never to return. They might make the most of the triumph
+which was to be theirs, but I would compel them to understand that I
+was not seeking their favor. I would not accept their patronage and they
+should know it. This, as I look back at it now, seems silly and childish
+enough, but I was not myself that night.
+
+“Mr. Colton,” said I, ignoring the proffered chair, “I have come to see
+you on a matter of business.”
+
+“Business, eh? Umph! I thought probably you were going to ask me to
+go fishing with you again. I'm all ready for another tussle with
+those--what do you call 'em--squid--squit--good Lord! what a name for a
+decent fish! But I don't care a continental what you call 'em. I'm ready
+to get at 'em when you say the word.”
+
+“My business will not detain either of us long. I--”
+
+“Sit down, man, sit down. You make me nervous standing there.”
+
+“No. I won't sit.”
+
+He looked at me.
+
+“What is the matter with you?” he asked. “You haven't got a balky
+digestion, have you? I've been fighting one for the last week. That fool
+of a country doctor tells me if I'm not careful what I eat I'll keel
+over pretty soon. I told him I'd eaten what I dashed please ever since
+I'd had teeth and I wasn't going to quit now. But I do feel like the
+devil. Look it, don't I?”
+
+He did look ill, that was a fact, though I had not noticed it before
+and was far from feeling pity for him then. In fact I was rather glad to
+know that he was uncomfortable. I wanted him to be.
+
+“What is the matter with you?” he demanded. “You look as if you had seen
+your grandmother's ghost.”
+
+I ignored the question. “Mr. Colton,” I began again. “You made an offer
+not long ago.”
+
+I had caught his attention at last. He leaned back in his chair.
+
+“I did,” he said. “Ye-es, I did. Do you mean you are going to accept
+it?”
+
+“In a way--yes.”
+
+“In a way? What do you mean by that? I tell you frankly, Paine, if you
+go to work for me there must be no 'ifs' or 'buts' about it. You'll
+enter my office and you'll do as I, or the men under me, tell you to
+do.”
+
+I was glad he said that, glad that he misunderstood me. It gave me an
+opportunity to express my feelings toward him--as I was feeling then.
+
+“Don't let that trouble you,” I said, sarcastically. “There will be no
+'ifs' and 'buts' so far as that is concerned. I have no desire to work
+for you, Mr. Colton, and I don't intend doing so. That was not the offer
+I meant.”
+
+He was surprised, I am sure, but he did not express astonishment. He
+bent forward and looked at me more keenly than ever.
+
+“There was only one other offer that I remember making you,” he said,
+slowly. “That was for that land of yours. I offered you five thousand
+dollars for it. Do you mean you accept that offer?”
+
+“Not exactly.”
+
+“Humph! Paine, we're wasting a lot of time here, it seems to me. My time
+is more or less valuable, and my digestion is, as I told you, pretty
+bad. Come! get it over. What do you mean? Are you going to sell me that
+land?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+He puffed deliberately at his cigar. His gaze did not leave my face.
+
+“Why?” he asked, after a moment.
+
+“That is my own affair. I will sell you the land, but not for five
+thousand dollars.”
+
+His expression changed. He knocked the ashes from his cigar and frowned.
+
+“I see,” he sneered. “Humph! Well, I've tried to make it plain to you
+fellows down here that I couldn't be held up. I thought I'd done it, but
+evidently I haven't. Five hundred is a good price for that land. Five
+thousand is ridiculous, but I gave you my reasons for being willing to
+be robbed that much. That, however, is the limit. I'll give you five
+thousand, but not another cent. You can take it or get out.”
+
+This was better. When he talked like that I could answer him and enjoy
+it.
+
+“I'll get out very shortly,” I said. “You are no more anxious to have
+that happen than I am. I don't want your other cent. I don't want your
+five thousand dollars. I'll sell you the land on one condition--no, on
+two. The first is that you pay me thirty-five hundred dollars for it.”
+
+“WHAT?”
+
+I had upset his composure this time. He forgot to sneer; he even forgot
+to smoke.
+
+“What?” he cried again. “Thirty-five hundred! Why, I offered you--”
+
+“I know your offer. This is mine: I will sell you the land for
+thirty-five hundred, and not another cent. That, as you say, is the
+limit. You can take it or--or I will follow your suggestion and get
+out.”
+
+We looked at each other. His fingers moved toward the match box on the
+table. He took a match, scratched it, and held it to the end of his
+cigar. Then he took the cigar from his lips, blew out the match and
+tossed the latter into the fireplace.
+
+“What is the second condition?” he asked, abruptly.
+
+“That you pay me in cash, in money and not by check, at once.”
+
+“At once? Now, do you mean?”
+
+“Yes, now. To-night if possible; if not, no later than nine o'clock
+to-morrow morning.”
+
+“Humph! Do you think I carry thirty-five hundred loose in my change
+pocket?”
+
+“I don't know. But that is the second condition.”
+
+“Humph! . . . Look here, Paine; what--? I offered you the five thousand.
+That offer holds good.”
+
+“I don't accept it. I will sell for thirty-five hundred; no more and no
+less.”
+
+“But why not more?”
+
+“I don't know. Yes, I do, too. You said once that you were willing to
+pay forty-five hundred for the privilege of having your own way. Perhaps
+I am willing to sacrifice fifteen hundred for the privilege of having
+mine. At all events I mean what I say.”
+
+“But why just thirty-five? Wouldn't you take thirty-six?”
+
+“No. It is useless to argue, Mr. Colton, and useless to ask my reasons.
+I have them, and that is enough. Will you accept MY offer?”
+
+He hesitated. The sneer had left his face and his tone when he addressed
+me was respectful, though there was a curious note of chagrin or
+dissatisfaction in it. I had expected him to be eager and, perhaps,
+mockingly triumphant. He was not. He seemed reluctant, almost
+disappointed.
+
+“I suppose I'll have to,” he said. “But, Paine, what is up? Why are you
+doing this? You're not afraid of me? No, of course you're not. You're
+not the kind to squeal and lie down because you think the odds are
+against you . . . Confound you!” with a sudden burst of impatience, “you
+are enough to upset all the self-conceit a man's got in him. Just as I
+think I'm beginning to size you up you break loose in a new place.”
+
+“Pardon me,” I put in, “but I don't see that you are helping to save
+that valuable time of yours. I understand that you accept. Will you pay
+me now?”
+
+He rose, threw away his cigar, and, with his hands in his pockets, stood
+regarding me.
+
+“Your mind is made up, is it?” he asked.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Humph! Have you thought of what our mutual friend Dean and the rest of
+the patriots may say when they find this out?”
+
+I had thought of little else all the way from the bank to his door. I
+was thinking of it then.
+
+“Of course,” he added, “that is not my affair, but--”
+
+“It is not.”
+
+“You're right; it isn't. Still--hang it all, Paine! I don't often feel
+any compunctions when I beat a fellow in a game like this, and I did
+intend to have my own way in this one--”
+
+“Well, you're having it, aren't you?” I put in. “Why talk so much about
+it?”
+
+“Because I am not so sure I am having it. Of course I can see that, for
+some reason or other, you need thirty-five hundred dollars. Anyone but
+you, if they were going to sell, would get the last dime they could
+squeeze. You won't, because you are as pig-headed as--as--”
+
+“Oh, do cut it short,” I snapped. And then, a trifle ashamed of my
+rudeness, “Excuse me, Mr. Colton, but this isn't exactly pleasant for me
+and I want to get it over. Will you pay me now?”
+
+“Hold on; let me finish. I was going to say that, if you needed the
+thirty-five, perhaps I could manage to let you have it.”
+
+I stared at him. “Let me have it!” I cried. “Do you mean you'll lend it
+to me?”
+
+“Why, yes, maybe. You and I have had such a first-rate, square, stand
+up fight that I rather hate to have it end. I want to lick you, not have
+you quit before I've really begun to fight. There's no fool philanthropy
+in this, understand; it is just for my own satisfaction.”
+
+I was so taken aback by this totally unexpected offer from the man whom
+I had insulted a dozen times since I entered his house, that I found it
+almost impossible to answer.
+
+“What do you say?” he asked.
+
+“No,” I faltered. And then more firmly, “No; certainly not. I--I am much
+obliged to you, Mr. Colton, but--no.”
+
+“All right. You know best. I'll take your offer and I will hand you the
+money at the bank to-morrow morning. Will that do?”
+
+“Not at the bank, Mr. Colton. Send it over to the house, if you can
+conveniently.”
+
+“I'll have it here before ten. My lawyer will draw up the papers and
+arrange for transfer of title in a few days. What? Going, are you? Good
+night. Oh--er--Paine, remember that my other offer, that of the place in
+my office, is open when you're ready to take it.”
+
+I shook my head. I had turned to go, but now I turned back, feeling
+that, perhaps, I should apologize again for my rudeness. After all, he
+had been kind, very kind, and I had scarcely thanked him. So I turned
+back to say something, I hardly knew what.
+
+My doing so was a mistake. The door behind me opened and a voice said
+reproachfully, “Father, are you still here? The doctor said . . . Oh, I
+beg pardon.”
+
+I recognized the voice. Of all voices in the world I wished least to
+hear it just then. My back was toward the door and I kept it so. If she
+would only go! If she would only shut that door and go away!
+
+I think she would have gone but her father called her.
+
+“Mabel,” he cried, “Mabel, don't go. It's all right. Come in. Paine and
+I have finished our talk. Nothing more you wished to say, was there,
+Paine?”
+
+“No,” said I. I was obliged to turn now; I could not get out of that
+room without doing it. So turn I did, and we faced each other.
+
+“Good evening, Miss Colton,” I said, with all the calmness I could
+muster.
+
+She said, “Good evening,” distantly and without any enthusiasm, but I
+saw her glance at her father and then at me and I knew she was wondering
+what our being together could possibly mean.
+
+“Paine has been making me a little call,” explained Colton, his eye
+twinkling. “Mabel, I'll risk another bet that you can't guess why he
+came.”
+
+“I shall not try,” she said, disdainfully.
+
+“Oh, you'd better! No? You won't? Well, then, I'll tell you. He has just
+sold me that land of his . . . Don't look at me like that; he has. We
+had a little disagreement as to price, but,” with a grin, “I met his
+figures and we closed the deal. Aren't you going to congratulate him
+on having come to his senses at last? Come! he's waiting for
+congratulations.”
+
+This was not true. I was waiting for nothing; I was on my way to the
+door. But, to reach it I was obliged to pass her and our eyes met. My
+glance wavered, I know, but hers did not. For a moment she looked at me.
+Then she smiled. Whenever I am tempted to be vain, even now, I remember
+that smile.
+
+“I congratulate him,” she said. “Come, Father; you must go to bed now.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+
+I am not going to attempt a description of my thoughts that night.
+It would take too long and the description would be wearisome. Other
+people's miseries are not interesting and I shall not catalog mine.
+Morning came at last and I rose, bathed my hot face in cold water, and
+went down stairs. Early as it was, not yet six, I heard Dorinda in the
+kitchen and, having no desire for conversation, I went out and walked up
+and down the beach until breakfast time. I had to pretend to eat, but
+I ate so little that both Lute and Dorinda once more commented upon
+my lack of appetite. Lute, who had never become fully reconciled to my
+becoming a member of the working class, hastened to lay the blame for my
+condition upon my labors at the bank.
+
+“The trouble is,” he announced, dogmatically, “the trouble is, Roscoe,
+that you ain't fitted for bein' shut up astern of a deck. Look at
+yourself now! Just go into Comfort's room and stand in front of her
+lookin' glass and look at yourself. There you be, pale and peaked and
+wore out. Look for all the world just as I done when I had the tonsils
+two winters ago. Ain't that so, Dorindy?”
+
+His wife's answer was a contemptuous sniff.
+
+“If you mean to say that you looked peaked when you had sore throat,”
+ she announced, “then there's somethin' the matter with your mind or your
+eyesight, one or t'other. You peaked? Why, your face was swelled up
+like a young one's balloon Fourth of July Day. And as for bein' pale! My
+soul! I give you my word I couldn't scurcely tell where your neck left
+off and the strip of red flannel you made me tie 'round it begun.”
+
+“Don't make no difference! I FELT pale, anyhow. And I didn't eat no
+more'n Ros does. You'll have to give in to that, Dorindy. I didn't eat
+nothin' but beef tea and gruel.”
+
+“You et enough of them to float a schooner.”
+
+“Maybe I did,” with grieved dignity; “maybe I did. But that's no reason
+why you should set there and heave my sufferin's in my face.”
+
+“What is the man talkin' about now? I didn't heave 'em in your face.
+They come there themselves, same as sore throat sufferin's generally do,
+and if you hadn't waded around in the snow with leaky boots, because
+you was too lazy to take 'em to the shoemaker's to be patched, they
+wouldn't.”
+
+Lute drew back from the table. “It's no use!” he declared, “a man can't
+even be sick in peace in this house. Some wives would have been sorry to
+see their husbands with one foot in the grave.”
+
+“Your feet was in the cookstove oven most of the time. There! there! the
+more you talk the further from home you get. You started in with Roscoe
+and the bank and you're in the grave already. If I was you I'd quit
+afore I went any further. Land knows where you might fetch up if you
+kept on! I . . . Mercy on us! who's at the kitchen door this time in the
+mornin'?”
+
+Her husband, ever curious, was on his way to answer the knock already.
+He came back, a moment later, sputtering with excitement.
+
+“It's that Mr. butler, the Johnson over to Mr. Colton's,” he whispered.
+“I mean it's that Jutler--that--There, Dorindy! you see what sort of a
+state your hectorin' has worked me into! It's that parson critter who
+opens Colton's door for him, that's who 'tis. And he wants to see Ros. I
+tried to find out what for, but he wouldn't tell.”
+
+Even Dorinda showed surprise. She looked at the clock, “This hour of the
+mornin'!” she exclaimed; “what in the world--?”
+
+I hastened to the kitchen, closing the dining-room door behind me
+just in time to prevent Lute's following me. Johnson, the butler,
+was standing on the mica slab at the threshold inspecting our humble
+premises with lofty disdain.
+
+“Mr. Colton sent this to you, sir,” he said, handing me an envelope. “He
+wishes you to send a receipt by me.”
+
+I took the envelope and, stepping back out of sight, tore it open.
+Inside was a check on a New York bank for four thousand dollars. It was
+made payable to “Bearer.” With it was this brief note:
+
+
+Dear Paine:
+
+This is the best I can do for you, as I haven't the money on hand. Cash
+it yourself, take out your thirty-five hundred and hold the additional
+five hundred until I, or one of the family, call for it. I made the
+thing payable to Bearer because I imagined you would prefer it that way.
+Send me some sort of receipt by Johnson; anything will do. I will see my
+lawyer in a day or two. Meanwhile have your papers, deeds, etc., ready
+when he calls for them.
+
+Yours truly,
+
+JAMES W. COLTON.
+
+
+For a minute I considered. If I could cash the check at the bank without
+Taylor's knowledge and get him off to Boston on the early train, I
+might be able to cover my tracks. It was necessary that they should be
+covered. Knowing George as I did I knew that he would never consent to
+my sacrifice. He would not permit me to wreck my future in Denboro to
+save him. The money must be turned over to the Boston bankers and
+the bank's bonds once more in the vault where they belonged before he
+learned where that money came from. Then it would be too late to refuse
+and too late to undo what had been done. He would have to accept and
+I might be able to prevail upon him to keep silent regarding the whole
+affair. I disliked the check with Colton's name upon it; I should have
+much preferred the cash; but cash, it seemed, could not be had without
+considerable delay, and with that bank examiner's visit imminent
+every moment of time was valuable. I folded the check, put it in my
+pocketbook, and, hastily scribbling a receipt in pencil at the bottom
+of Colton's note, replaced the latter in the envelope and handed it to
+Johnson, who departed.
+
+Entering the dining-room I found Dorinda and Lute at the window, peering
+after the butler.
+
+“By time!” exclaimed Lute, “if I didn't know I should say he was a
+bigger big-bug than old Colton himself. Look how he struts! He sartin is
+a dignified lookin' man. I don't see how he ever come to be just hired
+help.”
+
+“Um-hm,” sniffed the cynical Mrs. Rogers. “Well; you can get an awful
+lot of dignity for its board and lodgin'! There's nothin' much more
+dignified or struts much better'n a rooster, but it's the hens that lay
+the eggs. What did he want, Roscoe?”
+
+I made some excuse or other for Mr. Johnson's early call and, taking
+my cap from the rack, hurried from the house. I went “across lots” and,
+running a good part of the way, reached the bank just as Sam Wheeler was
+sweeping out. He expressed surprise at my early arrival and wished to
+know what was up.
+
+“Ain't nothin' wrong, is there, Ros?” asked Sam anxiously. “I saw by the
+paper that the market was feverish again yesterday.”
+
+Sam was an ambitious youth and, being desirous of becoming a banker in
+the shortest possible time, read the financial page with conscientious
+thoroughness. I assured him that the market's fever was not
+contagious--at least I had not contracted the disease--and sent him
+out to sweep the front steps. As soon as he had gone I opened the safe,
+found, to my joy, that we had an abundance of currency on hand, cashed
+the Colton check and locked it securely in the drawer of my own desk. So
+far I was safe. Now to secure George's safety.
+
+He came in soon after, looking as if, as he had told me, he had not
+slept for years. He bade Sam good morning and then walked over to my
+side.
+
+“Well, Ros?” he asked, laying a shaking hand on the desk beside me.
+
+“Not here, George,” I whispered. “Come into the directors' room.”
+
+I led the way and he followed me. I closed the door behind us, took the
+thirty-five hundred dollars in notes from my pocket and laid them on the
+table.
+
+“There's the money, George,” I said. “Now you've got just time enough to
+catch that nine o'clock train for Boston.”
+
+I thought, for a moment, he was going to collapse altogether. Then he
+pounced upon the money, counted it with fingers that trembled so he
+could scarcely control them, and turned to me.
+
+“Ros--Ros--” he stammered. “Where did you--how did you--Great God, man!
+I--I--”
+
+“There! there!” I interrupted. “I told you I wasn't a pauper exactly.
+Put that where you won't lose it and clear out. You haven't any time to
+argue.”
+
+“But--but, Ros, I hadn't ought to take this from you. I don't see where
+you got it and--”
+
+“That's my business. Will you go?”
+
+“I don't know as I ever can pay you. Lord knows I'll try all my life,
+but--”
+
+I seized his arm. “George,” I urged, impatiently, “you fool, don't waste
+time. Get that train, do you hear! Those bonds must be in that safe by
+night. Go!”
+
+The mention of the bonds did what my urging had failed to do. He crammed
+the bills into his pocket book, thrust the latter into an inside pocket,
+and rushed from the room. I followed him as far as the outer door. He
+was running up the road like a wild man. Sam stared after him.
+
+“For mercy sakes!” he cried, “what's the matter with the boss? Has he
+gone loony?”
+
+“No,” I said, turning back to my desk; “he's sane enough, I guess. He's
+after the train.”
+
+“I should think he was after somethin'. Did you see the face he had on
+him? If he ain't crazy then you and I are, that's all I've got to say.”
+
+“All right, Sam,” I answered, drawing a long breath, “perhaps that's it.
+Perhaps you and I are the crazy ones--one of us, at any rate.”
+
+All that day I worked hard. I did not go home for lunch, but sent Sam
+over to Eldredge's store for canned ham and crackers which I ate at my
+desk. It was a fairly busy day, fortunately, and I could always find
+some task to occupy my mind. Lute called, at two o'clock, to inquire why
+I had not been home and I told him that Taylor was away and I should be
+late for supper. He departed, shaking his head.
+
+“It's just as I said,” he declared, “you're workin' yourself sick,
+that's what you're doin'. You're growin' foolish in the head about
+work, just the same as Dorindy. And YOU don't need to; you've got money
+enough. If I had independent means same as you've got I tell you I'd
+have more sense. One sick invalid in the family's enough, ain't it?”
+
+“No doubt, Lute,” I replied. “At all events you must take care of your
+health. Don't YOU work yourself sick.”
+
+Lute turned on me. “I try not to,” he said, seriously; “I try not to,
+but it's a hard job. You know what that wife of mine is cal'latin' to
+have me do next? Wash the hen house window! Yes sir! wash the window
+so's the hens can look at the scenery, I presume likely. I says to her,
+says I, 'That beats any foolishness ever I heard! Next thing you'll want
+me to put down a carpet in the pigsty, won't ye? You would if we kept a
+pig, I know.'”
+
+“What did she say to that?” I inquired.
+
+“Oh, the land knows! Somethin' about keepin' one pig bein' trouble
+enough. I didn't pay much attention. But I shan't wash no hen's window,
+now you can bet on that!”
+
+I shouldn't have bet much on it. He went away, to spend the next hour in
+a political debate at Eldredge's, and I wrote letters, needlessly long
+ones. Closing time came and Sam went home, leaving me to lock up. The
+train was due at six-twenty, but it was nearly seven before I heard it
+whistle at the station. I stood at the front window looking up the road
+and waiting.
+
+I waited only a few minutes, but they were long ones. Then I saw George
+coming, not running this time, but walking with rapid strides. The
+crowd, waiting on the post-office steps, shouted at him but he paid
+no attention. He sprang up the steps and entered the bank. I stepped
+forward and seized his hand. One look at his face was enough; he had the
+bonds, I knew it.
+
+“Ros, you here!” he exclaimed. “Is it all right? The examiner hasn't
+showed up?”
+
+“No,” I answered. “You have them, George?”
+
+“Right in my pocket, thank the Lord--and you, Ros Paine. Just let me get
+them into that safe and I--What! You're not going?”
+
+“Yes, I'm going. I congratulate you, George. I am as glad as you are.
+Good night.”
+
+“But Ros, I want to tell you about it. I want to thank you again. I
+never shall forget . . . Ros, hold on!”
+
+But I was already at the door. “Good night,” I called again, and went
+out. I went straight home, ate supper, spent a half hour with Mother,
+and then went to my room and to bed. The excitement was over, for good
+or bad the thing was done beyond recall, and I suddenly realized that I
+was very tired. I fell asleep almost immediately and slept soundly until
+morning. I was too tired even to think.
+
+I had plenty of time to think during the fortnight which followed and
+there was enough to think about. The lawyer came and the papers were
+signed transferring to James W. Colton the strip of land over which
+Denboro had excited itself for months. Each day I sat at my desk
+expecting Captain Dean and a delegation of indignant citizens to rush in
+and denounce me as a traitor and a turncoat. Every time Sam Wheeler met
+me at my arrival at the bank I dreaded to look him in the face, fearing
+that he had learned of my action and was waiting to question me about
+it. In spite of all my boasts and solemn vows not to permit “Big Jim”
+ Colton to obtain the Shore Lane I had sold it to him; he could, and it
+was to be expected that he would, close it at once; Denboro would make
+its just demand upon me for explanations, explanations which, for George
+and Nellie's sake, I could not give; and after that the deluge. I was
+sitting over a powder mine and I braced myself for the explosion.
+
+But hours and days passed and no explosion came. The fishcarts rattled
+down the Lane without hindrance. Except for the little flurry of
+excitement caused by the coming wedding at the Dean homestead the
+village life moved on its lazy, uneventful jog. I could not understand
+it. Why did Colton delay? He, whose one object in life was to have his
+own way, had it once more. Now that he had it why didn't he make use of
+it? Why was he holding back? Out of pity for me? I did not believe it.
+Much more likely that his daughter, whose pride I had dared to offend,
+had taken the affair in her hands and this agony of suspense was a
+preliminary torture, a part of my punishment for presuming to act
+contrary to her imperial will.
+
+I saw her occasionally, although I tried my best not to do so. Once we
+passed each other on the street and I stubbornly kept my head turned in
+the other direction. I would risk no more looks such as she had given me
+when, in response to her father's would-be humorous suggestion, she had
+offered me her “congratulations.” Once, too, I saw her on the bay, I was
+aboard the Comfort, having just anchored after a short cruise, and she
+went by in the canoe, her newest plaything, which had arrived by freight
+a few days before. A canoe in Denboro Bay was a distinct novelty;
+probably not since the days of the Indians had one of the light,
+graceful little vessels floated there, and this one carried much comment
+among the old salts alongshore. It was the general opinion that it was
+no craft for salt water.
+
+“Them things,” said Zeb Kendrick, sagely, “are all right for ponds
+or rivers or cricks where there ain't no tide nor sea runnin'. Float
+anywheres where there's a heavy dew, they say they will. But no darter
+of mine should go out past the flats in one of 'em if I had the say.
+It's too big a risk.”
+
+“Yup; well, Zeb, you ain't got the say, I cal'late,” observed Thoph
+Newcomb. “And it takes more'n say to get a skiff like that one. They
+tell me the metal work aboard her is silver-plated--silver or gold, I
+ain't sure which. Wonder the old man didn't make it solid gold while he
+was about it. He'd do anything for that girl if she asked him to. And
+she sartin does handle it like a bird! She went by my dory t'other
+mornin' and I swan to man if she and the canoe together wan't a sight
+for sore eyes. I set and watched her for twenty minutes.”
+
+“Um--ye-es,” grunted Zeb. “And then you charged the twenty minutes in
+against the day's work quahaugin' you was supposed to be doin' for me, I
+suppose.”
+
+“You can take out the ten cents when you pay me--if you ever do,” said
+Newcomb, gallantly. “'Twas wuth more'n that just to look at her.”
+
+The time had been when I should have agreed with Thoph. Sitting in the
+canoe, bare-headed, her hair tossing in the breeze, and her rounded arms
+swinging the light paddle, she was a sight for sore eyes, doubtless.
+But it was not my eyes which were sore, just then. I watched her for a
+moment and then bent over my engine. I did not look up again until the
+canoe had disappeared beyond the Colton wharf.
+
+I did not tell Mother that I had sold the land. I intended to do so;
+each morning I rose with my mind made up to tell her, and always I
+put off the telling until some other time. I knew, of course, that she
+should be told; that I ought to tell her rather than to have her learn
+the news from others as she certainly would at almost any moment, but I
+knew, too, that even to her I could not disclose my reason for
+selling. I must keep George's secret as he had kept mine and take the
+consequences with a close mouth and as much of my old indifference to
+public opinion as I could muster. But I realized, only too well, that
+the indifference which had once been real was now only pretense.
+
+I have said very little about George Taylor's gratitude to me, nor his
+appreciation of what I had done for him. The poor fellow would have
+talked of nothing else if I had let him.
+
+“You've saved my good name and my life, Ros,” he said, over and over
+again, “and not only my life, but what is a mighty sight more worth
+saving, Nellie's happiness. I don't know how you did it; I believe yet
+that there is something behind all this, that you're keeping something
+from me. I can't see how, considering all you've said to me about your
+not being well-off, you got that money so quick. But I know you don't
+want me to talk about it.”
+
+“I don't, George,” I said. “All I ask of you is just to forget the whole
+thing.”
+
+“Forget! I shan't forget while I live. And, as soon as ever I can scrape
+it together, I'll pay you back that loan.”
+
+He had kept his word, so far as telling Nellie of his financial
+condition was concerned. He had not, of course, told her of his use of
+the bank bonds, but he had, as he said he would, told her that, in all
+probability, he should be left with nothing but his salary.
+
+“I told her she was free to give me up,” he said, with emotion, “and
+what do you suppose she said to me? That she would marry me if she knew
+she must live in the poorhouse the rest of her days. Yes, and be happy,
+so long as we could be together. Well, I ain't worth it, and I told her
+so, but I'll do my best to be worth something; and she shan't have to
+live in the poorhouse either.”
+
+“I don't think there's much danger of that,” I said. “And, by the way,
+George, your Louisville and Transcontinental speculation may not be
+all loss. You may save something out of it. There has been considerable
+trading in the stock during the past two days. It is up half a point
+already, according to the papers. Did you notice it?”
+
+“Yes, I noticed it. But I tell you, Ros, I don't care. I'll be glad to
+get some of my money back, of course; enough to pay you and Cap'n Elisha
+anyhow; but I'm so happy to think that Nellie need never know I was a
+thief that I don't seem to care much for anything else.”
+
+Nellie was happy, too. She came to me and told me of her happiness. It
+was all on George's account, of course.
+
+“The poor fellow had lost money in investments,” she said, “and he
+thought I would not care for him if I found out he was poor. He isn't
+poor, of course, but if he was it would make no difference to me. I am
+so glad to see him without that dreadful worried look on his face that
+I--I--Oh, you must think me awful silly, Roscoe! I guess I am. I know I
+am. But you are the only one I can talk to in this way about--about him.
+All Ma wants to talk about now is the wedding and clothes and such, and
+Pa always treats me as if I was a child. I feel almost as if you were
+the closest friend I have, and I know George feels the same. He says you
+have helped him out of his troubles. I was sure you would; that is why I
+wrote you that letter. We are both SO grateful to you.”
+
+Their gratitude and the knowledge of their happiness were my sole
+consolations in this trying time. They kept me from repenting what I
+had done. It was hard not to repent. If Colton had only made known his
+purchase and closed the Lane at once, while my resolution was red hot,
+I could have faced the wrath of the village and its inevitable
+consequences fairly well, I believed; but he still kept silent and made
+no move. I saw him once or twice; on one occasion he came into the bank,
+but he came only to cash a check and did not mention the subject of the
+Lane. He did not look well to me and I heard him tell Taylor something
+about his “damned digestion.”
+
+The wedding day came. I, as best man, was busy and thankful for the
+bustle and responsibility. They occupied my mind and kept it from
+dwelling on other things. George worked at the bank until noon, getting
+ready to leave the institution in my charge and that of Dick Small,
+Henry's brother, who had reported for duty that morning. The marriage
+was to take place at half past one in the afternoon and the bridal
+couple were to go away on the three o'clock train. The honeymoon trip
+was to be a brief one, only a week.
+
+Every able-bodied native of Denboro, man, woman and child, attended that
+wedding, I honestly believe. It was the best sort of advertising for
+Olinda Cahoon and Simeon Eldredge, for Olinda had made the gowns worn
+by the bride and the bride's mother and a number of the younger female
+guests, and Sim had sold innumerable bottles of a peculiarly penetrating
+perfume, a large supply of which he had been talked into purchasing by a
+Boston traveling salesman.
+
+“Smell it, Ros, do ye?” whispered Sim, grinning triumphantly between
+the points of a “stand-up” collar. “I give you my word when that
+slick-talkin' drummer sold me all that perfumery, I thought I was stuck
+sure and sartin. But then I had an idee. Every time women folks come
+into the store and commenced to talk about the weddin' I says to 'em,
+says I, 'Can't sell you a couple of handkerchiefs to cry on, can I, Miss
+So-and-so? Weddin's are great places for sheddin' tears, you know.' If
+I sold 'em the handkerchiefs all well and good; but if they laughed
+and said they had a plenty, I got out my sample bottle of 'May Lilock',
+that's the name of the cologne, and asked 'em to smell of it. 'If you
+cry with that on your handkerchief,' says I, 'all hands will be glad to
+have you do it. And only twenty cents a bottle!' You wouldn't believe
+how much I sold. You can smell this weddin' afore you come in sight of
+the house, can't ye now.”
+
+You could, and you continued to smell it long after you left. My best
+suit reeked of “May Lilac” weeks later when I took it out of the closet.
+
+Dorinda was there, garbed in rustling black alpaca, her Sunday gown for
+ten years at least, and made over and “turned” four or five times. Lute
+was on deck, cutaway coat, “high water” trousers and purple tie, grand
+to look upon, Alvin Baker and Elnathan Mullet and Alonzo Black and
+Thoph Newcomb and Zeb Kendrick were, as the Item would say, “among those
+present” and if Zeb's black cutaway smelled slightly of fish it was, at
+least, a change from the pervading “May Lilac.”
+
+Captain Jed strutted pompously about, monarch of the day. He greeted me
+genially.
+
+“Hello, Ros!” he said. “You out here? Thought you'd be busy overhaulin'
+George's runnin' riggin' and makin' sure he was all ready to heave
+alongside the parson.”
+
+“I have been,” I answered. “I am on my way back there now.”
+
+“All right, all right. Matildy give me fits for not stayin' upstairs
+until the startin' gun was fired, but I told her that, between her with
+her eyes full of tears and Olindy Cahoon with her mouth full of pins,
+'twas no place for a male man. So I cleared out till everything was
+shipshape. Say, Ros,” he laid his hand on my shoulder and bent to
+whisper in my ear: “Say, Ros,” he said, “I'm glad to see you're takin'
+my advice.”
+
+“Taking your advice?” I repeated, puzzled.
+
+“Yes; about not playin' with fire, you know. I ain't heard of you and
+the Princess cruisin' together for the past week. Thought 'twas best
+not to be too familiar with the R'yal family, didn't you? That's right,
+that's right. We can't take chances. We've got Denboro and the Shore
+Lane to think about, ain't we?”
+
+I did not answer. I did not risk looking him in the face.
+
+“She's liable to be here most any time, I cal'late,” he went on. “Nellie
+would insist on invitin' her. And I must say that, to be honest, the
+present she sent is the finest that's come aboard yet. The only thing
+I've got against her is her bad judgment in pickin' a father. If 'twan't
+for that I--hello! Who--Why, I believe--”
+
+There was a commotion among the guests and heads were turned toward the
+door. The captain started forward. I started back. She had entered the
+room and was standing there, looking about her with smiling interest.
+I had forgotten that, considering her friendship with Nellie, she was
+certain to be invited.
+
+She was dressed in a simple, but wonderful, white gown and wore a bunch
+of lilies of the valley at her bosom. The doorway was decorated with
+sprays of honeysuckle and green boughs and against this background she
+made a picture that brought admiring whispers from the people near me.
+She did not notice me at first and I think I should have escaped by the
+side door if it had not been for Sim Eldredge. Simeon was just behind me
+and he darted forward with outstretched hand.
+
+“Why, how d'ye do, Miss Colton!” exclaimed Sim. “You're just in time,
+ain't ye! Let me get you a chair. Alvin,” to Mr. Baker, who, perspiring
+beneath the unaccustomed dignity of a starched shirt front, occupied a
+front seat, “get up and let Miss Colton set down.”
+
+She looked in Sim's direction and saw me, standing beside him. I had
+no opportunity to avoid her look now, as I had done when we met in
+the street. She saw me and I could not turn away. I bowed. She did not
+acknowledge the bow. She looked calmly past me, through me. I saw, or
+fancied that I saw, astonishment on the faces of those watching us.
+Captain Jed stepped forward to greet her and I went into the adjoining
+room, where George was anxiously awaiting me.
+
+“Good land, Ros!” he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, “I was beginning
+to be afraid you'd skipped out and left me to go through it all alone.
+Say something to brace me up, won't you; I'm scared to death. Say,” with
+a wondering glance at my face, “what's struck YOU? You look more upset
+than I feel.”
+
+I believe I ordered him not to be an idiot. I know I did not “brace him
+up” to any extent.
+
+It was a very pretty wedding. At least every one said it was, although
+they say the same of all weddings, I am told. Personally I was very
+glad when it was over. Nellie whispered in my ear as I offered her my
+congratulations, “We owe it all to you, Roscoe.” George said nothing,
+but the look he gave me as he wrung my hand was significant. For a
+moment I forgot myself, forgot to be envious of those to whom the door
+for happiness was not shut. After all I had opened the door for these
+two, and that was something.
+
+I walked as far as the corner with Lute and Dorinda. Dorinda's eyes were
+red and her husband commented upon it.
+
+“I thought a weddin' was supposed to be a joyful sort of thing,” he
+said, disgustedly. “It's usually cal'lated to be. Yet you and the rest
+of the women folks set and cried through the whole of it. What in time
+was there to cry about?”
+
+“Oh, I don't know, Luther,” replied Dorinda in, for her, an unusually
+tolerant tone. “Perhaps it's because we've all been young once and can't
+forget it.”
+
+“I don't forget, no more'n you do. I ain't so old that I can't remember
+that fur back, I hope. But it don't make me feel like cryin'.”
+
+“Well, all right. We won't argue about it. Let's be pleasant as we can,
+for once.”
+
+Now that is where Lute should have taken the hint and remained silent.
+At least he should have changed the subject. But he was hot and
+uncomfortable and, I suspect, his Sunday shoes were tight. He persisted.
+
+“Huh!” he sniffed; “I don't see's you've given me no sensible reason for
+cryin'. If I recollect right you didn't cry at your own weddin'.”
+
+His wife turned on him. She looked him over from head to foot.
+
+“Didn't I?” she said, tartly. “Well, maybe not. But if I'd realized what
+was happenin' to me, I should.”
+
+“Lute,” said I, as I parted from them at the corner, “I am going to the
+bank for a little while. Then I think I shall take a short run down the
+bay in the Comfort. Did you fill her tank with gasolene as I asked you
+to?”
+
+Lute stopped short. “There!” he exclaimed, “I knew there was somethin' I
+forgot. I'll do it soon's ever I get home.”
+
+“When you get home,” observed Dorinda, firmly, “you'll wash that
+henhouse window.”
+
+“Now, Dorinda, if that ain't just like you! Don't you hear Roscoe askin'
+me about that gas? I've had that gas in my head ever since yesterday.”
+
+“Um-hm,” wearily. “Well, I shouldn't think a little extry more or less
+would make much difference. Never mind, don't waste any more on me.
+Get the gas out of your head, if Roscoe wants you to. You can wash the
+window afterward.”
+
+Lute's parting words were that he would fill that tank the very first
+thing. If he had--but there! he didn't.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+
+The fog had come almost without warning. When, after leaving the bank,
+at four o'clock or thereabouts, I walked down to the shore and pulled my
+skiff out to where the Comfort lay at her moorings, there had not been
+a sign of it. Now I was near the entrance of the bay, somewhere abreast
+Crow Point, and all about me was gray, wet blankness. Sitting in the
+stern of the little launch I could see perhaps a scant ten feet beyond
+the bow, no more.
+
+It was the sudden shift of the wind which had brought the fog. When I
+left the boat house there had been a light westerly breeze. This had
+died down to a flat calm, and then a new breeze had sprung up from the
+south, blowing the fog before it. It rolled across the water as swiftly
+as the smoke clouds roll from a freshly lighted bonfire. It blotted
+Denboro from sight and moved across the bay; the long stretch of beach
+disappeared; the Crow Point light and Ben Small's freshly whitewashed
+dwellings and outbuildings were obliterated. In ten minutes the Comfort
+was, to all appearances, alone on a shoreless sea, and I was the only
+living creature in the universe.
+
+I was not troubled or alarmed. I had been out in too many fogs on that
+very bay to mind this one. It was a nuisance, because it necessitated
+cutting short my voyage, although that voyage had no objective point and
+was merely an aimless cruise in search of solitude and forgetfulness.
+The solitude I had found, the forgetfulness, of course, I had not. And
+now, when the solitude was more complete than ever, surrounded by
+this gray dismalness, with nothing whatever to look at to divert my
+attention, I knew I should be more bitterly miserable than I had been
+since I left that wedding. And I had been miserable and bitter enough,
+goodness knows.
+
+Home and the village, which I had been so anxious to get away from, now
+looked inviting in comparison. I slowed down the engine and, with an
+impatient growl, bent over the little binnacle to look at the compass
+and get my bearings before pointing the Comfort's nose in the direction
+of Denboro. Then my growl changed to an exclamation of disgust. The
+compass was not there. I knew where it was. It was on my work bench in
+the boat house, where I had put it myself, having carried it there to
+replace the cracked glass in its top with a new one. I had forgotten it
+and there it was.
+
+I could get along without it, of course, but its absence meant delay and
+more trouble. In a general way I knew my whereabouts, but the channel
+was winding and the tide was ebbing rapidly. I should be obliged to run
+slowly--to feel my way, so to speak--and I might not reach home until
+late. However, there was nothing else to do, so I put the helm over
+and swung the launch about. I sat in the stern sheets, listening to
+the dreary “chock-chock” of the propeller, and peering forward into the
+mist. The prospect was as cheerless as my future.
+
+Suddenly, from the wet, gray blanket ahead came a call. It was a good
+way off when I first heard it, a call in a clear voice, a feminine voice
+it seemed to me.
+
+“Hello!”
+
+I did not answer. I took it for granted that the call was not addressed
+to me. It came probably, from the beach at the Point, and might be
+Mrs. Small hailing her husband, though it did not sound like her voice.
+Several minutes went by before it was repeated. Then I heard it again
+and nearer.
+
+“Hello! Hello-o-o! Where are you?”
+
+That was not Mrs. Small, certainly. Unless I was away off in my
+reckoning the Point was at my right, and the voice sounded to the left.
+It must come from some craft afloat in the bay, though before the fog
+set in I had seen none.
+
+“Hello-o! Hello, the motor boat!”
+
+“Hello!” I answered. “Boat ahoy! Where are you?”
+
+“Here I am.” The voice was nearer still. “Where are you? Don't run into
+me.”
+
+I shifted my helm just a bit and peered ahead. I could see nothing. The
+fog was thicker than ever; if that were possible.
+
+“Where are you?” repeated the unseen voyager, and to my dismay, the hail
+came from the right this time.
+
+“Don't move!” I shouted. “Stay where you are. I will keep shouting . . .
+LOOK OUT!”
+
+Out of the fog to starboard a long dark shadow shot, silent and swift.
+It was moving directly across the Comfort's bow. I jammed the wheel over
+and the launch swung off, but not enough. It struck the canoe, for it
+was a canoe, a glancing blow and heeled it down to the water's edge.
+There was a scrape, a little scream, and two hands clutched at the
+Comfort's rail. I let go the wheel, sprang forward and seized the owner
+of the hands about the waist. The canoe, half full of water, disappeared
+somewhere astern. I swung Mabel Colton aboard the launch.
+
+I think she spoke first. I do not remember saying anything, and I think
+it must have been at least a full minute before either of us broke
+the silence. She lay, or sat, upon the cockpit floor, her shoulders
+supported by the bench surrounding it, just where I had placed her after
+lifting her over the rail. I knelt beside her, staring as if she were a
+spirit instead of a real, and rather damp, young lady. And she stared at
+me. When she spoke her words were an echo of my thought.
+
+“It IS you?” she gasped.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“This--this is the third time.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+Another interval of silence. Then she spoke once more and her tone was
+one expressing intense conviction.
+
+“This,” she said, slowly, “is getting to be positively ridiculous.”
+
+I did not deny it. I said nothing.
+
+She sat up. “My canoe--” she faltered.
+
+The mention of the canoe brought me partially to my senses. I realized
+that I was kneeling on the deck of a launch that was pounding its way
+through the fog with no one at the helm. I sprang to my feet and seized
+the wheel. That my doing so would be of little use, considering that the
+Comfort might be headed almost anywhere by this time, did not occur to
+me. Miss Colton remained where she was.
+
+“My canoe--” she repeated.
+
+I was awakening rapidly. I looked out into the mist and shook my head.
+
+“I am afraid your canoe has gone,” I said. And then, as the thought
+occurred to me for the first time, “You're not hurt, I hope? I dragged
+you aboard here rather roughly, I am afraid.”
+
+“No, I am not hurt. But--where are we?”
+
+“I don't know, exactly. Somewhere near the mouth of the bay, that is
+all I can be sure of. You, are certain you are not hurt? You must be wet
+through.”
+
+She got upon her feet and, leaning over the Comfort's rail, gazed about
+her.
+
+“I am all right,” she answered. “But don't you know where you are?”
+
+“Before the fog caught me I was nearly abreast the Point. I was running
+at half speed up the channel when I heard your hail. Where were you?”
+
+“I was just beyond your boat house, out in the middle of the bay. I had
+come out for a paddle before dinner. I did not notice the fog until it
+was all about me. Then I think I must have been bewildered. I thought
+I was going in the direction of home, but I could not have been--not if
+you were abreast the Point. I must have been going directly out to sea.”
+
+She shivered.
+
+“You are wet,” I said, anxiously. “There is a storm coat of mine in the
+locker forward. Won't you put that about your shoulders? It may prevent
+your taking cold.”
+
+“No, thank you. I am not wet, at all; or, at least, only my feet and the
+bottom of my skirt. I shall not take cold.”
+
+“But--”
+
+“Please don't worry. I am all right, or shall be as soon as I get home.”
+
+“I am very sorry about your canoe.”
+
+“It doesn't matter.”
+
+Her answers were short now. There was a different note in her voice. I
+knew the reason of the change. Now that the shock and the surprise of
+our meeting were over she and I were resuming our old positions. She was
+realizing that her companion was the “common fellow” whose “charming and
+cultivated society” was not necessary to her happiness, the fellow to
+whom she had scornfully offered “congratulations” and whom she had cut
+dead at the Deans' that very afternoon. I made no more suggestions and
+expressed no more sympathy.
+
+“I will take you home at once,” I said, curtly.
+
+“If you please.”
+
+That ended conversation for the time. She seated herself on the bench
+near the forward end of the cockpit and kept her head turned away from
+me. I, with one hand upon the wheel--a useless procedure, for I had no
+idea where the launch might be headed--looked over the rail and listened
+to the slow and regular beat of the engine. Suddenly the beat grew less
+regular. The engine barked, hiccoughed, barked again but more faintly,
+and then stopped altogether.
+
+I knew what was the matter. Before I reached the gasolene tank and
+unscrewed the little cover I knew it. I thrust in the gauge stick and
+heard it strike bottom, drew it out and found it, as I expected, dry
+to the very tip. I had trusted, like an imbecile, to Lute. Lute had
+promised to fill that tank “the very first thing,” and he had not kept
+his promise.
+
+There was not a pint of gasolene aboard the Comfort; and it would be my
+cheerful duty to inform my passenger of the fact!
+
+She did not wait for me to break the news. She saw me standing there,
+holding the gauge stick in my hand, and she asked the natural question.
+
+“What is the matter?” she demanded.
+
+I swallowed the opinion of Mr. Rogers which was on the tip of my tongue.
+
+“I am sorry,” I stammered, “but--but--well, we are in trouble, I am
+afraid.”
+
+“In trouble?” she said coldly. “What trouble do you mean?”
+
+“Yes. The fact is, we have run out of gasolene. I told my man, Rogers,
+to fill the tank and he hasn't done it.”
+
+She leaned forward to look at me.
+
+“Hasn't done it?” she repeated. “You mean--why, this boat cannot go
+without gasolene, can it?”
+
+“Not very well; no.”
+
+“Then--then what are we going to do?”
+
+“Anchor and wait, if I can.”
+
+“Wait! But I don't wish to wait. I wish to be taken home, at once.”
+
+“I am sorry, but I am afraid that is impossible.”
+
+I was on my way forward to where the anchor lay, in the bow. She rose
+and stepped in front of me.
+
+“Mr. Paine.”
+
+“Yes, Miss Colton.”
+
+“I tell you I do not wish you to anchor this boat.”
+
+“I am sorry but it is the only thing to do, under the circumstances.”
+
+“I do not wish it. Stop! I tell you I will not have you anchor.”
+
+“Miss Colton, we must do one of two things, either anchor or drift. And
+if we drift I cannot tell you where we may be carried.”
+
+“I don't care.”
+
+“I do.”
+
+“Yes,” with scornful emphasis, “I presume you do.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean--never mind what I mean.”
+
+“But, as I have explained to you, the gasolene--”
+
+“Nonsense! Do you suppose I believe that ridiculous story?”
+
+“Believe it?” I gazed at her uncomprehendingly. “Believe it,” I
+repeated. “Don't you believe it?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Miss Colton, do you mean that you think I am not telling you the truth?
+That I am lying?”
+
+“Well,” fiercely, “and if I did, would it be so astonishing,
+considering--considering the TRUTHS you have told me before?”
+
+I made no further effort to pass her. Instead I stepped back.
+
+“Would you mind telling me,” I demanded, with deliberate sarcasm, “what
+possible reason you think I might have for wishing to keep you here?”
+
+“I shall tell you nothing. And--and I will not have you anchor this
+boat.”
+
+“Is it your desire then that we drift--the Lord knows where?”
+
+“I desire you to start that engine and take me home.”
+
+“I cannot start the engine.”
+
+“I don't believe it.”
+
+For a moment I hesitated. Then I did what was perhaps the most senseless
+thing I ever did in all my life, which is saying considerable. I turned
+my back on her and on the anchor, and seated myself once more in the
+stern sheets. And we drifted.
+
+I do not know how long we drifted before I regained my sanity. It must
+have been a good while. When I first returned to my seat by the wheel it
+was with the firm determination to allow the Comfort to drift into the
+bottomless pit rather than to stir hand or foot to prevent it. In fact
+that particular port looked rather inviting than otherwise. Any torments
+it might have in store could not be worse than those I had undergone
+because of this girl. I sat, silent, with my gaze fixed upon the
+motionless engine. I heard my passenger move once or twice, but I did
+not look at her.
+
+What brought me to my senses was the boat hook, which had been lying on
+the seat beside me, suddenly falling to the floor. I started and looked
+over the rail. The water, as much of it as I could see through the fog,
+was no longer flat and calm. There were waves all about us, not big
+ones, but waves nevertheless, long, regular swells in the trough of
+which the Comfort rocked lazily. There was no wind to kick up a sea.
+This was a ground swell, such as never moved in Denboro Bay. While I sat
+there like an idiot the tide had carried us out beyond the Point.
+
+With an exclamation I sprang up and hurried forward. Miss Colton was
+sitting where I had left her.
+
+“What is it?” she asked. “What are you going to do?”
+
+“I am going to anchor,” I said.
+
+“I do not wish you to anchor.”
+
+“I can't help that. I must. Please stand aside, Miss Colton.”
+
+She tried to prevent me, but I pushed her away, not too gently I am
+afraid, and clambered forward to the bow, where the anchor lay upon its
+coil of line. I threw it overboard. The line ran out to its very end and
+I waited expectantly for the jerk which would tell me that the anchor
+had caught and was holding. But no jerk came. Reaching over the bow I
+tried the line. It was taut and heavy. Then I knew approximately how far
+we had drifted. We were beyond the shoal making out from Crow Point over
+the deep water beyond. My anchor rope was not long enough to reach the
+bottom.
+
+Still I was not alarmed. I was provoked at my own stubbornness which had
+gotten us into this predicament and more angry than ever at the person
+who was the cause of that stubbornness. But I was not frightened. There
+were other shoals further out and I left the anchor as it was, hoping
+that it might catch and hold on one of them. I went back once more to my
+seat by the wheel.
+
+Then followed another interval of silence and inaction. From astern and
+a good way off sounded the notes of a bell. From the opposite direction
+came a low groan, indescribably mournful and lonely.
+
+My passenger heard it and spoke.
+
+“What was that?” she demanded, in a startled tone.
+
+“The fog horn at Mackerel Island, the island at the mouth of Wellmouth
+harbor,” I answered.
+
+“And that bell?”
+
+“That is the fog bell at Crow Point.”
+
+“At Crow Point? Why, it can't be! Crow Point is in Denboro Bay, and that
+bell is a long way behind us.”
+
+“Yes. We are a mile or more outside the Point now. The tide has carried
+us out.”
+
+“Carried us--Do you mean that we are out at sea?”
+
+“Not at sea exactly. We are in Cape Cod Bay.”
+
+“But--why, we are still drifting, aren't we? I thought you had
+anchored.”
+
+“I tried to, but I was too late. The water is too deep here for the
+anchor to reach bottom.”
+
+“But--but what are you going to do?”
+
+“Nothing at present. There is nothing I can do. Sit down, please.”
+
+“Nothing! Nothing! Do you mean that you propose to sit there and let us
+be carried out to sea?”
+
+“We shall not be carried far. There is no wind. When the tide turns we
+shall probably be carried in again.”
+
+“But,” sharply, “why don't you do something? Can't you row?”
+
+“I have only one oar.”
+
+“But you must do something. You MUST. I--I--It is late! it is growing
+dark! My people! What will they think?”
+
+“I am sorry, Miss Colton.”
+
+“Sorry! You are not sorry! If you were you would do something, instead
+of sitting there as--as if you enjoyed it. I believe you do enjoy it.
+You are doing it purposely to--to--”
+
+“To what, pray?”
+
+“Never mind.”
+
+“But I do mind. You have accused me of lying, Miss Colton, and of
+keeping you here purposely. What do you mean by it?”
+
+“I mean that--that--Oh, you know what I mean! You hate me and you hate
+my father, and you are trying to--to punish us for--for--”
+
+I had heard enough. I did not propose to hear any more.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I interrupted, sternly, “stop! this is silly. I assure
+you that I am as anxious to end this--excursion--of ours as you can be.
+Your being afloat in Denboro Bay in a canoe was your own recklessness
+and not my fault. Neither was it my fault that the launch collided with
+your canoe. I called to you not to move, but to stay where you were.
+And, moreover, if you had permitted me to anchor when I first attempted
+to do so we should not be in this scrape. I shall get you out of it just
+as quick as I can. In order that I may do so I shall expect you to stop
+behaving like a child and do as I tell you. Sit down on that bench and
+keep still.”
+
+This had the effect I meant it to. She looked at me as if she could not
+believe she had heard aright. But I met her gaze squarely, and, with a
+shudder of disgust, or fear, I do not know which, she turned her back
+upon me and was silent. I went forward to the cuddy, found the tin horn
+which, until that moment, I had forgotten, and, returning, blew strident
+blasts upon it at intervals. There was little danger of other craft
+being in our vicinity, but I was neglecting no precautions.
+
+The bell at Crow Point sounded further and further astern. The twilight
+changed to dusk and the dusk to darkness. The fog was as thick as ever.
+It was nearly time for the tide to turn.
+
+Suddenly there was a jerk; the launch quivered, and swung about.
+
+“Oh! what was that?” demanded Miss Colton, shortly.
+
+“The anchor,” I answered. “We have reached the outer shoal.”
+
+“And,” hesitatingly, “shall we stay here?”
+
+“Yes; unless--”
+
+“Unless what?”
+
+“Unless . . . Hush! listen!”
+
+There was an odd rushing sound from the darkness astern, a sort of hiss
+and low, watery roar. I rushed to the bow and dragged the anchor inboard
+with all my strength. Then I ran to the wheel. I had scarcely reached it
+when I felt a hand on my arm.
+
+“What is it?” asked the young lady, her voice quivering. “Oh, what is
+it?”
+
+“Wind,” I answered. “There is a squall coming. Sit down! Sit down!”
+
+“But--but--”
+
+“Sit down.”
+
+She hesitated and I seized her arm and forced her down upon the bench
+beside me. I threw the helm over. The rushing sound grew nearer. Then
+came a blast of wind which sent my cap flying overboard and the fog
+disappeared as if it had been a cloth snatched away by a mighty hand.
+Above us was a black sky, with stars showing here and there between
+flying clouds, and about us were the waves, already breaking into foam
+upon the shoal.
+
+The Comfort rocked and wallowed in the trough. We were being driven by
+the wind away from the shoal, but not fast enough. Somehow or other we
+must get out of that dangerous neighborhood. I turned to my companion.
+She had not spoken since the squall came.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said, “give me your hands.”
+
+I presume she could not imagine what I meant. No doubt, too, my tone and
+the request frightened her. She hesitated. I seized her hands and placed
+them on the spokes of the wheel.
+
+“I want you to hold that wheel just as it is,” I commanded. “I must go
+forward and get steerage way on this craft somehow, or we shall capsize.
+Can you hold it, do you think?”
+
+“Yes; I--I think so.”
+
+“You must.”
+
+I left her, went to the cuddy and dragged out the small canvas tarpaulin
+which I used to cover the engine at night. With this, a cod line, the
+boathook, and my one oar I improvised a sort of jury rig which I tied
+erect at the forward end of the cockpit. Then I went aft and took the
+wheel again. The tarpaulin made a poor apology for a sail, but I hoped
+it might answer the purpose well enough to keep the Comfort before the
+wind.
+
+It did. Tacking was, of course, out of the question, but with the gale
+astern the launch answered her helm and slid over the waves instead of
+rolling between them. I sighed in relief. Then I remembered my passenger
+sitting silent beside me. She did not deserve consideration, but I
+vouchsafed a word of encouragement.
+
+“Don't be frightened,” I said. “It is only a stiff breeze and this boat
+is seaworthy. We are all right now.”
+
+“But why did you take up the anchor?”
+
+By way of answer I pointed aft over the stern. In the darkness the froth
+of the shoal gleamed white. I felt her shudder as she looked.
+
+“Where are we going now--please?” she asked, a moment later.
+
+“We are headed for the Wellmouth shore. It is the only direction we can
+take. If this wind holds we shall land in a few hours. It is all deep
+water now. There are no more shoals.”
+
+“But,” anxiously, “can we land when we reach there? Isn't it a bad
+coast?”
+
+“Not very. If we can make Mackerel Island we may be able to get ashore
+at the light or anchor in the lee of the land. It is all right, Miss
+Colton. I am telling you the truth. Strange as it may seem to you, I
+really am.”
+
+I could not help adding the last bit of sarcasm. She understood. She
+drew away on the bench and asked no more questions.
+
+On drove the Comfort. The first fierceness of the squall had passed and
+it was now merely what I had called it, a stiff breeze. Out here in the
+middle of the bay the waves were higher and we shipped some spray over
+the quarter. The air was sharp and the chill penetrated even my thick
+jacket.
+
+“You must be cold,” I said. “Aren't you?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“But you must be. Take the wheel a moment.”
+
+“I am not cold.”
+
+“Take the wheel.”
+
+She took it. I groped about in the cuddy again, got out my storm coat,
+an old pea jacket which I wore on gunning expeditions, and brought it to
+her.
+
+“Slip this on,” I said.
+
+“I do not care for it.”
+
+“Put it on.”
+
+“Mr. Paine,” haughtily, “I tell you . . . . oh!”
+
+I had wrapped the coat about her shoulders and fastened the upper
+button.
+
+“Now sit down on the deck here,” I ordered. “Here, by my feet. You will
+be below the rail there and out of the wind.”
+
+To my surprise she obeyed orders, this time without even a protest. I
+smiled grimly. To see her obey suited my humor. It served her right. I
+enjoyed ordering her about as if I were mate of an old-time clipper and
+she a foremast hand. She had insulted me once too often and she should
+pay for it. Out here social position and wealth and family pride counted
+for nothing. Here I was absolute master of the situation and she
+knew it. All her life she would remember it, the humiliation of being
+absolutely dependent upon me for life and safety and warmth. I looked
+down at her crouching at my feet, and then away over the black water.
+The Comfort climbed wave after wave.
+
+“Mr. Paine.”
+
+The tone was very low but I heard it.
+
+I came out of my waking dream--it was not a pleasant one--and answered.
+
+“Yes?” I said.
+
+“Where are we?”
+
+“We are making fair progress, everything considered. Are you warmer
+now?”
+
+“Yes--thank you.”
+
+She said no more, nor did I. Except for the splash of the spray and the
+flapping of the loose ends of the tarpaulin, it was quiet aboard the
+Comfort. Quiet, except for an odd sound in the shadow by my knee. I
+stooped and listened.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said, quickly. “What is it?”
+
+No answer. Yet I heard the sound again.
+
+“What is it, Miss Colton?” I repeated. “What is the matter? Why are you
+crying?”
+
+“I--I am NOT crying,” indignantly. And on the very heels of the denial
+came a stifled sob.
+
+That sob went to my heart. A great lump rose in my own throat. My brain
+seemed to be turning topsy-turvy. A moment before it had been filled
+with bitterness and resentment and vengeful thoughts. Now these had
+vanished and in their place came crowding other and vastly different
+feelings. She was crying, sobbing there alone in the dark at my feet.
+And I had treated her like a brute!
+
+“Miss Colton,” I pleaded, in an agony of repentance, “what is it? Is
+there anything I can do? Are you still cold? Take this other coat, the
+one I have on. I don't need it, really. I am quite warm.”
+
+“I am not cold.”
+
+“But--”
+
+“Oh, please don't speak to me! PLEASE!”
+
+I closed my lips tightly and clutched the wheel with both hands. Oh, I
+had been a brute, a brute! I should have known that she was not herself,
+that she was frightened and nervous and distraught. I should have been
+considerate and forbearing. I should have remembered that she was only a
+girl, hysterical and weak. Instead I had--
+
+“Miss Colton,” I begged, “please don't. Please!”
+
+No answer; only another sob. I tried again.
+
+“I have been a cad,” I cried. “I have treated you abominably. I don't
+expect you to forgive me, but--”
+
+“I--I am so frightened!” The confession was a soliloquy, I think; not
+addressed to me at all. But I heard it and forgot everything else. I let
+go of the wheel altogether and bent over her, both hands outstretched,
+to--the Lord knows what. I was not responsible just then.
+
+But while I still hesitated, while my hands were still in the air above
+her, before they touched her, I was brought back to sanity with a rude
+shock. A barrel or so of cold water came pouring over the rail and
+drenched us both. The launch, being left without a helmsman, had swung
+into the trough of the sea and this was the result.
+
+I am not really sure what happened in the next few seconds. I must, I
+imagine, have seized the wheel with one hand and my passenger with
+the other. At any rate, when the smoke, so to speak, had cleared, the
+Comfort was headed on her old course once more, I was back on the bench
+by the wheel, Mabel Colton's head was on my shoulder, and I was telling
+her over and over that it was all right now, there was no danger, we
+were perfectly safe, and various inanities of that sort.
+
+She was breathing quickly, but she sobbed no more. I was glad of that.
+
+“You are sure you are not hurt?” I asked, anxiously.
+
+“Yes--yes, I think so,” she answered, faintly. “What was it? I--I
+thought we were sinking.”
+
+“So did I for a moment. It was all my fault, as usual. I let go the
+wheel.”
+
+“Did you? Why?”
+
+“I don't know why.” This was untrue; I did. “But you are wet through,” I
+added, remorsefully. “And I haven't another dry wrap aboard.”
+
+“Never mind. You are as wet as I am.”
+
+“Yes, but _I_ don't mind. I am used to it. But you--”
+
+“I am all right. I was a little faint, at first, I think, but I am
+better now.” She raised her head and sat up. “Where are we?” she asked.
+
+“We are within a few miles of the Wellmouth shore. That light ahead
+is the Mackerel Island light. We shall be there in a little while. The
+danger is almost over.”
+
+She shivered.
+
+“You are cold!” I cried. “Of course you are! If I only had another coat
+or something. It is all my fault.”
+
+“Don't say that,” reproachfully. “Where should I have been if it had not
+been for you? I was paddling directly out toward those dreadful shoals.
+Then you came, just as you have done before, and saved me. And,” in a
+wondering whisper, “I knew it was you!”
+
+I did not ask her what she meant; I seemed to understand perfectly.
+
+“Yes,” I said.
+
+“But I tell you I knew it was you,” she repeated. “I did not know--I
+did not suspect until the moment before the collision, before the launch
+came in sight--then, all at once, I knew.”
+
+“Yes. That was when I knew.”
+
+She turned and gazed at me.
+
+“YOU knew?” she gasped, hysterically. “Why--what do you mean?”
+
+“I can't explain it. Just before your canoe broke through the fog I
+knew, that is all.”
+
+It was unexplainable, but it was true. Call it telepathy or what you
+will--I do not know what it was--I am certain only that, although I had
+not recognized her voice, I had suddenly known who it was that would
+come to me out of the fog. And she, too, had known! I felt again, with
+an almost superstitious thrill, that feeling of helplessness which had
+come over me that day of the fishing excursion when she rode through the
+bushes to my side. It was as if she and I were puppets in the hands of
+some Power which was amusing itself at our expense and would have its
+way, no matter how we might fight against it.
+
+She spoke as if she were struggling to awaken from a dream.
+
+“But it can't be,” she protested. “It is impossible. Why should you and
+I--”
+
+“I don't know . . . Unless--”
+
+“Unless what?”
+
+I closed my lips on the words that were on the tip of my tongue. That
+reason was more impossible than all else.
+
+“Nothing,” I stammered.
+
+She did not repeat her question. I saw her face, a dainty silhouette
+against the foam alongside, turned away from me. I gazed at it until
+I dared gaze no longer. Was I losing my senses altogether? I--Ros
+Paine--the man whose very name was not his own? I must not think such
+thoughts. I scarcely dared trust myself to speak and yet I knew that I
+must. This silence was too dangerous. I took refuge in a commonplace.
+
+“We are getting into smoother water,” I said. “It is not as rough as it
+was, do you think?”
+
+If she heard the remark she ignored it. She did not turn to look at me.
+After a moment she said, in a low voice:
+
+“I can't understand.”
+
+I supposed her to be still thinking of our meeting in the fog.
+
+“I cannot understand myself,” I answered. “I presume it was a
+coincidence, like our meeting at the pond.”
+
+She shook her head. “I did not mean that,” she said. “I mean that I
+cannot understand how you can be so kind to me. After what I said, and
+the way I have treated you; it is wonderful!”
+
+I was obliged to wait another moment before I could reply. I clutched
+the wheel tighter than ever.
+
+“The wonderful part of it all,” I said, earnestly, “is that you should
+even speak to me, after my treatment of you here, to-night. I was a
+brute. I ordered you about as if--”
+
+“Hush! Don't! please don't. Think of what I said to you! Will you
+forgive me? I have been so ungrateful. You saved my life over and over
+again and I--I--”
+
+“Stop! Don't do that! If you do I shall--Miss Colton, please--”
+
+She choked back the sob. “Tell me,” she said, a moment later, this time
+looking me directly in the face, “why did you sell my father that land?”
+
+It was my turn to avoid her look. I did not answer.
+
+“I know it was not because of the money--the price, I mean. Father told
+me that you refused the five thousand he offered and would accept only
+a part of it; thirty-five hundred, I think he said. I should have known
+that the price had nothing to do with it, even if he had not told me.
+But why did you sell it?”
+
+I would have given all I had, or ever expected to have, in this world,
+to tell her the truth. For the moment I almost hated George Taylor.
+
+“Oh, I thought I might as well, give in then as later,” I answered, with
+a shrug. “It was no use fighting the inevitable.”
+
+“That was not it. I know it was not. If it had been you would have taken
+the five thousand. And I know, too, that you meant what you said when
+you told me you never would sell. I have known it all the time. I know
+you were telling me the truth.”
+
+I was astonished. “You do?” I cried. “Why, you said--”
+
+“Don't! I know what I said, and I am so ashamed. I did not mean it,
+really. For a moment, there in the library, when Father first told me, I
+thought perhaps you--but I did not really think it. And when he told me
+the price, I KNEW. Won't you tell me why you sold?”
+
+“I can't. I wish I could.”
+
+“I believe I can guess.”
+
+I started. “You can GUESS?” I repeated.
+
+“Yes. I think you wanted the money for some purpose, some need which
+you had not foreseen. And I do not believe it was for yourself at all. I
+think it was for some one else. Wasn't that it?”
+
+I could not reply. I tried to, tried to utter a prompt denial, but the
+words would not come. Her “guess” was so close to the truth that I could
+only stammer and hesitate.
+
+“It was,” she said. “I thought so. For your mother, wasn't it?”
+
+“No, no. Miss Colton, you are wrong. I--”
+
+“I am not wrong. Never mind. I suppose it is a secret. Perhaps I shall
+find out some day. But will you forgive me for being so hateful? Can
+you? What is the matter?”
+
+“Nothing--nothing. I--you are too good to me, that is all. I don't
+deserve it.”
+
+“Hush! And we will be friends again?”
+
+“Yes. . . . . Oh, no! no! I must not think of it. It is impossible.”
+
+“Must not think of it? When I ask you to? Can't you forgive me, after
+all?”
+
+“There was nothing to forgive.”
+
+“Yes, there was, a great deal. Is there something else? Are you still
+angry with me because of what I said that afternoon at the gate?”
+
+“No, of course not.”
+
+“It was hateful of me, I know. But I could see that you wished to avoid
+me and I was provoked. Besides, you have punished me for that. You have
+snubbed me twice since, sir.”
+
+“_I_ snubbed YOU?”
+
+“Yes--twice. Once when we met in the street. You deliberately turned
+away and would not look at me. And once when I passed you in the canoe.
+You saw me--I know you did--but you cut me dead. That is why I did not
+return your bow to-day, at the wedding.”
+
+“But you had said--I thought--”
+
+“I know. I had said horrid things. I deserved to be snubbed. There! now
+I have confessed. Mayn't we be friends?”
+
+“I . . . Oh, no, we must not, for your sake. I--”
+
+“For my sake! But I wish it. Why not?”
+
+I turned on her. “Can't you see?” I said, despairingly. “Look at the
+difference between us! You are what you are and I--”
+
+She interrupted me. “Oh,” she cried, impatiently, “how dare you speak
+so? How dare you believe that money and--all the rest of it influences
+me in my friendships? Do you think I care for that?”
+
+“I did not mean money alone. But even that Miss Colton, that evening
+when we returned from the trip after weakfish, you and your father and
+I, I heard--I did not mean to hear but I did--what your mother said when
+she met you. She said she had warned you against trusting yourself to
+'that common fellow,' meaning me. That shows what she thinks. She was
+right; in a way she was perfectly right. Now you see what I mean by
+saying that friendship between us is impossible?”
+
+I had spoken at white heat. Now I turned away. It was settled. She must
+understand now.
+
+“Mr. Paine.”
+
+“Yes, Miss Colton.”
+
+“I am sorry you heard that. Mother--she is my mother and I love her--but
+she says foolish things sometimes. I am sorry you heard that, but since
+you did, I wish you had heard the rest.”
+
+“The rest?”
+
+“Yes. I answered her by suggesting that she had not been afraid to trust
+me in the care of Victor--Mr. Carver. She answered that she hoped I did
+not mean to compare Mr. Carver with you. And I said--”
+
+“Yes? You said--?”
+
+“I said,” the tone was low but I heard every syllable, “I said she was
+right, there was no comparison.”
+
+“You said THAT!”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“You said it! And you meant--?”
+
+“I meant--I think I meant that I should not be afraid to trust you
+always--anywhere.”
+
+Where were my good resolutions--my stern reasons to remember who and
+what I was--to be sane, no matter at what cost to myself? I do not know
+where they were; then I did not care. I seized her hand. It trembled,
+but she did not draw it away.
+
+“Mabel--” I cried. “Mabel--”
+
+“BUMP!”
+
+The Comfort shook as the bow of a dory scraped along her starboard
+quarter. A big red hand clasped the rail and its mate brandished a
+good-sized club before my eyes.
+
+“Now,” said a determined voice, “I've got ye at last! This time I've
+caught ye dead to rights! Now, by godfreys, you'll pay me for them
+lobsters!”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+
+If I had been giving undivided attention to my combined duties as
+steersman and pilot, instead of neglecting them for other and more
+engrossing matters, I should, doubtless, have seen the dory before. As
+it was I had not seen it at all, nor heard the oars. It had sneaked up
+on the Comfort out of the darkness and its occupant had laid us aboard
+as neatly as you please.
+
+I was, to say the least, startled and surprised. I dodged the
+threatening club and turned a dazed face toward the person brandishing
+it. He appeared to be a middle-sized, elderly person, in oilskins and
+souwester, and when he spoke a gray whisker wagged above the chin strap
+of the souwester.
+
+“Who in blazes are you?” I demanded, as soon as I could get the words
+together.
+
+“Never you mind that. You know who I be all right enough. Be you goin'
+to pay me for them lobsters? That's what _I_ want to know.”
+
+“What lobsters?”
+
+“Them lobsters you've been stealin' out of my pots for the last
+fortnight.”
+
+“_I_ have been stealing?”
+
+“Yes, you. I been layin' for you all night long. I don't know who
+you be, but you'll pay for them lobsters or come along with me to the
+lock-up, one or t'other.”
+
+I looked about, over the water. The light toward which I had been trying
+to steer blazed dead ahead, surprisingly near and bright. Except for
+that, however, there was no sign of anything except darkness and waves.
+
+“Look here, my man,” I said. “I haven't stolen your lobsters; but--”
+
+“I know better. I don't know who you be, but I'd know you was a thief if
+I run acrost you in prayer-meetin'. Just to look at you is enough.”
+
+I heard a hysterical giggle from the bench beside me. Evidently the
+person with the club heard it, too, for he leaned forward to look.
+
+“So there's two of ye, eh!” he said. “Well, by godfreys, I don't care if
+there's a million! You'll pay for them lobsters or go to the lock-up.”
+
+I laughed aloud. “Very well,” I said. “I am agreeable.”
+
+“You're agreeable! What do you mean by that? This ain't no laughin'
+matter, I'll tell you that.”
+
+I laughed again. “I don't care what you tell me,” I observed. “And if
+you will take us somewhere ashore--to the lock-up or anywhere else--I
+shall be much obliged.”
+
+The occupant of the dory seemed to be puzzled. He leaned forward once
+more.
+
+“What sort of talk is that?” he demanded. “Where's my lobsters? . . .
+Hey! What? I swan to man, I believe one of ye's a woman! Have the
+females turned thieves, too?”
+
+“I don't know. See here, my friend, my name is Paine, and I'm the only
+lobster aboard this craft. This lady and I belong in Denboro. My launch
+has run out of gasolene and we have been drifting about the bay since
+five o'clock. Now, for heaven's sake, don't talk any more, but take us
+to the lock-up and be quick about it.”
+
+The unknown paid no attention to my entreaty. Instead he leaned still
+further over the Comfort's rail. The dory careened until I expected to
+see her capsize.
+
+“I swan to man!” he muttered. “I swan to man! 'Tain't possible I'm
+mistook!”
+
+“It scarcely seems possible, I admit. But I'm afraid it is true.”
+
+I heard the club fall with a clatter.
+
+“My--godfreys! Do you mean to say--? From Denboro? Out of gasolene!
+Why--why, you've got sail up!”
+
+“Nothing but a tarpaulin on an oar.”
+
+“And you've been cruisin' all night? Through the fog--the squall--and
+all?”
+
+“Yes,” wearily, “yes--yes--yes.”
+
+“But--but ain't you drownded?”
+
+“Not quite. If you don't let go of that rail we shall be soon.”
+
+“Driftin' all night! Ain't you wet through?”
+
+“Yes. Might I suggest that we postpone the rest of the catechism until
+we reach--the lock-up?”
+
+This suggestion apparently was accepted. Our captor suddenly became very
+much alive.
+
+“Give me a line,” he ordered. “Anchor rope'll do. Where is it? up
+for'ard?”
+
+He pawed the dory along, hand over hand, until he reached the Comfort's
+bow. I heard the thump of the anchor as he dragged it into the dory.
+Then came the creak and splash of oars. His voice sounded from somewhere
+ahead.
+
+“Head for the light,” he shouted. “I'm goin' to tow you in.”
+
+“In where?”
+
+“In ashore. That's Mack'rel Island light. My name's Atwood. I'm keeper
+of it.”
+
+I turned to my passenger.
+
+“It looks,” I said, “as if our voyage was almost over.”
+
+And it was. Mr. Atwood had a tough job on his hands, towing the launch.
+But the make-shift sail helped some and I did my best to steer in his
+wake. Miss Colton and I had no opportunity to talk. The gentleman in
+the dory kept up a running fire of remarks, shouted between grunts,
+and embroidered with cheerful profanity. We caught fragments of the
+monologue.
+
+“I swan to man--ugh--I thought ye was thieves, for sartin. Some
+everlastin', dam--ugh--have been sneakin' out nights and haulin' my
+lobster pots. Ugh--if I'd caught 'em I was cal'latin' to--ugh--break
+their--ugh--ugh--This dory pulls like a coal barge--I--Wet through,
+ain't ye? And froze, I cal'late--Ugh--and hungry, too--Ugh--ugh--My old
+woman's tendin' light. She--ugh--Here we be! Easy now!”
+
+A low shore loomed black across our bows. Above it the lighthouse rose,
+a white chalk mark against the sky with a red glare at its upper end.
+Mr. Atwood sprang overboard with a splash. The launch was drawn in at
+the end of its anchor rope until its keel grated on the sand.
+
+“Now then!” said our rescuer. “Here we be! Made harbor at last, though I
+did think I'd crack my back timbers afore we done it. I'll tote the lady
+ashore. You can wade, can't ye?”
+
+I could and I was very glad of the opportunity. I turned to take Miss
+Colton in my arms, but she avoided me.
+
+“Here I am, Mr. Atwood,” she said. “Oh, thank you.”
+
+She was swung into the air and moved shoreward to the accompaniment of
+mighty splashings.
+
+“Don't be scart, ma'am,” said Mr. Atwood. “I shan't let ye drop. Lord
+sakes! I've toted more women in my time than you can shake a stick at.
+There's more da--that is, there's more summer folks try to land on this
+island at low tide than there is moskeeters and there's more of them
+than there's fiddles in--Hi! come on, you, Mr. What's-your-name!
+Straight as you go.”
+
+I came on wading through eelgrass and water until I reached a sandy
+beach. A moment later we stood before a white door in a very white
+little house. Mr. Atwood opened the door, revealing a cosy little
+sitting room and a gray-haired, plump, pleasant-faced woman sitting in a
+rocking chair beside a table with a lamp upon it.
+
+“Hello, Betsy!” bellowed our rescuer, stamping his wet rubber boots on
+the braided mat. “Got company come to supper--or breakfast, or whatever
+you want to call it. This is Mr. Paine from Denboro. This is his wife,
+Mrs. Paine. They've been cruisin' all the way from Cape Cod to Kamchatky
+in a motor boat with no power to it. Don't that beat the Old Scratch,
+hey?”
+
+The plump woman rose, without a trace of surprise, as if having company
+drop in at three o'clock in the morning was nothing out of the ordinary,
+and came over to us, beaming with smiles.
+
+“I'm real glad to see you, Mrs. Paine,” she exclaimed. “And your
+husband, too. You must be froze to death! Set right down while I fix up
+a room for you and hunt up some dry things for you to put on. I won't be
+but a minute.”
+
+Before I could offer explanations, or do more than stammer thanks,
+and rather incoherent ones at that, she had bustled out of the room. I
+caught one glimpse of Mabel Colton's face; it was crimson from neck to
+brow. “Mrs. Paine!” “Your husband!” I was grateful to the doughty Mr.
+Atwood, but just then I should have enjoyed choking him.
+
+The light keeper, quite unaware that his unfortunate misapprehension of
+the relationship between his guests might be embarrassing, was doing his
+best to make us feel at home.
+
+“Take off your boots, Mr. Paine,” he urged. “The old lady'll fetch you
+a pair of my slippers and some socks in a minute. She'll make your wife
+comf'table, too. She's a great hand at makin' folks comf'table. I tell
+her she'd make a cake of ice feel to home on a hot stove. She beats--”
+
+The “old lady” herself interrupted him, entering with a bottle in one
+hand and a lamp in the other.
+
+“Joshua!” she said, warningly.
+
+“Well, what is it, Betsy?”
+
+“Be careful how you talk.”
+
+“Talk!” with a wink at me. “I wan't goin' to say nothin'.”
+
+“Yes, you was. Mrs. Paine, you mustn't mind him. He used to go mate on
+a fishin' schooner and, from all I can learn, they use pretty strong
+language aboard these boats.”
+
+“Pick it up same as a poll parrot,” cut in her husband. “Comes natural
+when you're handlin' wet trawl line in February. Can't seem to get no
+comfort out of anything milder.”
+
+“He's a real good-hearted man, Joshua is, and a profession' church
+member, but he does swear more'n he ought to. But, as I tell the
+minister, he don't mean nothin' by it.”
+
+“Not a damn thing!” said Mr. Atwood, reassuringly. The bottle, it
+appeared, contained Jamaica ginger, a liberal dose of which Mrs. Atwood
+insisted upon our taking as a precaution against catching cold.
+
+“There's nothin' better,” she said.
+
+“You bet there ain't!” this from the lightkeeper. “A body can't get
+within forty fathoms of a cold with a swallow of that amidships. It's
+hotter than--”
+
+“Joshua!”
+
+“The Fourth of July,” concluded her husband, triumphantly.
+
+“And now, Mrs. Paine,” went on the lady of the house, “your room's all
+ready. I've laid out some dry things for you on the bed and some of
+Joshua's, too. You and your husband--”
+
+I thought it high time to explain.
+
+“The lady is not my wife,” I said, quickly.
+
+“She ain't! Why, I thought Joshua said--”
+
+“He--er--made a mistake. She is Miss Colton, a summer resident and
+neighbor of mine in Denboro.”
+
+“Sho! you don't say! That's just like you, Joshua!”
+
+“Just like me! Well, how'd I know? I beg your pardon, Miss, I'm sure.
+Shan't beg your hus--I mean Mr. Paine's pardon; he ought to thank me for
+the compliment. Haw! haw!”
+
+Miss Colton herself made the next remark.
+
+“If my room is ready, Mrs. Atwood,” she said,, without even a glance in
+my direction, “I think I will go to it. I AM rather wet.”
+
+“Wet! Land sakes, yes! I guess you be! Come right in, Joshua, take them
+clothes of yours into our room and let Mr. Paine put 'em on.”
+
+Her husband obeyed orders. After I was alone in the room to which
+he conducted me and enjoying the luxury of dry socks, I heard him
+justifying his mistake in stentorian tones.
+
+“I couldn't help it, Betsy,” I heard him say. “I took it for granted
+they was married. When I hove alongside that motor boat they was
+a-settin' close up together in the stern sheets and so, of course, I
+thought--”
+
+“You hadn't any business to. You made that poor young lady blush
+somethin' dreadful. Most likely they're just keepin' company--or
+engaged, or somethin'. You ought to be more careful.”
+
+I wondered if the young lady herself heard all this. I didn't see how
+she could help it.
+
+Kinder-hearted people than these two never lived, I do believe. It was
+after three in the morning, both had been up all night, we were absolute
+strangers to them, and yet, without a word of complaint, they gave the
+remainder of the hours before daylight to making us comfortable. When I
+dressed as much of myself as a suit of Mr. Atwood's--his Sunday best, I
+presume--would cover, and, with a pair of carpet slippers about the size
+and shape of toy ferry boats on my feet, emerged from the bedroom, I
+found the table set in the kitchen, the teapot steaming and Mrs.
+Atwood cooking “spider bread” on the stove. When Miss Colton, looking
+surprisingly presentable--considering that she, too, was wearing
+borrowed apparel four sizes too large for her--made her appearance, we
+sat down to a simple meal which, I think, was the most appetizing I ever
+tasted.
+
+The Atwoods were bursting with curiosity concerning our getting adrift
+in the motor boat. I described the adventure briefly. When I told of
+Lute's forgetfulness in the matter of gasolene the lightkeeper thumped
+the table.
+
+“There, by godfreys!” he exclaimed. “I could see it comin'! That
+feller's for all the world like a cook I had once aboard the Ezry H.
+Jones. That cook was the biggest numskull that ever drawed the breath
+of life. Always forgettin' somethin', he was, and always at the most
+inconvenient time. Once, if you'll believe it, I had a skipper of
+another vessel come aboard and, wishin' to be sort of hospitable, as you
+might say, I offered him a glass of rum.”
+
+“Joshua!”
+
+“Oh, it's all right, Betsy. This was years ago. I'm as good a teetotaler
+now as you be, and I never was what you'd call a soak. But I've SEEN
+fellers--Why, I knew one once that used to go to bed in the dark. He
+was so full of alcohol he didn't dast to light a match fear he'd catch
+a-fire. Fact! He was eighty-odd then, and he lived to be nigh a hundred.
+Preserved, you understand, same as one of them specimens in a museum.
+He'd kept forever, I cal'late, if he hadn't fell off the dock. The water
+fixed him; he wasn't used to it. He was the wust--”
+
+“Never mind him. Stick to the cook.”
+
+“Yes, yes. Well, I sent that cook for the rum and when he fetched it, I
+thought it smelt funny. And when I TASTED it--godfreys! 'Twas bay rum;
+yes, sir, bay rum! same as they put on your hair. You see, he'd forgot
+to buy any rum when we was in our last port and, havin' the bay rum
+along he fetched that. 'Twas SOME kind of rum and that was enough for
+him. I WAS mad, but that visitin' skipper, he didn't care. Drank it down
+and smacked his lips. 'I'm a State of Maine man,' he says, 'and that's
+a prohibition state. This tastes like home,' he says. 'If you don't mind
+I'll help myself to another.' 'I don't mind,' says I, 'but I'm sorry I
+ain't got any hair-ile. If I had you might have a barber-shop toddy.'
+Yes, sir! Ho-ho! that's what I said. But he didn't mind. He was--”
+
+And so on. The yarns were not elegant, but, as he told them, they were
+funny. Mabel Colton laughed as heartily as the rest of us. She appeared
+to be in fine spirits. She talked with the Atwoods, answered their
+questions, and ate the hot “spider bread” and butter as if she had never
+tasted anything as good. But with me she would not talk. Whenever I
+addressed a remark to her, she turned it with a laugh and her next
+speech was pretty certain to be addressed to the lightkeeper or his
+wife. As for our adventure in the launch, that she treated as a joke.
+
+“Wan't you awful scared when that squall struck so sudden?” inquired
+Mrs. Atwood.
+
+“Dreadfully.”
+
+“Humph!” this from Joshua; “I cal'late Mr. Paine was some scart too.
+What did you do, Mr. Paine?”
+
+“I rigged that canvas on the oar as soon as possible,” I answered.
+
+“Um-hm. That was good judgment.”
+
+“Tell me, Mr. Atwood,” asked the young lady innocently, “are all
+seafaring men very dictatorial under such circumstances?”
+
+“Very--which?”
+
+“I mean do they order people about and make them do all sorts of things,
+whether they wish to or not?”
+
+“Sartin. Godfreys! I never asked nobody what they wished aboard the Ezry
+H. Jones.”
+
+“And do they tell them to 'sit down and keep still'?”
+
+“Gen'rally they tell 'em to get up and keep movin'. If they don't they
+start 'em pretty lively--with a rope's end.”
+
+“I see. Even when they are--ladies?”
+
+“Ladies? Godfreys! we never had but one woman aboard the Ezry. Had the
+skipper's wife one v'yage, but nobody ever ordered her around any to
+speak of. She was six feet tall and weighed two hundred. All hands was
+scart to death of her.”
+
+“Suppose she had been ordered to 'sit down and keep still'; what do you
+think would have happened?”
+
+“Don't know. If 'twas one of the hands I guess likely she'd have hove
+him overboard. If 'twas the skipper I shouldn't wonder if she'd have
+knocked him down--after she got over the surprise of his darin' to do
+such, a thing. She had HIM trained, I tell ye!”
+
+“Miss Colton thinks me rather a bully, I am afraid,” I said. “I did
+order her about rather roughly.”
+
+Mr. Atwood burst into a laugh. “That Ezry Jones woman was the skipper's
+wife,” he declared. “Makes a lot of diff'rence, that does. I was
+considerable of a bully myself afore Betsy got me on the parson's books.
+Now I'm the most peaceable critter ever you see. Your turn's comin',
+Miss Colton. All you got to do is be patient.”
+
+“Joshua!” said Mrs. Atwood, in mild reproof. “You mustn't mind his talk,
+Miss Colton. He's a terrible joker.”
+
+Miss Colton changed the subject. She did not so much as look at me again
+during the meal and, after it was over, she went to her room, explaining
+that she was very tired and would try to get a little sleep.
+
+I had discovered that the lighthouse, being close to the mainland, was
+equipped with a telephone. Now I begged permission to use it. I called
+up Denboro and asked to be connected with the Colton home. I felt very
+sure that there would be no sleep in the big house that night and I
+wished to relieve their anxiety and to send word to Mother. Mr. Colton
+himself answered my call.
+
+I announced my identity and explained where I was and that his daughter
+was in my care and perfectly safe.
+
+“Thank God!” was the fervent exclamation at the other end of the wire,
+and the voice which uttered it was shaking with emotion. “Stay where you
+are a moment, Paine. Let me tell my wife. She is almost crazy. Hold the
+wire.”
+
+I held the wire and waited. The next voice which reached my ears was
+Mrs. Colton's. She asked a dozen questions, one after the other. Was
+Mabel safe? Was I sure she was safe? Wasn't the poor child almost dead
+after all she'd been through? What had happened? What was she doing away
+over there in that dreadful place? Why had I taken her there?
+
+I answered as well as I could, telling briefly of the collision in
+the fog and what followed. The explanation appeared to be rather
+unsatisfactory.
+
+“You take the wire, James,” I heard the lady say. “I can't make it all
+out. Mabel is at some horrid lighthouse and there is no kerosene, or
+something. The poor child! Alone there, with that man! Tell him she must
+be brought home at once. It is dreadful for her! Think what she must
+have suffered! And with HIM! What will people say? Tell him to bring her
+home! The idea! I don't believe a word--”
+
+“Hello--hello, Paine!” Colton was at the 'phone once more. “Can you get
+Mabel--Miss Colton, over to Wellmouth, do you think?”
+
+“Yes. I will get a boat as soon as I can. Miss Colton is in her room,
+asleep I hope. She is very tired and I think she should rest until
+daylight. I will get her to Wellmouth in time for the morning train.”
+
+“Never mind the train. I'll come after her in the auto. I will start
+now. I will meet you at the landing--at the wharf, if there is one.”
+
+“Very well. Will you be good enough to send word to my mother that I am
+safe and sound? She will be worried.”
+
+“Yes, yes, I'll send word. Tell Mabel to be careful and not take cold.
+. . . Yes, Henrietta, I am attending to everything. Good-by, Paine.”
+
+That was all, not a word of thanks. I did not expect thanks and I made
+allowances for the state of mind at the mansion; but that telephone
+conversation, particularly Mrs. Colton's share in it, cast a gloom over
+my spirits. I did not care to hear more of Mr. Atwood's yarns and jokes.
+I went to my own room, but I did not sleep.
+
+At half-past five I was astir again. The lightkeeper, it appeared, had
+an auxiliary engine in a catboat which he owned and could let me have a
+sufficient supply of gasolene to fill the Comfort's tank. When this was
+done--and it took a long time, for Joshua insisted upon helping and
+he was provokingly slow--I returned to the sitting room and asked Mrs.
+Atwood to call Miss Colton.
+
+“Land sakes!” was the cheery answer, “I didn't have to call her. She's
+been up for fifteen minutes. Said she was goin' to take a cruise around
+the lighthouse. I cal'late you'll find her out there somewheres. Go
+and fetch her here. You two must have a bite--a cup of hot coffee and a
+biled egg, anyhow--afore you leave. Yes, you must. I shan't listen to a
+no from either of you.”
+
+I went out and crossed the sandy yard to the whitewashed lighthouse.
+There was no sign of Miss Colton in the yard, but the door of the
+lighthouse was open and I entered. No one there. The stairs, winding
+upward, invited me to climb and I did so. The little room with the big
+lantern, the latter now covered with a white cloth, was untenanted
+also. I looked out of the window. There she was, on the iron gallery
+surrounding the top of the tower, leaning on the rail and gazing out
+over the water. She had not heard me. For a moment I stood there,
+watching her.
+
+She was not wearing Mrs. Atwood's gown now, but her own, wrinkled and
+stained from its last night's drenching in salt water, but dry now. She
+was bareheaded and her brown hair was tossing in the sea breeze. The
+sun, but a little way above the horizon and shining through the morning
+haze, edged her delicate profile with a line of red gold. I had never
+seen her look more beautiful, or more aristocratic and unapproachable.
+The memory of our night in the launch seemed more like an unbelievable
+dream than ever, and the awakening more cruel. For I was awake now. What
+I had heard over the 'phone had awakened me thoroughly. There should be
+no more dreaming.
+
+I stepped out upon the gallery.
+
+“Good morning,” I said.
+
+She turned quickly, and I heard her catch her breath with a little gasp.
+
+“I beg pardon,” said I; “I'm afraid I startled you.”
+
+She was startled, that was evident, and, it seemed to me, a trifle
+embarrassed. But the embarrassment was but momentary.
+
+“Good morning,” she said. “How very silent you can be when you choose,
+Mr. Paine. How long have you been standing there, pray?”
+
+“Only a moment. I came to call you to breakfast.”
+
+“To breakfast?”
+
+“Yes, Mrs. Atwood insists upon our breakfasting before I take you
+ashore.”
+
+“Oh! Why didn't you call me? I would have come down.”
+
+“I did not see you until I reached the lantern room. My silence was not
+premeditated. I made noise enough, or so it seemed to me; but you were
+so wrapped in your thoughts--”
+
+“Nonsense!” She interrupted me almost sharply. “I was not 'wrapped' in
+anything, except the beauty of this view. It IS beautiful, isn't it?”
+
+“Very,” I answered, but fear I was not looking at the view. It may be
+that she noticed this, for she said:
+
+“You have come into your own again, I see. So have I.”
+
+She indicated her gown with a smile and a gesture. I laughed.
+
+“Yes,” I said. “I have returned unto Joshua that which was his.”
+
+“You should have kept it. You have no idea what a picturesque
+lightkeeper you make, Mr. Paine.”
+
+Somehow or other this harmless joke hurt.
+
+“Yes,” I answered, drily, “that is about my measure, I presume.”
+
+Her eyes twinkled. “I thought the measure rather scant,” she
+observed, mischievously. “I wish I might have a snap-shot of you in
+that--uniform.”
+
+“I am afraid the opportunity for that is past.”
+
+“But it--” with a little bubble of mirth, “it was so funny.”
+
+“No doubt. I am sorry I can't oblige you with a photograph.”
+
+She looked at me, biting her lip.
+
+“Is your bump of humor a dent, Mr. Paine?” she inquired. “I am afraid it
+must be.”
+
+“You may be right. I don't appreciate a joke as keenly as--well, as Mr.
+Carver, for instance.”
+
+She turned her back upon me and led the way to the door.
+
+“Shall we go to breakfast?” she asked, in a different tone.
+
+Breakfast was a silent meal, so far as we two were concerned. The
+Atwoods, however, talked enough to make up the deficiency.
+
+As we rose from the table the young lady turned to the lightkeeper.
+
+“Mr. Atwood,” she said, “I presume you are going to be kind enough to
+take me to Wellmouth?”
+
+“Why, Miss, I--I wan't cal'latin' to. Mr. Paine here, he's got all the
+gas he needs now and he'll take you over in his launch.”
+
+“Oh! But you will go, if I ask you to?”
+
+“Sartin sure.”
+
+“You have been so very kind that I dislike to ask another favor; but
+I hoped you would send a telegram for me. My father and mother will be
+very much alarmed and I must wire them at once. You will have to send it
+'collect,' for,” with a rueful smile, “I haven't my purse with me.”
+
+“Land sakes! that'll be all right. Glad to help you out.”
+
+I put in a word. “It will not be necessary,” I said, impatiently. “I
+have money enough, Miss Colton.”
+
+I was ignored.
+
+“Thank you so much, Mr. Atwood. You will come with me and look out for
+the telegram?”
+
+“Yes. Yes--yes. But I don't see what you need to send no telegram for.
+Mr. Paine here, he telephoned to your folks last night.”
+
+She looked at me and then at Joshua.
+
+“Last night?” she repeated.
+
+“Why yes--or this mornin' after you'd gone to bed. He was dead set on
+it. I could see he was 'most tired and wore out, but he wouldn't rest
+till he'd 'phoned your folks and told 'em you was safe and sound. Didn't
+seem to care nothin' about himself, but he was bound your pa and ma
+shouldn't worry.”
+
+She turned to me.
+
+“Did you?” she asked.
+
+“Yes,” I answered. “Your father is to meet us at the Wellmouth wharf.”
+
+“Why didn't you tell me?”
+
+“I intended to. I meant to tell you when I saw you in the lighthouse,
+but--I forgot it.”
+
+She said no more, but when Joshua, hat and boots on, met us at the door
+she spoke to him.
+
+“You need not go, Mr. Atwood,” she said. “It will not be
+necessary--now.”
+
+“Godfreys! I'd just as soon as not. Ruther, if anything.”
+
+He hurried down to the beach. I was about to follow when a hand touched
+my arm. I turned, to find a pair of brown eyes, misty but wonderful,
+looking into mine.
+
+“Thank you,” said Miss Colton.
+
+“Don't mention it.”
+
+“But I shall. It was thoughtful and kind. I had forgotten, or--at
+least--I took it for granted there was no 'phone here. But you did not
+forget. It was thoughtful, but--it was like you.”
+
+I was breathing hard. I could not look at her.
+
+“Don't,” I said, roughly. “It was nothing. Anyone with common sense
+would have thought of it and done it, of course.”
+
+“I did not. But you--Oh, it was like you! Always some one else and
+never yourself. You were worn out. You must have been, after--” with a
+shudder--“last night. Oh, I have so much to thank you for! I--”
+
+“Come on! Heave ahead!” It was Mr. Atwood, bellowing from the beach.
+“All aboard for Wellmouth and pints alongshore.”
+
+Betsy appeared in the door behind us.
+
+“All ready, be you?” she asked.
+
+I could not have answered, but my companion was once more as calm and
+cool as the morning itself.
+
+“All ready,” she answered. “Good-by, Mrs. Atwood. And thank you over and
+over again. You have been so kind.” With a sudden flash of enthusiasm.
+“Every one is kind. It is a beautiful world. Good-by.”
+
+She ran lightly down the slope and I followed.
+
+The trip to Wellmouth was of but a half hour's duration. Atwood talked
+all the time. Miss Colton laughed at his stories and seemed to be
+without a care. She scarcely looked at me during the passage, and if
+she caught me looking at her and our glances met she turned away. On the
+wharf was a big automobile, surrounded by a gaping crowd of small boys
+and 'longshore loafers.
+
+We drew up beside the landing. Our feminine passenger sprang ashore and
+ran up the steps, to be seized in her father's arms. Mrs. Colton was
+there also, babbling hysterically. I watched and listened for a moment.
+Then I started the engine.
+
+“Shove off,” I ordered. The lightkeeper was astonished.
+
+“Ain't ye goin' ashore?” he demanded.
+
+“No,” I answered, curtly. “I'm going home. Shove off.”
+
+The launch was fifty feet from the pier when I heard a shout. Colton
+was standing on the wharf edge, waving his hand. Beside him stood his
+daughter, her mother's arms about her.
+
+“Here! Paine!” shouted Colton. “Come back! Come back and go home with us
+in the car. There is plenty of room.”
+
+I did not answer.
+
+“Come back! Come back, Paine!” he shouted again. Mrs. Colton raised her
+head from her daughter's shoulder.
+
+“James! James!” she cautioned, without taking the trouble to lower
+her voice, “don't make a scene. Let him go in his dreadful boat, if he
+prefers to.”
+
+“Paine!” cried her husband again.
+
+“I must look out for the launch,” I shouted. “I shall be home almost as
+soon as you are. Good-by.”
+
+I left the lightkeeper at his island. He refused to accept a cent
+from me, except in payment for the gasolene, and declared he had had a
+“fust-rate night of it.”
+
+“Come and see us again, Mr. Paine,” he said. “Come any time and fetch
+your lady along. She's a good one, she is, and nice-lookin', don't talk!
+You're a lucky critter, did you know it? Haw! haw! Good-by.”
+
+The Comfort never made better time than on that homeward trip. I
+anchored her at her moorings, went ashore in the skiff, and hastened up
+to the house. It was past ten o'clock and I would be over an hour
+late at the bank. A fine beginning for my first day in charge of the
+institution!
+
+The dining-room door was open, but no one was in the dining-room. The
+kitchen door, however, was shut and from behind it I heard Dorinda's
+voice.
+
+“You can get right out of this house,” she said. “I don't care if you've
+got a mortgage on the rest of the Cape! You ain't got one on this house,
+and you nor nobody else shall stay in it and talk that way. There's the
+door.”
+
+“Dorindy!” wailed another voice--Lute's. “You mustn't talk so--to him!
+Don't you realize--”
+
+“I realize that if I had a husband instead of a jellyfish I shouldn't
+have to talk. Be still, you!”
+
+A third voice made itself heard.
+
+“All right,” it growled. “I ain't anxious to stay here any longer than
+is necessary. Bein' an honest, decent man, I'm ashamed to be seen here
+as it is. But you can tell that low-lived sneak, Ros Paine, that--”
+
+I opened the door.
+
+“You may tell him yourself, Captain Dean,” said I. “What is it?”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+
+My unexpected entrance caused a sensation. Lute, sitting on the edge of
+one of the kitchen chairs, an agonized expression on his face, started
+so violently that he almost lost his balance. Dorinda, standing with her
+back toward me, turned quickly. Captain Jedediah Dean, his hand on the
+knob of the door opening to the back yard, showed the least evidence of
+surprise. He did not start, nor did he speak, but looked at me with a
+countenance as grim and set and immovable as if it had been cast in a
+mould.
+
+Lute, characteristically enough, uttered the first word.
+
+“By time!” he gasped. “It's Ros himself! Ros--Ros, you know what he
+says?” He pointed a shaking finger at the captain. “He says you--”
+
+“Keep still!” Dorinda struck her palms together with a slap, as if her
+husband had been what she often called him, a parrot. Then, without
+another glance in his direction, she stepped backward and took her stand
+beside me.
+
+“I'm real glad to see you home safe and sound, Roscoe,” she said,
+calmly.
+
+“Thank you, Dorinda. Now, Captain Dean, I believe you were sending a
+message to me just now. I am here and you can deliver it. What is it you
+have to say?”
+
+Before he could answer Dorinda spoke once more.
+
+“Lute,” she said, “you come along with me into the dinin'-room.”
+
+“But--but, Dorindy, I--”
+
+“You come with me. This ain't any of my business any more, and it never
+was any of yours. Come! move!”
+
+Lute moved, but so slowly that his progress to the door took almost a
+full minute. His wife paid no heed to the pleading looks he gave her
+and stood majestically waiting until he passed her and crossed the sill.
+Then she turned to me.
+
+“If you want me, just speak,” she said. “I shall be in the dining-room.
+There ain't no need for Comfort to know about this. She doesn't know
+that you've been away and hasn't been worried at all. I'll look out for
+her. Lute'll be with me, so you needn't fret about him, either.”
+
+She closed the door.
+
+“Now, Captain Dean,” I repeated, “what is it you have to say?”
+
+The captain's grim mouth twisted in a savage sneer.
+
+“You know what I'm goin' to say as well as I do,” he answered.
+
+“Possibly, but you had better say it.”
+
+“It won't take me long. You've sold that Shore Lane land to Jim Colton,
+ain't you?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+My calm affirmative seemed to astonish him. I think he expected a
+denial. His hand left the doorknob and he stepped toward me.
+
+“You--HAVE!” he cried. “You don't even take the trouble to--You have the
+face to stand there and tell me--”
+
+He almost choked.
+
+“Captain Dean,” I interrupted, quickly, “wait a moment. Listen to me. I
+have sold Colton the land. I did not intend selling it at all, least of
+all to him, but circumstances compelled me to change my mind. I did it
+because I was obliged to. It is done. I am sorry I had to do it, but,
+under the same conditions, I should do it again. I am not ashamed.”
+
+He leaned forward, steadying himself with a hand upon the table, and
+stared at me.
+
+“You ain't ashamed?” he repeated. “You ain't ashamed! Why, you--Didn't
+you tell me you'd never sell that land? Didn't you promise me?”
+
+“I did not promise anything. At first I promised not to sell without
+letting you know of my intention. Afterward I took back that promise.”
+
+“But why did you sell? You said it wan't a question of price at all. You
+made your brags that it wan't! To me, over and over, you made 'em. And
+then you sneak off and--”
+
+“Stop! I did think it was not a question of price. Then I found out that
+it was.”
+
+He clenched his fist.
+
+“Damn you!” he shouted, furiously. “You liar! You sneak! After I--”
+
+“That is enough, Captain. This has gone far enough. I have sold the
+land--for what seemed to me a good reason--and your calling me names
+will not change the situation. I don't care to hear them. You had better
+go.”
+
+“WHAT?”
+
+“I say you had better go.”
+
+“_I_ go? You'll put me out?”
+
+“No, certainly not. But there is nothing to be gained by a quarrel, and
+so, for both our sakes, I think you had better go away.”
+
+For a moment I thought he would strike me. Then his fist fell heavily
+upon the table. His lips were quivering like those of an infirm person.
+He looked old, and I had never before considered him an old man.
+
+“What made you do it?” he cried, desperately. “What made you do it? Is
+it all settled? Can't you back out?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“But--but why didn't you sell to me--to the town? If you had to sell why
+didn't you do that? Why did you go to him?”
+
+“Because he would pay me what I needed; because his price was higher
+than any you or the town could offer.”
+
+“How did you know that? My heavens above! I'd have paid--I'd have paid
+most anything--out of my own pocket, I would. I tell you this meant
+everything to me. I'm gettin' along in years. I ain't been any too well
+liked here in Denboro, and I knew it. You think that didn't make no
+difference to me, maybe I pretended it didn't, but it did; by the
+Almighty, it did! I intended for folks to be thankful to me for--I--Oh,
+WHY did you do it, Ros?”
+
+I shook my head. I was sorry for him now--sorry and astonished. He
+had given me a glimpse of the real Jedediah Dean, not the pompous,
+loud-voiced town politician and boss, but the man desirous of fighting
+his way into the esteem and liking of his neighbors.
+
+“I'm sorry, Captain,” I said. “If I had known--if I had had time to
+think, perhaps I might have acted differently. But I had no time. I
+found that I must have the money which that land would bring and that I
+had to have it immediately. So I went where I knew I could get it.”
+
+“Money? You needed money? Why didn't you come to me? I'd have lent it to
+you.”
+
+“You?”
+
+“Yes, me. What do you cal'late I've been backin' you all this summer
+for? What did I get you that job in my bank for?”
+
+“YOU? George Taylor engaged me for that place.”
+
+“Maybe so. But do you suppose he did it on his own hook? HE couldn't
+hire you unless the directors said so and the directors don't say
+anything, the majority of 'em, unless I say it first. _I_ put the notion
+in George's head. He didn't know it, but I did. And I put it in the
+directors' heads, too. Ros Paine, I always liked you, though I did use
+to think you was a gentleman loafer. There was a somethin' about you
+even then, a kind of hands-off, mind your own business independence
+about you that I liked, though I knew mighty well you never liked me.
+And after you and me got together on this Lane thing I liked you more
+and more. You could tell me to go to the devil as well as you could
+anybody else, and I'll shake hands with a feller that'll do that. I
+always wanted a boy of my own. Nellie's a good girl, no better afloat or
+ashore, but she is a girl. George is a good feller, too, but somehow,
+or 'nother, I'd come to think of you as the kind of son I'd have had, if
+the Almighty had give me one. Oh, what did you do this for?”
+
+I could not answer. He had overwhelmed me. I never felt meaner or more
+wicked. I had been ready to face him, ready for the interview with him
+which I knew was inevitable and which I had foreseen, but not this kind
+of an interview.
+
+He took his hand from the table and stood erect.
+
+“Money!” he said. “You wanted money. You must have wanted it bad. What
+did you want it for?”
+
+“I can't tell you.”
+
+“You had better. It's your only chance, I tell you that!”
+
+“I can't help it, Captain Dean. I can't tell you. I wish I could.”
+
+He regarded me in silence for a moment. Then: “All right,” he said,
+solemnly. “I'm through with you, Ros Paine. In one way I'm through with
+you. In another I ain't. I cal'late you was figgerin' to go straight up
+to the bank, as bold as brass, and set down at George Taylor's desk and
+draw your wages like an honest man. Don't you ever dare set foot in that
+bank again. You're fired! bounced! kicked out! Do you understand?”
+
+“Very well; I understand.”
+
+“You will understand, whether you do now or not. Colton's got the Shore
+Lane and you've got his dirty money in your pocket. He's paid you, but
+the town ain't. The town you sold out ain't paid you--but I'm goin' to
+see that it does. Ros Paine, I'm goin' to drive you out of Denboro.”
+
+He turned on his heel, strode to the door, went out, and slammed it
+behind him.
+
+I went back to the dining-room. Lute was nowhere in sight, but Dorinda
+was standing by the mantel, dusting, as usual, where there was no
+dust. I did not speak but walked toward the door leading to the stairs.
+Dorinda stepped in front of me.
+
+“Roscoe,” she said, sharply, “can he do it?”
+
+“Do it?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”
+
+“Can he give you your walkin' papers at that bank? Oh, I heard him! I
+tried not to, but he hollered so I couldn't help it. That kitchen door
+ain't much thicker'n a sheet of paper, anyhow. Can he do it?”
+
+“I guess so. He seems to be boss of that institution.”
+
+“But can't 'Lisha Warren or some of the other directors help you? Jed
+Dean don't boss 'Lisha Warren--not much.”
+
+“I shan't ask for help. Please don't trouble me, Dorinda.”
+
+I tried to pass her, but she would not permit it.
+
+“I shan't trouble you, Ros,” she said. “I guess you've got troubles
+enough without me. But you let me ask you this: Are you goin' to let him
+drive you out of town?”
+
+I shrugged my shoulders. “It may not take much driving,” I announced,
+listlessly, “if it were not for Mother I should be only too glad to go.”
+
+Again I tried to pass, but this time she seized my arm.
+
+“Roscoe Paine,” she cried, “don't you talk like that. I don't want to
+hear another word like that. Don't you let Jed Dean or nobody else drive
+you out of Denboro. You ain't done nothin' to be ashamed of, have you?”
+
+“I sold that land to Mr. Colton. I don't know how Captain Jed found it
+out, but it is true enough; I did exactly what he said I did.”
+
+“Found out! He found out from somebody over to Ostable where the deed
+was recorded, that is how he found out. He said so. But I don't care for
+that. And I don't care if you sold the Lane ten times over. You didn't
+do it for any mean or selfish reason, that I know. There ain't a selfish
+bone in your body, Roscoe. I've lived along with you all these years and
+I know. Nobody that was mean or selfish would give up their chances in
+life and stay here in this one-hoss town because his ma was sick and had
+took a notion that she couldn't bear to part with him. Don't you mind
+Jed Dean--pig-headed old thing!--or anybody else in Denboro. Hold up
+your head and show 'em you don't care for the whole caboodle of 'em. Let
+'em talk and act like fools, if they want to. It comes natural to most
+of 'em, I cal'late, and they'll be sorry some day. Don't you let 'em
+drive you out. They won't come inside THIS house with their talk, not
+while I'm here, I tell you that!”
+
+Her eyes, behind the brass-rimmed spectacles, flashed fire. This was the
+longest speech I had ever heard her make.
+
+“There, Dorinda,” I said, smiling, “don't worry on my account. I'm not
+worth it. And, whatever I do, I shall see that you and Lute are provided
+for.”
+
+Instead of calming her this statement seemed to have the exactly
+opposite effect.
+
+“Stop it!” she snapped. “The idea! Do you suppose it's for myself I'm
+talkin' this way to you? I guess 'tain't! My soul! I'll look out for
+myself, and Lute, too, long's I'm able to walk; and when I can't walk
+'twill be because I've stopped breathin'. It's for you I'm talkin', for
+you and Comfort. Think of her.”
+
+I sighed. “I have been thinking of her, Dorinda,” I declared. “She
+doesn't know a word about this.”
+
+“Then tell her.”
+
+“I can't tell her my reason for selling, any more than I can tell
+you--or Dean.”
+
+“Tell her what you can, then. Tell her as much of the truth as you can.
+She'll say you done right, of course. Whatever you do is right to her.”
+
+I made no reply. She regarded me keenly.
+
+“Roscoe,” she went on, “do you WANT to go somewheres else?”
+
+“I don't know, Dorinda. I might as well be here as anywhere, perhaps. I
+am rather blue and discouraged just now, that's all.”
+
+“I can't blame you much. But bein' discouraged don't do any good.
+Besides, it's always darkest just afore dawn, they say; anyhow, I've had
+that preached to me ever since I was a girl and I've tried to believe
+it through a good many cloudy spells. Roscoe, don't you let old Jed or
+anybody DRIVE you out of Denboro, but, if you WANT to go--if you think
+you'd ought to go, to earn money or anything, don't you worry about
+leavin' Comfort. I'll look out for her as well as if she was my own.
+Remember that.”
+
+I laid my hand on hers. “Thank you,” I said, earnestly. “Dorinda, you
+are a good woman.”
+
+To my surprise the eyes behind the spectacles became misty. Tears
+in Dorinda's eyes! When she spoke it was in, for her, a curiously
+hesitating tone.
+
+“Roscoe,” she faltered, “I wonder if you'd be cross if I asked about
+what wan't any of my business. I'm old enough to be your grandma, pretty
+nigh, so I'm goin' to risk it. You used to be independent enough. You
+never used to care for the town or anybody in it. Lately you've changed.
+Changed in a good many ways. Is somethin' besides this Lane affair
+frettin' you? Is somebody frettin' you? Are you worried about--that
+one?”
+
+She had caught me unawares. I felt the blood tingle in my cheeks. I
+tried to laugh and made a failure of the attempt.
+
+“That one?” I repeated. “I--Why, I don't understand, Dorinda.”
+
+“Don't you? Well, if you don't then I'm just talkin' silly, that's all.
+If you do, I . . . . Humph! I might have known it!”
+
+She turned like a shot and jerked the door open. There was a rattle, a
+series of thumps, and a crash. Lute was sprawling upon the floor at
+our feet. I gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Dorinda sniffed
+scornfully.
+
+“I might have known it,” she repeated. “Sittin' on the stairs there,
+listenin', wan't you?”
+
+Lute raised himself to his knees.
+
+“I think,” he panted, “I--I swan! I shouldn't wonder if I'd broke my
+leg!”
+
+“Um-hm! Well, if you'd broke your neck 'twouldn't have been no more'n
+you deserve. Shame on you! Sneakin' thing!”
+
+“Now, Dorindy, I--I wan't listenin'. I was just--”
+
+“Don't talk to me. Don't you open your mouth. And if you open it to
+anybody else about what you heard I'll--I declare I'll shut you up
+in the dark closet and keep you there, as if you was three year old.
+Sometimes I think your head ain't any older than that. Go right out of
+this house.”
+
+“But where'll I go?”
+
+“I don't care where you go. Only don't let me set eyes on you till
+dinner time. March!”
+
+Lute backed away as she advanced, waving both his hands and pleading and
+expostulating.
+
+“Dorindy, I tell you . . . WHAT makes you so unlikely? . . . I was just
+. . . All right then,” desperately, “I'll go! And if you never set eyes
+on me again 'twon't be my fault. You'll be sorry then. If you never see
+me no more you'll be sorry.”
+
+“I'll set eyes on you at dinner time. I ain't afraid of that. Git!”
+
+She followed him to the kitchen and then returned.
+
+“Ah hum!” she sighed, “it's pretty hard to remember that about darkest
+just afore dawn when you have a burden like that on your shoulders to
+lug through life. It's night most of the time then. Poor critter! he
+means well enough, too. And once he was a likely enough young feller,
+though shiftless, even then. But he had a long spell of fever three year
+after we was married and he's never been good for much since. I try to
+remember that, and to be patient with him, but it's a pretty hard job
+sometimes.”
+
+She sighed again. I had often wondered how a woman of her sense could
+have married Luther Rogers. Now she was telling me.
+
+“I never really cared for him,” she went on, looking toward the door
+through which the discomfited eavesdropper had made his exit. “There was
+somebody else I did care for, but he and I quarreled, and I took Luther
+out of spite and because my folks wanted me to. I've paid for it since.
+Roscoe,” earnestly, “Roscoe, if you care for anybody and she cares for
+you, don't let anything keep you apart. If she's worth a million or
+fifty cents that don't make any difference. It shouldn't be a matter
+of her folks or your folks or money or pride or anything else. It's a
+matter for just you and her. And if you love each other, that's enough.
+I tell you so, and I know.”
+
+I was more astonished than ever. I could scarcely believe that this was
+the dry, practical Dorinda Rogers who had kept house for Mother and me
+all these years. And with my astonishment were other feelings, feelings
+which warned me that I had better make my escape before I was trapped
+into betraying that which, all the way home from Mackerel Island, I
+had been swearing no one should ever know. I would not even admit it to
+myself, much less to anyone else.
+
+I did not look at Dorinda, and my answer to her long speech was as
+indifferent and careless as I could make it.
+
+“Thank you, Dorinda,” I said. “I'll remember your advice, if I ever need
+it, which isn't likely. Now I must go to my room and change my clothes.
+These are too badly wrinkled to be becoming.”
+
+When I came down, after an absence of half an hour, she was sitting by
+the window, sewing.
+
+“Comfort's waitin' to see you, Roscoe,” she said. “I've told her all
+about it.”
+
+“YOU'VE told her--what?” I demanded, in amazement.
+
+“About your sellin' the Lane and losin' your job, and so on. Don't look
+at me like that. 'Twas the only common-sense thing to do. She'd heard
+old Leather-Lungs whoopin' out there in the kitchen and she'd heard you
+and me talkin' here in the dinin'-room. I hoped she was asleep, but she
+wan't. After you went upstairs she called for me and wanted to know
+the whole story. I told her what I knew of it. Now you can tell her the
+rest. She takes it just as I knew she would. You done it and so it's all
+right.”
+
+“Roscoe, is that you?”
+
+It was Mother calling me. I went into the darkened room and sat down
+beside the bed.
+
+She and I had much to say to each other. This time I kept back nothing,
+except my reason for selling the land. I told her frankly that that
+reason was a secret, and that it must remain a secret, even from her.
+
+“I hate to say that to you, Mother,” I told her. “You don't know how I
+hate it. I would tell you if I could.”
+
+She pressed my hand. “I know you would, Roscoe,” she said. “I am quite
+content not to know. That your reason for selling was an honorable one,
+that is all I ask.”
+
+“It was that, Mother.”
+
+“I am sure of it. But,” hesitatingly, “can you tell me this: You did not
+do it because you needed money--for me? Our income is the same as ever?
+We have not met with losses?”
+
+“No, Mother. Our income is the same that it has been for years.”
+
+“Then it was not because of me; because you felt that I should have
+those 'luxuries' you talk about so often? Oh, I don't need them, Roscoe
+I really don't. I am--I scarcely dare say it for fear it may not be
+true--but I THINK I am better than I have been. I feel stronger.”
+
+“I know you are better, Mother. Doctor Quimby is very much encouraged.”
+
+“Is he? I am so glad! For your sake, Boy. Perhaps the time will come
+when I may not be your Old Man Of the Sea as I am now. But you did not
+sell the land because of me?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“You did not sell it for yourself, that I know. I wonder . . . But,
+there! I mustn't wonder, and I won't. Captain Dean was very angry and
+unreasonable, Dorinda says. I suppose his pride is hurt. I'm afraid he
+will make it unpleasant for you in the village.”
+
+“He will do his best, I'm sure of that.”
+
+“You poor boy! As if you did not have enough to bear without that! He
+has asked you to resign from the bank?”
+
+I smiled. “He has pitched me out, neck and crop,” I answered. “I
+expected that, of course.”
+
+“But what will you do? Can't Mr. Taylor help you? Perhaps he will use
+his influence with the captain.”
+
+“I don't need his influence, Mother. I took the place merely because of
+a whim. Now that I have lost it I am no worse off than I was before.”
+
+“But you enjoyed the work?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+I was only beginning to realize how much I had enjoyed it. I sighed,
+involuntarily.
+
+Mother heard the sigh and the pressure of her hand on mine tightened.
+
+“Poor boy!” she said again. Then, after a moment, “I wish I might talk
+with Miss Colton about this.”
+
+I started violently. What had put that idea in her head?
+
+“Miss Colton!” I exclaimed. “Mother, whatever you do, don't speak to
+her--about me.”
+
+“Why not? She has not called on us for some time, but she is interested
+in you, I know. And perhaps her father could--”
+
+“Mother, don't.”
+
+She was silent for an instant. Then she said, quietly. “Boy, what is it?
+Is there something else you haven't told me? Something about--her?”
+
+“No, no,” I stammered.
+
+“Isn't there? Are you sure?”
+
+I do not know what reply I should have made. Her question, coming so
+close upon the heels of Dorinda's hints, upset me completely. Was it
+written upon my face, for everyone to see? Did I look the incredible
+idiot that I knew myself to be? For I did know it. In spite of my
+determination not to admit it even in my innermost thoughts, I knew. I
+was in love with Mabel Colton--madly, insanely, hopelessly in love with
+her, and should be until my dying day. I had played with fire too long.
+
+Before I could answer there came a knock at the door. It opened and
+Dorinda's head appeared. She seemed, for her, excited.
+
+“There's somebody to see you, Ros,” she said. “You'd better come out
+soon's you can. He's in a hurry.”
+
+“Someone to see me,” I repeated. “Who is it?”
+
+Dorinda glanced at Mother and then at me. She did not so much as
+whisper, but her lips formed a name. I rose from my chair.
+
+Mother looked at me and then at Dorinda.
+
+“Who is it, Roscoe?” she asked.
+
+“Just a caller on a business matter,” I answered, hurriedly. “I'll be
+out at once, Dorinda.”
+
+“But who is it, Roscoe?”
+
+“It's Mr. Colton, Mother. He has probably come to--”
+
+“Dorinda,” Mother interrupted me, “ask Mr. Colton to come in here.”
+
+“But, Mother--”
+
+“Ask him to come in here, Dorinda. I should like to meet him.”
+
+Dorinda hesitated, but when Mother spoke in that tone none of us
+hesitated long. She disappeared. A moment later the door opened wide
+and Colton entered. The sudden transition from sunlight to semidarkness
+bewildered him for a moment, doubtless, for he stood there without
+speaking. Dorinda, who had ushered him in, went out and closed the door.
+I stepped forward.
+
+“Good morning, Mr. Colton,” I said, as calmly as I could. “You have
+never met my mother, I think. Mother, this is Mr. Colton, our neighbor.”
+
+Colton turned toward the bed and murmured a few words. For once, I
+think, he was startled out of his customary cool self-possession. And
+when Mother spoke it seemed to me that she, too, was disturbed.
+
+“Roscoe,” she said, quickly, “will you draw that window-shade a little
+more? The light is rather strong. Thank you. Mr. Colton, I am very glad
+to meet you. I have heard of you often, of course, and I have met your
+daughter. She has been very kind to me, in many ways. Won't you sit
+down?”
+
+I drew forward a chair. Our visitor accepted it.
+
+“Thank you, Mrs. Paine,” he said. “I will sit. To be honest, I'm very
+glad of the opportunity. I have been under the doctor's care for the
+past few weeks and last night's performance is not the best sort of
+treatment for a tender digestion. The doctor told me what I needed was
+rest and sleep and freedom from care. I told him I probably shouldn't
+get the last item till I was dead. As for the rest--and sleep--Humph!”
+ with a short laugh, “I wonder what he would have said if he had seen me
+last night.”
+
+Mother's face was turned away from him on the pillow. “I am sorry to
+hear that you have been ill, Mr. Colton,” she said.
+
+“Ill! I'm not ill. I have never been sick in my life and I don't propose
+to begin now. If the crowd in New York would let me alone I should be
+all right enough. There is a deal on there that is likely to come to
+a head pretty soon and my people at the office are nervous. They keep
+'phoning and telegraphing and upsetting things generally. I'll have to
+run over there myself in a day or two and straighten it out. But there!
+I didn't come here to worry you with my troubles. I feel as if I knew
+you, Mrs. Paine.”
+
+“Knew me? Knew ME, Mr. Colton?”
+
+“Yes. I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before, but my
+daughter has spoken of you often. She is a great admirer of yours. I
+won't tell you all the nice things she has said about you, for she has
+probably said them to you or to your son, already.”
+
+“You should be very proud of your daughter, Mr. Colton. She is a
+charming girl.”
+
+“Thanks. Just among us three I'll admit, in confidence, that I think
+you're right. And I'll admit, too, that you have a pretty good sort of
+a son, Mrs. Paine. He is inclined to be,” with a glance in my direction,
+“a little too stubborn and high-principled for this practical world,
+but,” with a chuckle, “he can be made to listen to reason, if you give
+him time enough. That is so, isn't it, Paine?”
+
+I did not answer. Mother spoke for me.
+
+“I am not sure that I understand you, Mr. Colton,” she said, quietly.
+“I presume you are referring to the sale of the land. I do not know why
+Roscoe changed his mind in that matter, but I do know that his reason
+was a good one, and an honest one.”
+
+“He hasn't told it to you, then?”
+
+“No. But I know that he thought it right or he never would have sold.”
+
+I broke in here. I did not care to hear my own praises.
+
+“Did you call to discuss the Shore Lane, Mr. Colton?” I inquired. “I
+thought that affair settled.”
+
+“It is. No, I didn't come to discuss that. Mrs. Paine, I don't know why
+your son sold me that land, but I'm inclined to think, like you, that he
+wouldn't have done it unless he thought it was right. I know mighty
+well he wasn't afraid of me. Oh, you needn't laugh, young man. There
+ARE people in that fix, plenty of 'em. No, I didn't come to talk 'Lane.'
+That bird is dead. I came, first of all, to thank you for what you did
+for my daughter last night.”
+
+Mother turned her head and looked at him.
+
+“For your daughter? Last night? Roscoe, what does he mean?”
+
+“Nothing, Mother, nothing,” I said, hastily. “I was unlucky enough to
+run the Comfort into Miss Colton's canoe in the bay yesterday afternoon
+in the fog. Fortunately I got her into the launch and--and--”
+
+“And saved her from drowning, then and a dozen times afterward. He
+hasn't told you, Mrs. Paine? No, I can see that he hasn't. All right, I
+will. Paine, if your ingrowing modesty won't stand the pressure you had
+better leave the room. This is about what happened, Mrs. Paine, as Mabel
+tells it.”
+
+I tried to prevent him, but it was no use. He ignored me altogether and
+went on to tell of the collision in the fog, the voyage across the
+bay, and my telephone from the lighthouse. The story, as he told it,
+magnified what he called my coolness and common-sense to a ridiculous
+extent. I lost patience as I listened.
+
+“Mr. Colton,” I interrupted, “this is silly. Mother, the whole affair
+was more my fault than my good judgment. If I had anchored when it first
+happened we should have been home in an hour, instead of drifting all
+night.”
+
+“Why didn't you anchor, then?” asked Colton.
+
+“Because I--I--”
+
+I stopped short. I could not tell him why I did not anchor. He laughed
+aloud.
+
+“That's all right,” he said. “I guess Mabel's story is near enough to
+the truth for all practical purposes. Mrs. Paine,” with a sudden change
+to seriousness, “you can understand why I have come here this morning.
+If it had not been for your son's pluck, and cool head, and good
+judgment I--Mrs. Colton and I might have been--God knows in what state
+we might have been to-day! God knows! I can't think of it.”
+
+His voice trembled. Mother put out a hand and took mine.
+
+“Roscoe,” she said, “Roscoe.”
+
+“So I came to thank him,” went on our visitor. “This isn't the first
+time he has done something of the sort. It seems almost as if he--But
+never mind that. I'm not going to be foolish. Your son and I, Mrs.
+Paine, have been fighting each other most of the summer. That's all
+right. It was a square fight and, until this newest freak of his--and he
+has got me guessing as to what it means--I admit I thought he was quite
+as likely to lick me as I was to lick him. I've watched him pretty
+closely and I am a pretty fair judge of a man, I flatter myself. Did he
+tell you that, a while ago, I offered him a place in my office?”
+
+“In your office? You offered him that? No, he did not tell me. Roscoe!”
+ reproachfully.
+
+“I did not tell you, Mother, because it was not worth while. Of course I
+could not accept the offer.”
+
+She hesitated and, before she spoke, Colton broke in.
+
+“Why not? That was what you were going to say, Mrs. Paine, I take it.
+That is what _I_ said--why not? And I say it again. Paine, that offer is
+still open.”
+
+I shook my head. “I told you then that I could not accept,” I said. “It
+is impossible.”
+
+“Why is it impossible? So far as I am concerned I believe you would be a
+mighty good investment.”
+
+“Impossible,” I said again.
+
+“Nothing is impossible. We won't waste words. I am going to be plain and
+I think Mrs. Paine will excuse me. You think you should not leave your
+mother, perhaps. I understand that reason. It would be a good one,
+except that--well, that it isn't good any longer. Your mother is much
+better than she was. Quimby--her doctor and mine--says so. I shall see
+that she is well looked after. If she needs a nurse she shall have
+one, the best we can get. Oh, be still and let me finish! You can talk
+afterward. You're not going so far away. New York isn't the end of the
+earth; it is only the center, or it thinks it is. You'll be in close
+touch with Denboro all the time and you can come here whenever you want
+to. Now will you take my offer?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Young man, if I didn't know there were brains inside that head of yours
+I should think it was, as the boys say, solid ivory. Confound you! Here,
+Mrs. Paine,” turning to Mother, “you take him in hand. Tell him he must
+come with me.”
+
+“Mother--” I protested. He cut my protest short.
+
+“Tell him,” he ordered.
+
+Mother looked at me. “I think, perhaps, you should accept, Roscoe,” she
+said, slowly.
+
+“Accept! Mother!”
+
+“Yes. I--I think you should. I am sure everyone else would think so. I
+should not wish you to do so if Mr. Colton was merely trying to be kind,
+to help you from motives of gratitude, or charity--”
+
+“Don't use that word, please,” snapped “Big Jim.” “When I lose my mind I
+may take to charity, but not before. Charity! Good Lord!”
+
+“But it is not charity. I am better, Roscoe; I realize it every day;
+and with Dorinda I shall get on perfectly well. I have been thinking of
+something like this for a long time. You owe it to yourself, Roscoe. The
+chance is one that many men would be very, very glad to have come their
+way. I shall not urge you, Boy. You must decide for yourself, and I know
+you will; but, Roscoe, I shall be quite contented--yes, glad and proud,
+if you say yes to Mr. Colton.”
+
+The gentleman named nodded emphatic approval. “That's the talk!” he
+exclaimed. “Mrs. Paine, I congratulate you on your common-sense.”
+
+“I think, like you, that you will have made a good investment, Mr.
+Colton,” was Mother's answer.
+
+I rose to my feet. This must be ended now, for all time.
+
+“I thank you, Mr. Colton,” I said, though not as steadily as I could
+have wished. “I am greatly obliged to you and I realize that you offer
+me an exceptional opportunity, or what would be one for another man. But
+I cannot accept.”
+
+“Look here, Paine! I'll speak plainer still. I understand that that
+Shore Lane trade of ours has become common property, or, at any rate, it
+will be common property soon. If I see the situation clearly, Denboro is
+likely to be a rather unpleasant place for you. That fellow Dean has a
+lot of influence here--heaven knows why!--and he hates me worse than Old
+Nick hates holy water. Oh, I know you're not afraid of him! But what
+is the use of taking the rough road when the smooth one is right before
+your feet? Say yes, and let's end it.”
+
+“No,” said I, stubbornly. “No, Mr. Colton.”
+
+“You mean it? Very well, I leave you in your Mother's hands. She will
+probably bring you to your senses before long. Mrs. Paine, you can
+handle him, I have no doubt. I am glad to have met you, and, with your
+permission, I shall call on you again. So will Mabel. As for you, young
+man, I thank you for last night's work. You will, perhaps, accept thanks
+if you refuse everything else. Good morning.”
+
+He rose, bowed, and walked to the door. As he opened it he staggered,
+perceptibly. I thought, for an instant, that he was going to fall, and I
+sprang to his assistance.
+
+“It's all right,” he said, gruffly. “This digestion of mine sets my head
+spinning sometimes. That doctor says I shall upset completely unless I
+rest. I told him he was a fool and I intend to prove it. Let me be. I
+can walk, I should hope. When I can't I'll call the ambulance--or the
+hearse. I'll find the way out, myself. Good-by.”
+
+The door closed behind him.
+
+“Roscoe,” said Mother, quickly, “come here.”
+
+I turned toward her. She was looking at me with a strange expression.
+
+“What is it, Mother?” I asked, anxiously.
+
+“Roscoe,” she whispered, “I know him. I have met him before.”
+
+“Know him! You have met Mr. Colton--before? Where?”
+
+“At our home in the old days. He came there once with--with your father.
+He was our guest at dinner.”
+
+I could scarcely believe it. Then, as the thought of what this might
+mean flashed to my mind, I asked anxiously:
+
+“Did he know you, do you think?”
+
+“No, I am sure he did not. We met but once and I have,” with a little
+sigh, “changed since then. But I recognized him. The name of Colton was
+familiar to me when you first mentioned it, some time ago, but I did
+not remember where I had heard it. Of course, I did not connect this Mr.
+Colton with--that one.”
+
+I frowned. This complicated matters still more, and further
+complications were superfluous.
+
+“And, knowing this, knowing that he might recognize you at any time, you
+urged me to accept his offer,” I said, reproachfully. “Mother!”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Mother, how can you? Would you have me go to New York and enter a
+banking house where, any hour of any day, I might be recognized by some
+of the men I once knew? Where I might expect at any moment to be called
+by my real name? How can you?”
+
+She gazed at me earnestly. “Why not tell him, Roscoe?” she asked.
+
+I stared at her, aghast. “Tell him!” I repeated. “Tell him who I am?
+Tell him our story, the story that--Mother, are you crazy?”
+
+“No. I believe I am sane, at least. I have been thinking a great deal of
+late. As I have been growing stronger I have been thinking more and more
+and I am not sure that you and I have been right in hiding here as
+we have done. It was all my fault, I know, but I was weak and--and I
+dreaded all the gossip and scandal. But, Boy, it was a mistake. After
+all, we have done no wrong, you and I--we, personally, have nothing to
+be ashamed of. Why not end all this? Go to Mr. Colton, tell him who you
+are, tell him our story; then, if he still wants you--”
+
+I interrupted. “No, Mother,” I said, “no, no! It is impossible. Even if
+he knew, and it made no difference, I could not do it. I may go away! I
+may feel that I must go, if you are well enough for me to leave you, but
+I can not go with him. I ought not to see him again. I must not see HER.
+. . . . Oh, don't you understand? Mother, I--I--”
+
+She understood. I had seized her hand and now she stroked it gently with
+her own.
+
+“So it is true,” she said, quietly. “You love her, Roscoe.”
+
+“Yes! yes! yes!” I answered, desperately. “Oh, don't speak of it,
+Mother! I am insane, I think.”
+
+“Does she care for you, Boy? Have you spoken to her?”
+
+“MOTHER! Is it likely?”
+
+“But I think she does care, Roscoe. I think she does. She must.”
+
+This was so characteristic that, although I was in anything but a
+laughing mood, I could not help smiling.
+
+“How could she help it? I presume you mean,” I observed, sarcastically.
+“There, Mother, don't worry. I did not intend that you or anyone else
+should know what an idiot I am, but don't worry--I shan't do anything
+ridiculous or desperate. I may go somewhere, to get away from Denboro,
+and to earn a living for you and me, but that is all. We won't speak of
+her again.”
+
+“But if she does care, Boy?”
+
+“If she does--Of course, she doesn't--but, if she does, can't you see
+that only makes it worse? Think who she is and who and what I am! Her
+family--Humph! you have not met her mother; I have.”
+
+“But if she loves you--”
+
+“Do you think I should permit her to ruin her life--for me?”
+
+“Poor boy! I am SO sorry!”
+
+“It is all right, Mother. There! we won't be foolish any longer. I am
+going for a walk and I want you to rest. I am glad, we have had this
+talk; it has done me good to speak what I have been thinking. Good-by. I
+will be back soon.”
+
+She would have detained me, but I broke away and went out. My walk was a
+long one. I tramped the beach for eight long miles and, though one
+might think that my adventures of the night before had provided exercise
+enough, this additional effort seemed to do no harm. I forgot dinner
+entirely and supper was on the table when I returned to the house.
+
+I found Dorinda in a condition divided between anxiety and impatience.
+
+“Have you seen anything of that man of mine?” she demanded. “I ain't
+seen hide nor hair of him since I pitched him out of this room this
+mornin'!”
+
+I was surprised and a little disturbed. I remembered Lute's threat about
+“never seein' me no more.”
+
+“You don't suppose he has run away, or anything like that, do you?” I
+asked.
+
+“He wouldn't run far; runnin's too much like work. But why he wan't home
+for dinner I don't understand. I never knew him to miss a meal's vittles
+afore. I hope nothin' ain't happened to him, that's all. Well, we'll
+have our supper, anyhow. After that we'll see.”
+
+But we did not have to see. We were at the table when we heard the sound
+of hurrying footsteps on the walk. The gate closed with a bang. Dorinda
+rose from her chair.
+
+“I swan! I believe that's him now!” she exclaimed.
+
+“If it is, he is certainly running this time,” I observed. “What--”
+
+The door was thrown open and the missing member of the household
+appeared. He was red-faced and panting, but there was a curious air of
+dignified importance in his bearing. Dorinda's lips shut tightly.
+
+“Well, Lute,” said I, “where have you been?”
+
+Lute struggled for breath.
+
+“Don't ask me where I've been!” he gasped. “Don't waste no time askin'
+ME questions. Get your hat on, Ros! Get your hat on this minute! Where
+did I put that? Where in time did I put it?”
+
+He was fumbling in his pockets. Dorinda and I looked at each other. She
+shook her head.
+
+“He's gone stark foolish at last!” she said, with decision. “Well,
+I've been expectin' it! Lute Rogers, stop pawin' yourself over and act
+sensible, if you can. What is the matter with you?”
+
+“Matter with me! Nothin's the matter with ME; but there's somethin' the
+matter with other folks, I tell you that! Doctor Quimby's been there
+twice already, and the telephone's been goin', and--and--My time! you
+ought to seen her face! 'Twas just as white as--as--WHERE did I put that
+letter?”
+
+His “pawing” became more frantic than ever. His wife stepped forward and
+seized him by the arm.
+
+“Stop it, I tell you!” she commanded. “Stop it! Who's sick? Whose
+telephone's ringin'? What letter are you talkin' about? Answer me! Stop
+that Saint Vitus dancin' and answer me this minute!”
+
+She gave him a shake and his cap fell to the floor. From it fell an
+envelope. Lute pulled himself free and pounced upon it.
+
+“There 'tis!” he exclaimed. “By time! I was scart I'd lost it! Read it,
+Ros! read it!”
+
+He handed me the envelope. It bore my name. I tore it open--took out the
+sheet of notepaper which it inclosed, and read as follows:
+
+
+“Dear Mr. Paine:
+
+“Father is very ill, and I am in great trouble. I think you, perhaps,
+can help us both. Will you come over at once? PLEASE do.
+
+“Hastily yours,
+
+“MABEL COLTON.”
+
+
+“And--and--” panted Lute, “she told me to tell you to please hurry. And
+you'd ought to seen her face! She--”
+
+I heard no more. I did not wait to get my hat, as the excited bearer
+of the note had urged me to do. Bareheaded, I hurried out of the
+dining-room and along the path toward the Colton mansion.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+
+It was early in the evening, but the big house was lighted as if for a
+reception; lights in the rooms above, lights in the library and hall
+and drawing-room. Doctor Quimby's horse and buggy stood by one of
+the hitching posts and the Colton motor car was drawn up by the main
+entrance. From the open windows of the servants' quarters came the
+sounds of excited voices. I hastened to the front door. Before I could
+push the button of the electric bell the door was opened. Johnson, the
+butler, peered out at me. Most of his dignity was gone.
+
+“Is it you, Mr. Paine?” he asked, anxiously. “Come in, sir, please. Miss
+Mabel has been asking for you not a minute ago, sir.”
+
+I entered the hall. “What is it, Johnson?” I asked, quickly. “How is Mr.
+Colton?”
+
+The butler looked behind him before replying. He shook his head
+dubiously.
+
+“He's awful ill, sir,” he whispered. “The doctor's been with him for an
+hour; 'e's unconscious and Mrs. Colton is takin' on something terrible.
+It's awful, sir, ain't it!”
+
+His nervousness was sufficient indication of the general demoralization
+of the household. And from one of the rooms above came the sobs of a
+hysterical woman.
+
+“Brace up, man,” I whispered in reply. “This is no time for you to go to
+pieces. Where is Miss Colton?”
+
+“She's with her father, sir. Step into the library and I'll call her.”
+
+He was not obliged to call her, for, at that moment, I heard her voice
+speaking from the head of the stairs.
+
+“Who is it, Johnson?” she asked, in a low tone.
+
+“It's Mr. Paine, Miss Mabel.”
+
+I heard a little exclamation, of relief it seemed to me. Then she
+appeared, descending the staircase. Her face was, as Lute had said,
+pale, but her manner was calm, much calmer than the butler's.
+
+She came to me and extended her hand. “Thank you for coming,” she said.
+“I was sure you would.”
+
+“How is your father, Miss Colton?” I asked.
+
+“He is no worse. Come into the library, please. Johnson, if Mother or
+the doctor need me, I shall be in the library. Come, Mr. Paine.”
+
+We entered the library together. The room in which I had had my two
+memorable encounters with “Big Jim” Colton was without its dominant
+figure now. His big armchair was drawn up beside the table and the
+papers and writing materials were in the place where I had seen them. A
+half-burned cigar lay in the ash tray. But the strong fingers which
+had placed it there were weak enough now and the masterful general of
+finance was in his room upstairs fighting the hardest battle of his
+life, fighting for that life itself. A door at the end of the library, a
+door which I had not noticed before, was partially open and from within
+sounded at intervals a series of sharp clicks, the click of a telegraph
+instrument. I remembered that Colton had told me, in one of his
+conversations, that he had both a private telephone and telegraph in his
+house.
+
+Miss Colton closed the door behind us, and turned to me.
+
+“Thank you for coming,” she said, again. “I need help and I could think
+of no one but you. You have hurried dreadfully, haven't you!”
+
+She was looking at my forehead. I caught a glimpse of my face in the
+mirror above the mantel and reached for my handkerchief.
+
+“I must have run every step of the way,” I answered. “I didn't realize
+it. But never mind that. Tell me about your father.”
+
+“He was taken ill soon after he returned from your house. He was in the
+library here and I heard him call. When I reached him he was lying upon
+the couch, scarcely able to speak. He lost consciousness before we could
+get him to his room. The doctor says it is what he has feared, an attack
+of acute indigestion, brought on by anxiety and lack of rest. It was my
+fault, I am afraid. Last night's worry--Poor Father!”
+
+For just a moment I feared she was going to break down. She covered her
+eyes with her hand. But she removed it almost immediately.
+
+“The doctor is confident there is no great danger,” she went on.
+“Danger, of course, but not the greatest. He is still unconscious
+and will be for some time, but, if he is kept perfectly quiet and not
+permitted to worry in the least, he will soon be himself again.”
+
+“Thank God for that!” I exclaimed, fervently. “And your mother--Mrs.
+Colton--how, is she?”
+
+Her tone changed slightly. I inferred that Mrs. Colton's condition was
+more trying than serious.
+
+“Mother is--well, in her nervous state any shock is disturbing. She is
+bearing the anxiety as well as we should expect.”
+
+I judged that not much was expected.
+
+“It was not on account of Father's illness that I sent for you, Mr.
+Paine,” she went on. “If he had not been ill I should not have needed
+you, of course. But there is something else. It could not have happened
+at a more unfortunate time and I am afraid you may not be able to give
+me the help I need. Oh, I hope you can! I don't know what to do. I know
+it must be dreadfully important. Father has been troubled about it for
+days. He has been saying that he must go to New York. But the doctor had
+warned us against his going and so we persuaded him to wait. And now . . .
+sit down, please. I want to ask your advice.”
+
+I took the chair she indicated. She drew another beside me and seated
+herself.
+
+“Mr. Paine--” she began. Then, noticing my expression, she asked, “What
+is it?”
+
+“Nothing,” I answered, “nothing except--Isn't that the telegraph
+instrument I hear? Isn't someone calling you?”
+
+“Yes, yes, it is Mr. Davis, Father's confidential man, his broker, in
+New York. He is trying to get us, I am sure. He telephoned an hour ago.
+I got a part of his message and then the connection was broken off.
+Central says there is something the matter with the wire, a big storm in
+Connecticut somewhere. It may take a whole day to repair it. And it is
+SO important! It may mean--I don't know WHAT it may mean! Oh, Mr. Paine,
+DO you know anything about stocks?”
+
+I looked at her blankly.
+
+“Stocks?” I repeated.
+
+“Yes, yes,” a trifle impatiently. “Stocks--the stock market--railroad
+shares--how they are bought and sold--do you know anything about them?”
+
+I was more puzzled than ever, but I answered as best I could.
+
+“A very little,” I replied. “I used to know a good deal about them once,
+and, of late, since I have been in the Denboro bank, my knowledge has
+been brushed up a bit. But I am afraid it is pretty fragmentary.”
+
+“Do you know anything about Louisville and Transcontinental?”
+
+I started. Louisville and Transcontinental was the one stock about which
+I did know something. Of late I had read everything the papers printed
+concerning it. It was the stock in which George Taylor had risked
+so much and which had come so near to ruining him. No wonder I was
+startled. Why did she mention that particular stock?
+
+“What?” I stammered.
+
+“Louisville and Transcontinental,” she repeated, eagerly. “DO you know
+anything about it? Why do you look at me like that?”
+
+I must be careful. It was not possible that she could have learned
+George's secret. No one knew that except George himself, and his
+brokers, and I. Yet--yet why did she ask that question? I must be on my
+guard.
+
+“I did not realize that I was looking at you in any extraordinary way,
+Miss Colton,” I answered.
+
+“But you were. Why? Do you know anything about it? If you do--oh, if you
+do you may be able to help me, to advise me! And, for Father's sake, I
+want advice so much.”
+
+For her father's sake! That did not sound as if her question concerned
+George or me. A trifle reassured, I tried to remember something of what
+I had read.
+
+“I know, of course,” I answered, slowly, “what every one knows, that the
+California and Eastern has been, or is reported to have been, trying to
+get control of the L. and T. Its possession would give the California
+people the balance of power and mean the end of the present rate war
+with the Consolidated Pacific. The common stock has fluctuated between
+30 and 50 for months and there have been all sorts of rumors. So much
+the newspapers have made common property. That is all I know.”
+
+“You did not know then that Father and his associates control the
+California and Eastern?”
+
+I leaned back in my chair.
+
+“No,” I said, “I did not know that. Then your father--”
+
+“Father tells me a great deal concerning his business affairs. I have
+been very much interested in this. It seems almost like a great war and
+as if Father were a general. He and his associates have gradually bought
+up the C. and E. until they practically own it. And they have been
+working to get the Louisville road. Last winter, you remember, there was
+a great excitement and the stock went up and then down again. That
+was when it looked as if the other side--the Consolidated Pacific--had
+beaten Father, but they had not. You remember that?”
+
+I remembered it. That is to say, George had told me of the rise and fall
+of the stock. It was then that he had bought.
+
+“Yes,” I said, “I remember something of it.”
+
+“If Father had stayed in New York he would have won before this. Oh,”
+ with a burst of pride, “they can NEVER beat him when he is leading the
+fight himself! He has, through his brokers, been selling--what do they
+call it? Oh, yes, selling the Louisville stock 'short' ever since. I am
+not sure just what that means, but perhaps you know.”
+
+“I think I do,” I answered, thoughtfully. “He has been selling, quietly,
+so as to force the stock down, preparatory to buying in. I remember
+the papers have said that the C. and E. were reported as having lost
+interest in the Louisville. That was only a blind, I presume.”
+
+“Yes. Father never gives up, you know that. But he was very anxious that
+the Consolidated Pacific people should think he had. And now--now, when
+he is so ill--comes this! Mr. Davis telephoned that--Yes, what is it?”
+
+There had been a knock at the door. It opened and the butler appeared.
+
+“A telegram for Mr. Colton, Miss Mabel,” he said.
+
+“Give it to me. Tell the man to wait, Johnson. It is from Mr. Davis,”
+ she exclaimed, turning to me. “I am sure it is. Yes. See!”
+
+She handed me the yellow telegram. I read the following aloud:
+
+
+“James W. Colton,
+
+“Denboro, Mass.
+
+“Galileo potato soap currency tomato deeds command army alcohol thief
+weather family--”
+
+
+“What on earth--!” I exclaimed.
+
+“That is in the code, Father's private code. Don't you see? The code
+book is here somewhere. I must find it.”
+
+She was rummaging in the drawer of the desk. With a sigh of relief she
+produced a little blue leather-covered book.
+
+“Here it is,” she said. “Now read me the telegram and I will write the
+translation. Hurry!”
+
+I read again:
+
+“'Galileo'--”
+
+“That means 'Consolidated Pacific'. Go on.”
+
+It took us five minutes to translate the telegram. When we had finished
+the result was:
+
+“Consolidated Pacific crowd wise situation. Strong buying close market
+to-day. Expect worse to-morrow. We are bad shape. Can deliver only part.
+Sure big advance opening and more follow. What shall I do? Why do
+not you answer private telegraph line? Telephone out order. Wire
+instructions immediately. Better still come yourself. Davis.”
+
+“Is that all?” asked Miss Colton. “What answer shall we make?”
+
+“Wait. Wait, please, until I dig some sort of sense out of all this.
+'Wise situation'--”
+
+“Wise TO situation, I presume that means. The Consolidated Pacific
+is wise to the situation. 'Wise' is slang, isn't it? It used to be at
+college.”
+
+“It is yet, even in Denboro. Humph! let me think. 'Sure big advance
+opening.' I suppose that means the market will open with Louisville
+and Transcontinental at a higher figure and that the price is sure to
+advance during the day.”
+
+“Yes. Yes, it must mean that. But why should Mr. Davis be so excited
+about it? He said something about 'ruin' over the 'phone. What does 'We
+are bad shape' mean? And 'Can deliver only part'?”
+
+“I don't know . . . unless . . . Humph! If we had some particulars. Why
+don't you answer on the private telegraph, as he says?”
+
+“Because I can't. Don't you see? I can't. There is no telegraph operator
+in the house. When we first came Father had a secretary, who could use
+the telegraph; but he sent him back to New York. Said he was sick of the
+sight of him. They did not get on well together.”
+
+“But your father must have used the telegraph since.”
+
+“Yes. Father used it himself. He was a telegraph operator when he was
+a young man. Oh, you don't know what a wonderful man my father is! His
+story is like something in a book. He--But never mind that. Hark! there
+is the instrument going again. It must be dreadfully important. Mr.
+Davis is so worried.”
+
+“He seems to be, certainly.”
+
+“But what shall we do?”
+
+“I wish I knew, but I don't. You know nothing of the particulars?”
+
+“No. Nothing more than I have told you. Oh, CAN'T you help me? I feel
+somehow as if Father had left me in charge of his affairs and as if I
+must not fail. Now, when he is helpless! when he is . . . Oh, can't YOU
+do something, Mr. Paine? I thought you might. You are a banker.”
+
+“A poor imitation only, I am afraid. Let me think. Did you tell this man
+Davis of your father's illness?”
+
+“No. I thought perhaps Father would not wish it. And I had no
+opportunity . . . Oh, dear! there is someone at the door again! Who is
+it?”
+
+Johnson's voice replied. “It is me, Miss Mabel,” he said. “The telegraph
+person says he can't wait any longer. He 'asn't 'ad his supper. And
+there is a twenty-five-cent charge for bringing the message, Miss.”
+
+“Tell him he must wait a minute longer,” I answered, for her. “Miss
+Colton, it seems to me that, whether we can do anything or not, we
+should know the particulars. Tell that man--Phineas Cahoon, the depot
+master, I suppose it is--that there is an answer and he must wait for
+it. Now let's consult that code.”
+
+She took the code book and I picked up a sheet of paper and a pencil
+from the table.
+
+“We must ask him to send all the particulars,” I declared. “Look up
+'send' in the code, Miss Colton.”
+
+She was turning the pages of the little book when the butler knocked
+once more.
+
+“He says he can't send any message until morning, Miss Mabel. The
+telegraph office closes at eight o'clock.”
+
+The code book fell to the table. Miss Colton stared helplessly at me.
+
+“What SHALL we do?” she breathed.
+
+I rose to my feet. “Wait, Johnson,” I called. “Make that man wait a
+moment longer. Miss Colton, I have an idea. Would your father be willing
+to--but, that is silly! Of course he would! I'll see Cahoon myself.”
+
+I found Phineas, long-legged and gaunt, sitting on the front step of the
+colonial portico. He had been invited into the hall, but had refused the
+invitation. “I had on my workin' duds,” he explained later. “A feller
+that's been handlin' freight all the afternoon ain't fit to set on
+gold-plated furniture.” He looked up in surprise as I came out.
+
+“Well, for thunder sakes!” he exclaimed, in astonishment. “It's Ros
+Paine! What in the nation are you doin' in here, Ros? Ain't married into
+the family, have ye? Haw, haw!”
+
+I could have kicked him for that pleasantry--if he had not been just
+then too important a personage to kick. As it was, his chance remark
+knocked my errand out of my head, momentarily.
+
+“How's the old man, Ros?” he whispered. “They tell me it's brought on by
+high livin', champagne wine and such. Is it?”
+
+“Phin,” said I, ignoring the question, “would you stay up all night for
+twenty dollars?”
+
+He stared at me.
+
+“What kind of conundrum's that?” he demanded. “'Would I set up all night
+for twenty dollars?' That may be a joke, but--”
+
+“Would you? I mean it. Mr. Colton is sick and his daughter needs some
+one to send and receive messages over their private telegraph wire. She
+will pay you twenty dollars--or I will, if she doesn't--if you will stay
+here and do that for her. Will you?”
+
+For a minute he sat there staring at me.
+
+“You mean it, Ros?” he asked, slowly. “You do, hey! I thought
+p'raps--but no, it's long past April Fool day. WILL I do it? Show me the
+telegraph place quick, afore I wake up and come out of the ether. Twenty
+dollars! Consarn it, I send messages all the week for twelve, and hustle
+freight and sell tickets into the bargain. I ain't had no supper, but
+never mind. Make it twenty-five and I'll stay all day to-morrer.”
+
+I led him into the library and explained his presence to Miss Colton.
+She was delighted.
+
+“It is SO good of you, Mr. Cahoon,” she exclaimed. “And you shan't
+starve, either. I will have some supper sent in to you at once. You can
+eat it while you are at work, can't you?”
+
+She hurried out to order the supper. Phineas, in accordance with my
+request, seated himself in the little room adjoining the library, before
+the telegraph instrument.
+
+“Thunder!” he observed, looking about him. “I never expected to send
+messages for King Solomon in all his glory, but I cal'late I can stand
+it if Sol can. S'pose there'd be any objection to my takin' off my coat?
+Comes more nat'ral to work in my shirt sleeves.”
+
+I bade him take it off and he did so.
+
+“This feller's in some hurry,” he said, nodding toward the clicking
+instrument. “Shall I tell him we're on deck and ready for business?”
+
+“Yes, tell him.”
+
+His long fingers busied themselves with the sender. A sharp series of
+clicks answered the call. Phineas glanced apprehensively out into the
+library.
+
+“Say, he ain't no parson, is he?” he chuckled. “Wants to know what in
+hell has been the trouble all this time. What'll I tell him?”
+
+“Tell him to send particulars concerning L. and T. at once. All the
+particulars.”
+
+The message was sent. The receiver rattled a hasty reply.
+
+“He says you know all the particulars already. You must know 'em. Wants
+to know if this is Mr. Colton.”
+
+“Tell him Mr. Colton is here, in the house. That will be true enough.
+And say we wish all particulars, figures and all. We want to know just
+where we stand.”
+
+The demand for particulars was forwarded. There was more clicking.
+
+“Give me a piece of paper and a pencil, quick,” urged Phineas. “This is
+a long feller.”
+
+While he was writing the “long feller,” as the telegraph ticked it off,
+Miss Colton and the butler appeared, the latter bearing a loaded tray.
+He drew a little table up beside the operator and placed the tray upon
+it. Then he went away. The telegraph clicked and clicked and Cahoon
+wrote. Miss Colton and I watched him anxiously.
+
+“Say,” observed Phineas, between intervals of clicks, “this feller's
+in some loony asylum, ain't he. This is pretty nigh as crazy as that
+message I fetched down. . . . Here 'tis. Maybe you folks know what it
+means, I don't. It's forty fathoms long, ain't it.”
+
+It was long enough, surely. It was not all in the code jargon--Davis
+trusted the privacy of the wire sufficiently to send a portion of it in
+plain English--but he did not trust even that altogether. Miss Colton
+and I worked it out as we had the first telegram. As the translation
+progressed I could feel my hair tingling at the roots.
+
+Was it to help in such a complication as this that I had been summoned?
+I, of all people! These waters were too deep for me.
+
+Boiled down, the “particulars” for which Davis had been asked, and which
+he had sent, amounted to this: Colton, it seemed, had sold L. and T.
+“short” for a considerable period of time in order, as I had surmised,
+to force down the price and buy in at a reasonable figure. He had sold,
+in this way, about three-eighths of the common stock. Of this amount he
+had in his possession--in his broker's possession, that is--but two
+of the eighths. The “other crowd”--the Consolidated Pacific,
+presumably--had, as Davis now discovered, three-eighths actual
+certificates, in its pocket, had been acquiring them, on the quiet,
+while pretending to have lost interest. The public, unsuspecting
+powers in this, as in most of Wall Street little games, had still
+three-eighths. The “other crowd,” knowing “Big Jim's” position, had but
+to force immediate delivery of the missing one-eighth--the amount of
+Colton's over-selling--and he might be obliged to pay Heaven knew what
+for the shares. He MUST acquire them; he must buy them. And the price
+which he would be forced to pay might mean--perhaps not bankruptcy for
+him, the millionaire--but certainly the loss of a tremendous sum and all
+chance of acquiring control of the road. “This has been sprung on us all
+at once,” wired Davis. “They have got us cold. What shall I do? You must
+be here yourself before the market opens.”
+
+And the man who “must be there himself” was critically ill and
+unconscious!
+
+The long telegram, several hundred words of it, was before us. I read it
+through again, and Miss Colton sat and looked at me.
+
+“Do you understand it--now?” she whispered, anxiously.
+
+“Yes, I think I do. . . . What is it, Phin?”
+
+“I was just wonderin',” drawled Cahoon's voice from the adjoining room,
+“if I couldn't eat a little mite of this supper. I've got to do it or
+have my nose and eyes tied up. Havin' all them good things settin' right
+where I can see and smell 'em is givin' me the fidgets.”
+
+“Yes, yes, eat away,” I said, laughing. And even Miss Colton smiled. But
+my laugh and her smile were but transient.
+
+“Is it--Does it mean that things are VERY wrong?” she asked, indicating
+the telegram.
+
+“They are very serious; there is no doubt of that.”
+
+The instrument clicked.
+
+“Say, Ros,” said Phin, his mouth full, “this feller's gettin' as fidgety
+as I was afore I got afoul of this grub. He wants to know what his
+instructions are. What'll he do?”
+
+“What shall you tell him?” asked Miss Colton.
+
+“I don't know,” I answered. “I do not know. I am afraid I am of no use
+whatever. This is no countryman's job. No country banker, even a
+real one, should attempt to handle this. This is high finance with a
+vengeance. I don't know. I think he . . . Suppose we tell him to consult
+the people at your father's office.”
+
+She shook her head. “No,” she said. “The people at the office know
+nothing of it. This was Father's own personal affair. No one knows of it
+but Mr. Davis.”
+
+“How about them instructions?” this from Cahoon.
+
+“Tell him--yes, tell him Mr. Colton cannot leave here at present and
+that he must use his own judgment, go ahead on his own responsibility.
+That is the only thing I see to do, Miss Colton. Don't worry; he must be
+a man of experience and judgment or your father never would use him. He
+will pull it through, I am sure.”
+
+I was by no means as confident as I pretended to be, however, and the
+next message from Davis proved my forebodings to be well founded. His
+answer was prompt and emphatic:
+
+
+Matter too important. Decline to take responsibility. Must have definite
+instructions or shall not act. Is this Mr. Colton himself?
+
+
+“He would not act without Father's orders in a matter like this. I was
+afraid of it. And he is growing suspicious. Oh, CAN'T you help me, Mr.
+Paine? CAN'T you? I relied on you. I felt sure YOU would know what to
+do. I am--I am SO alone; and with Father so ill--I--I--”
+
+She turned away and leaned her head upon her hand on the table. I felt
+again the desperate impulse I had felt when we were alone on board the
+launch, the impulse to take her in my arms and try to comfort her, to
+tell her that I would do anything--anything for her. And yet what could
+I do?
+
+“Can't you help me?” she pleaded. “You have never failed me before.”
+
+There came a knock at the door and Johnson's voice called her name.
+
+“Miss Mabel,” he whispered, “Miss Mabel, will you come, please? The
+doctor wants you right away.”
+
+She rose quickly, drawing her hand across her eyes as she did so.
+
+“I am coming, Johnson,” she said. Then, turning to me, “I will be back
+as soon as I can. Do try--try to think. You MUST, for Father's sake, for
+all our sakes.”
+
+She left the room. I rose and, with my hands in my pockets, began to
+pace the floor. This was the tightest place I had ever been in. There
+had been a time, years before, when I prided myself on my knowledge
+of the stock market and its idiosyncrasies. Then, in the confidence of
+youth, I might have risen to a situation like this, might have tackled
+it and had the nerve to pull it through or blame the other fellow if I
+failed. Now I was neither youthful nor confident. Whatever I did would
+be, in all human probability, the wrong thing, and to do the wrong thing
+now meant, perhaps, ruin for the sick man upstairs. And she had trusted
+me! She had sent for me in her trouble! I had “never failed her before”!
+
+I walked the floor, trying hard to think. It was hard to think calmly,
+to be sensible, and yet I realized that common-sense and coolness were
+what I needed now. I tried to remember the outcome of similar situations
+in financial circles, but that did not help me. I remembered a play I
+had seen, “The Henrietta” was its name. In that play, a young man with
+more money than brains had saved the day for his father, a Wall Street
+magnate, by buying a certain stock in large quantities at a critical
+time. He arrived at his decision to buy, rather than sell, by tossing a
+coin. The father had declared that his son had hit upon the real secret
+of success in stock speculation. Possibly the old gentleman was right,
+but I could not make my decision in that way. No, whatever I did must
+have some reason to back it. Was there no situation, outside of Wall
+Street, which offered a parallel? After all, what was the situation?
+Some one wished to buy a certain thing, and some one else wished to
+buy it also. Neither party wanted the other to get it. There had been a
+general game of bluff and then . . . Humph! Why, in a way, it was like
+the original bidding for the Shore Lane land.
+
+It was like it, and yet it was not. I owned the land and Colton wanted
+to buy it; so also did Jed Dean. Each side had made bids and had been
+refused. Then the bidders had, professedly, stood pat, but, in reality,
+they had not. Jed had told me, in his latest interview, that he
+would have paid almost anything for that land, if he had had to. And
+Colton--Colton had invented the Bay Shore Development Company. That
+company had fooled Elnathan Mullet and other property holders. It had
+fooled Captain Jed. It had come very near to fooling me. If Mabel Colton
+had not given me the hint I might have been tricked into selling. Then
+Colton would have won, have won on a “bluff.” A good bluff did sometimes
+win. I wondered . . .
+
+I was still pacing the floor when Miss Colton returned to the library.
+She was trying hard to appear calm, but I could see that she was greatly
+agitated.
+
+“What is it?” I asked. “Is he--”
+
+“He is not as well just now. I--I must not leave him--or Mother. But I
+came back for a moment, as I told you I would. Is there anything new?”
+
+“No. Davis has repeated his declaration to do nothing without orders
+from your father.”
+
+She nodded. “Very well,” she said, “then it is over. We are
+beaten--Father is beaten for the first time. It makes little difference,
+I suppose. If he--if he is taken from us, nothing else matters. But
+I hoped you . . . never mind. I thank you, Mr. Paine. You would have
+helped him if you could, I know.”
+
+Somehow this surrender, and the tone in which it was made, stirred me
+more than all else. She had trusted me and I had failed. I would not
+have it so.
+
+“Miss Colton,” I said, earnestly, “suppose--suppose I should go ahead
+and make this fight, on my own hook. Suppose I should give Davis the
+'instructions' he is begging for. Have I permission to do it?”
+
+She looked at me in surprise. “Of course,” she said, simply.
+
+“Do you mean it? It may mean complete smash. I am no railroad man, no
+stock manipulator. I have an idea and if this trouble were mine I should
+act upon it. But it is not mine. It is your father's--and yours. I may
+be crazy to risk such a thing--”
+
+She stepped forward. “Do it,” she commanded. “I tell you to do it. If it
+fails I will take the responsibility.”
+
+“That you shall not do. But I will take the chance. Phin!”
+
+“Yup; here I be.”
+
+“Send this message at once: 'Try your hardest to get hold of any shares
+you can, at almost any figure in reason, before the market opens. When
+it opens begin buying everything offered.' Got that?”
+
+“Yup. I've got it.”
+
+“Sign it 'Colton' and send it along. I am using your father's name,” I
+added, turning to her. “It seems to me the only way to avoid suspicion
+and get action. No one must know that 'Big Jim' is critically ill; you
+understand that.”
+
+“Yes, I understand. But,” hesitatingly, “to buy may mean paying
+tremendous prices, may it not? Can we--”
+
+“We must. Here is Davis's reply coming. What is it, Phin?”
+
+Cahoon read off the message as the receiver clicked.
+
+
+“You are insane. Buying at such prices will be suicide.”
+
+
+“Tell him no. Tell him to let it leak out that Colton is seizing the
+opportunity to clinch his control of the road. The other crowd will
+think, if he is willing to buy at any price, that he cannot be so short
+as they supposed. Send all that, Phin. It is a bluff, Miss Colton,
+nothing but a bluff, but it may win. God knows I hope it will.”
+
+She did not answer. Together we waited for the reply. It came as
+follows:
+
+
+All right if you say so, of course, but still think it suicide. I am
+off on the still hunt for those shares but don't believe one to be had,
+Consolidated bunch too sharp for that. Stay by the wire. Will report
+when I can. Good luck and good-by.
+
+
+“He's gone, I cal'late,” observed Phineas. “Need me any more, do you
+think?”
+
+“Yes. You must stay here all night, just as I told you.”
+
+“Right you be. Send word to the old woman, that's all, if you can.
+Cal'late she's waitin' at the kitchen door with a rollin' pin, by this
+time.”
+
+“I will send the word, Mr. Cahoon,” replied Miss Colton. “And--don't you
+think you could go home now, Mr. Paine? I know how exhausted you must
+be, after last night.”
+
+“No home for me,” I answered, with assumed cheerfulness. “Admirals of
+Finance are expected to stick by the ship. I will lie down here on the
+couch and Phineas can call me if I am needed. Don't worry, Miss Colton.
+Go to your father and forget us altogether, if you can. If--if I should
+be needed for--for any other cause, please speak.”
+
+She looked at me in silence for a moment. Then she came toward me and
+held out her hand. “I shall not forget, whatever else I may do,” she
+said, brokenly. “And I will speak if I need you, my friend.”
+
+She turned hastily and went to the door.
+
+“I will send word to your people as well as Mr. Cahoon's,” she added.
+“Try and sleep, if you can. Good night.”
+
+The door closed behind her. Sleep! I was not likely to sleep. A man who
+has lighted the fuse of the powder magazine beneath him does not sleep
+much.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+
+And yet sleep I did, for a little while, just before morning broke. I
+had spent the night pacing the floor and talking to Phineas, who
+was wide awake and full of stories and jokes, to which I paid little
+attention. Miss Colton did not come to the library again. From the rooms
+above I heard occasional sobs and exclamations in Mrs. Colton's voice.
+Once Doctor Quimby peeped in. He looked anxious and weary.
+
+“Hello, Ros!” he hailed, “I heard you were here. This is a high old
+night, isn't it!”
+
+“How is he?” I asked.
+
+“About the same. No worse; in fact, he's better than he was a while ago.
+But he's not out of the woods yet, though I'm pretty hopeful, for the
+old boy has a husky constitution--considering the chances he's taken
+with it all his life. It's his wife that bothers me. She's worse than
+one of the plagues of Egypt. I've given her some sleeping powders now;
+they'll keep her quiet for a spell, I hope.”
+
+“And Miss Colton--how is she?”
+
+“She! She's as calm and sensible and helpful as a trained nurse. By the
+Almighty, she is a wonder, that girl! Well, I must get back on my job.
+Don't have a millionaire patient every day in the week.”
+
+At three o'clock came a message from Davis. He had not been able
+to secure a single share. Did his instructions to buy still hold? I
+answered that they did and he replied that he was going to get a nap
+for an hour or so. “I shall need the rest, if I am any prophet,” he
+concluded.
+
+It was shortly after this that I lay down on the couch. I had determined
+not to close my eyes, but I was utterly worn out, I suppose, and
+exhaustion got the better of me. The next thing I knew the gray light of
+dawn was streaming in at the library windows and Johnson was spreading a
+tempting-looking breakfast on the table.
+
+I sprang up.
+
+“What time is it?” I demanded.
+
+“About half-past five, sir, or thereabouts,” was the answer, in a tone
+of mingled weariness and resentment. Plainly Mr. Johnson had been up all
+night and considered himself imposed upon.
+
+I was thankful that my lapse from duty had been of no longer duration.
+It had been much too long as it was.
+
+“How is Mr. Colton?” I asked.
+
+“Better, sir, I believe. He is resting more quiet at present.”
+
+“Where is Cahoon?”
+
+“Here I be,” this from Phineas in the next room. “Have a good snooze,
+did you, Ros?”
+
+“Too good.” I walked in and found him still sitting by the telegraph
+instrument. “Has anything happened?” I asked.
+
+“Nary thing. All quiet as the tomb since that last message, the one you
+heard. Pretty nigh fell asleep myself, I did. Guess I should have, only
+Miss Colton she came in and kept me comp'ny for a spell.”
+
+“Miss Colton--has she been here? Why didn't you call me, Ros?”
+
+“I was goin' to, but she wouldn't let me. Said you was all wore out,
+poor feller, and that you wan't to be disturbed unless 'twas necessary.
+She's an awful nice young woman, ain't she. Nothin' stuck up about her,
+at all. Set here and talked with me just as sociable and folksy as if
+she wan't wuth a cent. Asked more questions than a few, she did.”
+
+“Did she?” I was not paying much attention to his remarks. My mind was
+busy with more important things. I was wondering what Davis was doing
+just then. Phin went on.
+
+“Yup. I happened to remember that you wan't at the bank to-day and
+I asked her if she knew the reason why. 'How did you know he wasn't
+there?' says she. 'Alvin Baker told me fust,' I says, 'and Sam Wheeler
+told him. Everybody knew it and was wonderin' about it. They cal'lated
+Ros was sick,' I told her, 'but that couldn't be or he wouldn't be round
+here settin' up all night.' What WAS the reason you wan't there, Ros?”
+
+I thought it strange that he, and everyone else in town, did not know
+the reason before this. Was it possible that Captain Dean alone knew
+of my “treason” to Denboro, and that he was keeping the discovery to
+himself? Why should he keep it to himself? He had threatened to drive me
+out of town.
+
+“I had other business to-day, Phin,” I answered, shortly.
+
+“Yup. So I gathered from what Cap'n Jed said. He was in the depot this
+noon sendin' a telegram and I asked him about you. 'Is Ros sick?' I
+says. 'Huh!' says he--you know how he grunts, Ros; for all the world
+like a hog--'Huh!' says he, 'sick! No, but I cal'late he'll be pretty
+sick afore long.' What did he mean by that, do you s'pose?”
+
+I knew, but I did not explain. I made no reply.
+
+“Twas a queer sort of talk, seemed to me,” continued Phin. “I asked him
+again why you wan't at the bank, and he said you had other business,
+just same as you said now. He was ugly as a cow with a sore horn over
+somethin' and I judged 'twas best to keep still. That telegram he sent
+was a surprisin' thing, too. 'Twas to--but there! he made me promise
+I wouldn't tell and so I mustn't. I ain't told a soul--except one--and
+then it slipped out afore I thought. However, that one won't make no
+difference. She ain't interested in--in the one the telegram was sent
+to, 'tain't likely.”
+
+“Where is Miss Colton now?” I asked.
+
+“With her ma and pa, I presume likely. Her and me set and whispered
+together for a long spell. Land sakes! she wouldn't let me speak
+louder'n a whisper for fear of wakin' you up. A body'd think you was a
+young-one in arms, the care she took of you.”
+
+Again I did not answer, and again the garrulous station master continued
+without waiting for a reply.
+
+“I says to her, says I, 'It's a pity George Taylor ain't to home,' I
+says. 'I shouldn't wonder if he could help you with this Louisville
+stock you're so worried about. George was consider'ble interested in
+that stock himself a spell ago. I sent much as a dozen telegrams from
+him about that very stock to some broker folks up to Boston, and they
+was mighty anxious telegrams, too. I tell you!' I says.”
+
+He had caught my attention at last.
+
+“Did you tell her that?” I demanded.
+
+“Sure I did! I never meant to, nuther. Ain't told another soul. You see,
+George, he asked me not to. But she's got a way with her that would make
+Old Nick confess his sins, if she set out to larn 'em. I was sort of
+ashamed after I told her and I explained to her that I hadn't ought to
+done it. 'But I guess it's all right now, anyway,' I says. 'If there was
+any trouble along of George and that stock I cal'late it's all over.
+He acted dreadful worried for a spell, but for the week afore he was
+married he seemed chipper as ever. Biggest change in him you ever see,'
+says I. 'So my tellin' you is all right, I guess,' I says. 'I'm sure
+it's all right,' says she, and her face kind of lighted up, as you might
+say. When she looked at me that way I'd have given her my house and lot,
+if she'd wanted 'em, though you needn't tell my old woman that I said
+so. He! he! 'Of course it's all right,' she says. 'But you had better
+not tell anyone else. We'll have it for our secret, won't we, Mr.
+Cahoon?' she says, smilin'. 'Sartin we will,' says I. And--well, by
+thunder!” as if the thought occurred to him for the first time. “I said
+that, and now I've been and blatted out the whole business to you! I am
+the DARNDEST fool!”
+
+I did not contradict him. I was too angry and disturbed even to speak to
+him for the moment. And, before I could speak, we were interrupted. The
+young lady herself appeared in the doorway. SHE had not slept, that was
+plain. Her face was pale and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.
+As I looked at her I was more ashamed of my own unpremeditated nap than
+ever. Yet she was, as the doctor had said, calm and uncomplaining. She
+even smiled as she greeted us.
+
+“Good morning,” she said. “Your breakfast is ready, Mr. Cahoon. I know
+you feel that you must be getting back to your work at the station.”
+
+Phineas pulled out an enormous nickel watch and glanced at it.
+
+“Land sakes! most six, ain't it,” he exclaimed. “I guess you're right.
+I'll have to be trottin' along. But you needn't fuss for no breakfast
+for me. I'm used to missin' a meal's vittles now and again and I et
+enough last night to last me one spell.”
+
+He was hurrying from the room, but she would not let him go.
+
+“There has been no 'fuss' whatever, Mr. Cahoon,” she said. “Breakfast is
+ready, here in the library. And yours is ready, too, Mr. Paine. I hope
+your few minutes' sleep has rested you. I am sorry you woke so soon. I
+told Johnson to be careful and not disturb you.”
+
+“I deserve to be shot for sleeping at all,” I declared, in self
+reproach. “I did not mean to. I lay down for a moment and--well, I
+suppose I was rather tired.”
+
+“I know. Last night's experience was enough to tire anyone.”
+
+“Nonsense! It was no worse for me than for you,” I said.
+
+“Yes, it was. You had the care and the responsibility. I, you see, knew
+that I was well guarded. Besides, I slept for hours this morning. Come,
+both of you. Breakfast is ready.”
+
+Phineas was already seated at the table, glancing over his shoulder at
+the butler, whose look of dignified disgust at being obliged to wait
+upon a countryman in his shirt sleeves would have been funny, if I had
+been in a mood for fun. I don't know which was the more uncomfortable,
+Cahoon or the butler.
+
+“Won't you join us, Miss Colton?” I asked.
+
+“Why--why, yes, perhaps I will, if you don't mind. I am not hungry but I
+will take a cup of coffee, Johnson.”
+
+Phineas did almost all the talking while he remained with us, which was
+not long. He swallowed his breakfast in a tremendous hurry, a proceeding
+which still further discomposed the stately Johnson, and then rose and
+put on his coat.
+
+“I hate to leave you short handed and on a lee shore, Miss,” he
+explained, apologetically; “but I know you understand how 'tis with me.
+My job's all I've got and I'll have to hang onto it. The up train's due
+in forty minutes and I've got to be on hand at the deepo. However, I've
+got that Davis feller's address and I'll raise him the first thing to
+send his messages to me and I'll get 'em right down here by the reg'lar
+telephone. He can use that--what-do-you-call-it?--that code thing, if
+he's scart of anybody's findin' out what he says. The boss school-marm
+of all creation couldn't read that gibberish without the book.”
+
+I hated to have him go, but there was no alternative. After he had
+gone and she and I were left together at the table a sense of restraint
+seemed to fall upon us both. To see her sitting opposite me at the
+table, pouring my coffee and breakfasting with me in this intimate,
+family fashion, was so wonderful and strange that I could think of
+nothing else. It reminded me, in a way, of our luncheon at Seabury's
+Pond, but that had been out of doors, an impromptu picnic, with all a
+picnic's surroundings. This was different, quite different. It was so
+familiar, so homelike, so conventional, and yet, for her and me, so
+impossible. I looked at her and she, looking up at the moment, caught
+my eyes. The color mounted to her cheeks. I felt my own face flushing.
+Dorinda--practical, unromantic Dorinda--had guessed my feeling for this
+girl; Mother had divined it. It was plain enough for anyone to read.
+I glanced apprehensively at the butler, half expecting to see upon his
+clerical countenance the look of scornful contempt which would prove
+that he, too, was possessed of the knowledge. But he merely bent forward
+with a deferential, “Yes, sir. What is it?” and I meekly requested
+another roll. Then I began, desperately, to talk.
+
+I inquired about Mr. Colton's condition and was told that he was, or
+appeared to be, a trifle better. Mrs. Colton was, at last, thanks to
+the doctor's powders, asleep. Johnson left the room for the moment and
+I switched to the subject which neither of us had mentioned since the
+night before, the Louisville and Transcontinental muddle. I explained
+what had been done and pretended a confidence which I did not feel that
+everything would end well. She listened, but, it seemed to me, she was
+not as interested as I expected. At length she interrupted me.
+
+“Suppose we do not talk about it now,” she said. “As I understand it,
+you--we, that is--have made up our minds. We have decided to do certain
+things which seem to us right. Right or wrong, they must be done now.
+I am trying very hard to believe them right and not to worry any more
+about them. Oh, I CAN'T worry! I can't! With all the rest, I--I--Please
+let us change the subject. Mr. Paine, I am afraid you must think me
+selfish. I have said nothing about your own trouble. Father--”
+ she choked on the name, but recovered her composure almost
+immediately--“Father told me, after his return from your house this
+morning, that his purchase of the land had become public and that you
+were in danger of losing your position at the bank.”
+
+I smiled. “That danger is past,” I answered. “I have lost it. Captain
+Dean gave me my walking papers this morning.”
+
+“Oh, I am so sorry!”
+
+“I am not. I expected it. The wonder is only that it has not happened
+before. I realized that it was inevitable when I made up my mind to
+sell. It is of no consequence, Miss Colton.”
+
+“Yes, it is. But Father offered you the position in his employ. He said
+you refused, but he believed your refusal was not final.”
+
+“He was wrong. It is final.”
+
+“But--”
+
+“I had rather not discuss that, Miss Colton.”
+
+She looked at me oddly, and with a faint smile. “Very well,” she said,
+after a moment, “we will not discuss it now. But you cannot suppose that
+either Father or I will permit you to suffer on our account.”
+
+“There is no suffering. I sold the land to your father deliberately and
+with complete knowledge of the consequences. As to the bank--well, I am
+no worse off than I was before I entered its employ. I am satisfied.”
+
+She toyed with her coffee spoon.
+
+“Captain Dean seems to be the only person in Denboro who knows of the
+sale,” she said. “Why has he kept it a secret?”
+
+“I don't know. Has he?”
+
+“You know he has, Mr. Paine. Mr. Cahoon did not know of it, and he would
+be one of the first to hear. It seems odd that the captain should tell
+no one.”
+
+“Probably he is waiting for the full particulars. He will tell, you may
+be sure of that. His last remark to me was that he should drive me out
+of Denboro.”
+
+I rather expected a burst of indignation. In fact I was somewhat hurt
+and disappointed that it did not come. She merely smiled once more.
+
+“He has not done it yet,” she said. “If he knew why you sold that
+land--your real reason for selling it--he would not drive you away, or
+try to.”
+
+I was startled and alarmed.
+
+“What do you mean?” I asked quickly.
+
+“If he knew he would not drive you away, would he?”
+
+“He will never know.”
+
+“Perhaps he may. Perhaps the person for whose sake you sold it may tell
+him.”
+
+“Indeed he will not! I shall see to that.”
+
+“Oh, then there is such a person! I was sure of it before. Now you have
+told me.”
+
+Before I could recover from the mental disturbance and chagrin which my
+slip and her quick seizure of it caused me, the butler re-entered the
+room.
+
+“Mrs. Colton is awake and asking for you, Miss Mabel,” he said. “The
+doctor thinks you had better go to her at once, if you please.”
+
+With a word of apology to me, she hurried away. I rose from the table. I
+had had breakfast enough. The interruption had come at a fortunate
+time for me. Her next question might have forced me to decline to
+answer--which would have been equivalent to admitting the truth--or to
+lie. One thing I determined to do without delay. I would write Taylor at
+once warning him to be more close-mouthed than ever. Under no conditions
+would I permit him to speak. If it were necessary I would go to
+Washington, where he and Nellie were spending their honeymoon, and make
+him promise to keep silence. His telling the truth might ruin him, and
+it certainly would not help me. In the one essential thing--the one
+which was clenching my determination to leave Denboro as soon as I could
+and seek forgetfulness and occupation elsewhere--no one could help me.
+I must help myself, or be miserable always. Just now the eternal misery
+seemed inevitable, no matter what I did.
+
+Johnson cleared the table and left me alone in the library. The hours
+passed. Nine o'clock came, then nine-thirty. It was almost time for the
+stock market to open. My thoughts, which had been diverted from my rash
+plunge into the intricacies of high finance, began to return to it. As
+ten o'clock drew near, I began to realize what I had bade Davis do, and
+to think what might happen because of it. I, Roscoe Paine, no longer
+even a country banker, was at the helm of “Big Jim” Colton's bark in the
+maelstrom of the stock market. It would have been funny if it had not
+been so desperate. And desperate it was, sheer reckless desperation and
+nothing else. I must have been crazier than ever, more wildly insane
+than I had been for the past month, to even think of such a thing. It
+was not too late yet, I could telegraph Davis--
+
+The telephone on the desk--not the public, the local, 'phone, but
+the other, Colton's private wire to New York--rang. I picked up the
+receiver.
+
+“Hello-o! Hello-o!” a faint voice was calling. “Is this Colton's house
+at Denboro? . . . Yes, this is Davis. . . . The wire is all right now.
+. . . Is this Mr. Colton speaking?”
+
+“No,” I answered, “Mr. Colton is here in the house. You may give the
+message to me.”
+
+“I want to know if his orders hold. Am I to buy? Ask him. I will wait.
+Hurry! The market opens in five minutes.”
+
+I put down the receiver. Now was my opportunity. I could back out now.
+Five minutes more and it would be too late. But if I did back out--what?
+
+One of the minutes passed. Then another. I seized the telephone.
+
+“Go ahead!” I shouted. “Carry out your orders.”
+
+A faint “All right” answered me.
+
+The die was cast. I was in for it. There was nothing to do but wait.
+
+And I waited alone. I walked up and down the floor of the little room,
+looking at the clock and wondering what was happening on that crowded
+floor of the big Broad Street building. The market was open. Davis was
+buying as I had directed. But at what figure was he buying?
+
+No one came near me, not even the butler. It was ten-twenty before the
+bell rang again.
+
+“Hello! This is Mr. Davis's office. Is this Mr. Colton? Tell him Mr.
+Davis says L. and T. is one hundred and fifty now and jumping twenty
+points at a lick. There is the devil to pay. Scarcely any stock in sight
+and next door to a panic. Shall we go on buying?”
+
+I was trying to decide upon an answer when some one touched my elbow.
+Miss Colton was standing beside me. She did not speak, but she looked
+the question.
+
+I told her what I had just heard.
+
+“One hundred and fifty!” she exclaimed. “That is--Why, that is dreadful!
+What will you do?”
+
+I shook my head. “That is for you to say,” I answered.
+
+“No, it is for you. You are doing this. I trust you. Do what you think
+is right--you and Mr. Davis. That is what Father would wish if he knew.”
+
+“Davis will do nothing on his own responsibility.”
+
+“Then you must do it alone. Do it! do it!”
+
+I turned to the 'phone once more. “Buy all you can get,” I ordered.
+“Keep on bidding. But be sure and spread the news that it is Colton
+buying to secure control of the road, not to cover his shorts. Be sure
+that leaks out. Everything depends on that.”
+
+I hung up the receiver. She and I looked at each other.
+
+“What will happen, do you think?” she asked.
+
+“God knows! . . . Are you going? Don't go!”
+
+“I must,” gently. “Father is worse, I fear, and I must not leave
+him. Doctor Quimby says the next few hours may tell us whether he
+is--is--whether he is to be with us or not. I must go. Be brave. I trust
+you. Be brave, for--for I am trying so hard to be.”
+
+I seized her hand. She drew it from my grasp and hastened away. Brave!
+Well, for her sake, I must be. Yet it was because of her that I was such
+a coward.
+
+As I recall all this now I wonder at myself. The whole thing seems too
+improbable to be true, yet true it was. I lost my identity that day,
+I think, and, as the telephone messages kept coming, and the situation
+became more and more desperate, became some one else, some one a great
+deal braver and cooler and more clear-sighted than ever I had been or
+shall be again. I seemed to see my course plainer every moment and to
+feel surer of myself and that my method--my bluff, if you like--was the
+only salvation.
+
+At eleven Louisville and Transcontinental was selling--the little that
+was sold--at four hundred and fifty dollars a share, on a par value of
+fifty. At eleven-thirty it had climbed another hundred. The whole
+Street was a Bedlam, so they 'phoned me, and the newspapers were issuing
+“panic” extras.
+
+“Tell Davis to stop buying now,” I ordered. “Let it be known that Colton
+has secured control and is satisfied.”
+
+At noon the figure was 700 bid and 800 asked. There was no trading at
+all, for the sufficient reason that no shares were to be had. Johnson
+came in to ask if he should bring my luncheon. I bade him clear out and
+let me alone. As he was tip-toeing away I called after him.
+
+“How is Mr. Colton?” I asked.
+
+“Very bad indeed, sir. Miss Mabel wished me to say that she could not
+leave him an instant. It is the crisis, the doctor thinks.”
+
+There were two crises then, one on each floor of the big house. At one
+Davis himself 'phoned.
+
+“Still hanging around 700,” he announced. “Begins to look as if the top
+had been reached. What shall I do now?”
+
+My plan was ready and I gave my orders as if I had been doing such
+things for years.
+
+“Sell, in small lots, at intervals,” I told him. “Then, if the price
+breaks, begin buying through another broker as cautiously as you can.”
+
+The answer was in a different tone; there was a new note, almost of
+hope, in it.
+
+“By the Lord, I believe you have got it!” he cried. “It may work. I'll
+report to you, Mr. Colton, right away.”
+
+Plainly he had no doubt that “Big Jim” was directing the fight in
+person. Far was it from me to undeceive him!
+
+Another interval. Then he reported a drop of a hundred points.
+
+“The bottom is beginning to fall out, I honestly believe. They think
+you've done 'em again. I am spreading the report that you have the
+control cinched. As soon as the scramble is really on I'll have a half
+dozen brokers buying for us.”
+
+It was half-past two when the next message came. It was exultant,
+triumphant.
+
+“Down like an avalanche. Am grabbing every share offered. We've got 'em,
+sure!”
+
+And, as three o'clock struck, came the final crow.
+
+“Hooray for our side! They're dead and buried! You have two hundred
+shares more than fifty per cent, of the common stock. The Louisville
+road is in your pocket, Mr. Colton. I congratulate you. Might have
+known they couldn't lick the old man. You are a wonder. I'll write full
+particulars and then I am going home and to bed. I'm dead. I didn't
+believe you could do it! How did you?”
+
+I sat there, staring at the 'phone. Then, all at once, I began to laugh,
+weakly and hysterically, but to laugh, nevertheless.
+
+“I--I organized a Development Company,” I gasped. “Good night.”
+
+I rose from the chair and walked out into the library. I was so
+completely fagged out by the strain I had been under that I staggered as
+I walked. The library door opened and Johnson came in. He was beaming,
+actually beaming with joy.
+
+“He's very much better, sir,” he cried. “He's conscious and the doctor
+says he considers 'im out of danger now. Miss Mabel sent word she would
+be down in a short while. She can't leave the mistress immediate, but
+she'll be down soon, sir.”
+
+I looked at him in a dazed way. “Tell Miss Colton that I am very
+glad, Johnson,” I said. “And tell her, too, that everything here is
+satisfactory also. Tell her that Mr. Paine says her father has his
+control.”
+
+“'His control!' And what may that be, if you please, sir?”
+
+“She will understand. Say that everything is all right, we have won and
+that Mr. Colton has his control. Don't forget.”
+
+“And--and where will you be, sir?”
+
+“I am going home, I think. I am going home and--to bed.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+
+The next thing I remember with any distinctness is Dorinda's knocking
+at my bedroom door. I remember reaching that bedroom, of course, and
+of meeting Lute in the kitchen and telling him that I was not to be
+disturbed, that I should not come down to supper and that I wanted to
+be let alone--to be let ALONE--until I saw fit to show myself. But these
+memories are all foggy and mixed with dreams and nightmares. As I say,
+the next thing that I remember distinctly after staggering from the
+Colton library is Dorinda's knocking at the door of my bedroom.
+
+“Ros! Roscoe!” she was calling. “Can you get up now? There is somebody
+downstairs waitin' to see you.”
+
+I turned over in bed and began to collect my senses.
+
+“What time is it, Dorinda?” I asked, drowsily.
+
+“About ten, or a little after.”
+
+Ten! Then I had not slept so long, after all. It was nearly four when
+I went to bed and . . . But what made the room so light? There was no
+lamp. And the windows . . . I sat up.
+
+“You don't mean to tell me it is ten o'clock IN THE FORENOON!” I cried.
+
+“Um-hm. I hated to disturb you. You've been sleepin' like the
+everlastin' hills and I knew you must be completely wore out. But I felt
+pretty sartin you'd want to see the--who 'tis that here's to see you, so
+I decided to wake you up.”
+
+“It is high time you did, I should think! I'll be down in a minute. Who
+is it that wishes to see me, Dorinda?”
+
+But Dorinda had gone. I dressed hurriedly and descended the stairs to
+the dining-room. There, seated in a chair by the door, his eyes closed,
+his chin resting upon his chest, and his aristocratic nose proclaiming
+the fact that he slumbered, was Johnson, the Colton butler. I was not
+greatly surprised. I had rather suspected that my caller might be he, or
+some other messenger from the big house.
+
+He started at the sound of my entrance and awoke.
+
+“I--I beg your pardon, sir,” he stammered. “I--I beg your pardon, sir,
+I'm sure. I've been--I 'aven't closed my eyes for the past two nights,
+sir, and I am tired out. Mr. Colton wishes to see you at once, sir. He
+wishes you to come over immediately.”
+
+I was surprised now. “MR. Colton wishes it,” I repeated. “You mean Miss
+Colton, don't you, Johnson.”
+
+“No, sir. It is Mr. Colton this time, sir. Miss Colton is out in the
+motor, sir.”
+
+“But Mr. Colton is too ill to see me, or anyone else.”
+
+“No, sir, he isn't. He's very much better. He's quite himself, sir,
+really. And he is very anxious to see you. On a matter of business, he
+says.”
+
+I hesitated. I had expected this, though not so soon. He wanted to ask
+questions concerning my crazy dip into his financial affairs, doubtless.
+Well, I should have to see him some time or other, and it might as well
+be now.
+
+I called to Dorinda, who was in the kitchen, and bade her tell Mother,
+if she inquired for me, that I had gone out, but would be back soon.
+Then Johnson and I walked briskly along the bluff path. We entered the
+big house.
+
+“Mr. Colton is in his room, sir,” explained the butler. “You are to see
+him there. This way, sir.”
+
+But before we reached the foot of the stairs Doctor Quimby came out of
+the library. He and I shook hands. The doctor was a happy man.
+
+“Well!” he exclaimed, “what's the matter with the one-horse, country-jay
+doctor now, hey! If there is any one of the Boston specialists at a
+hundred a visit who can yank a man out of a serious sickness and put him
+on his feet quicker than I can, why trot him along, that's all! I want
+to see him! I've been throwing bouquets at myself for the last ten
+hours. Ho! ho! Say, Ros, you'll think my head is swelled pretty bad,
+won't you! Ho! ho!”
+
+I asked how the patient was getting on.
+
+“Fine! Tip-top! The only trouble is that he ought to keep perfectly
+quiet and not do a thing or think of a thing, except getting his
+strength back, for the next week. But he hadn't been conscious more than
+a couple of hours before he was asking questions about business and so
+on. He and his daughter had a long confab this morning and after that he
+was neither to bind or tie. He must see you, that's all there was to
+it. Say, Ros, what did you and Phin Cahoon and the Colton girl do
+yesterday?”
+
+“Oh, we put through one of Mr. Colton's little trades for him, that's
+all.”
+
+“That's all, hey! Well, whatever 'twas, he and I owe you a vote of
+thanks. He began to get better the minute he heard it. He's feeling so
+chipper that, if it wasn't that I swore he shouldn't, he'd have got out
+of bed by this time. You must go up and see him, I suppose, but don't
+stay too long. He's a wonder for strength and recuperative powers, but
+don't tire him too much. If that wife of his was in Europe or somewhere,
+I'd feel easier. She's the most tiring thing in the house.”
+
+Johnson led the way upstairs. At the chamber door he knocked and
+announced my presence.
+
+“Bring him in! What is he waiting for?” demanded a voice which,
+considering how recently its owner had been at death's door, was
+surprisingly strong. I entered the room.
+
+He was in bed, propped up with pillows. Beside him sat Mrs. Colton. Of
+the two she looked the more disturbed. Her eyes were wet and she
+was dabbing at them with a lace handkerchief. Her morning gown was a
+wondrous creation. “Big Jim,” with his iron-gray hair awry and his eyes
+snapping, looked remarkably wide awake and alive.
+
+“How are you, Paine?” he said. “Glad to see you. Sorry to bring you over
+here, but I had to see you and that doctor says I must stay in this room
+for a while yet. He may be right. My understanding is pretty shaky, I'll
+admit. You've met Mrs. Colton, haven't you?”
+
+I bowed and expressed my pleasure at meeting the lady. Her bow was
+rather curt, but she regarded me with an astonishing amount of agitated
+interest. Also she showed symptoms of more tears.
+
+“I don't remember whether or not Mr. Paine and I have ever been formally
+introduced,” she observed. “If we haven't it makes no difference, I
+suppose. The other members of the family seem to know him well enough.
+And--and mothers nowadays are not considered. I--I must say that--”
+
+She had recourse to the lace handkerchief. I could understand what the
+doctor meant by calling her the “most tiring thing in the house.” Her
+husband laid a hand on hers.
+
+“There, there, my dear,” he said, soothingly, “don't be foolish. Sit
+down, Paine. Henrietta, perhaps you had better leave Mr. Paine and I
+together. We have some--er--business matters to discuss and you are
+tired and nervous. I should go to my room and lie down, if I were you.”
+
+Mrs. Colton accepted the suggestion, but her acceptance was not the most
+gracious.
+
+“I am in the way, as usual,” she observed, chokingly. “Very well, I
+should be resigned to that by this time, no doubt. I will go. But James,
+for my sake, don't be weak. Remember what--Oh, remember all we had hoped
+and planned! When I think of it, I--I--A nobody! A person without . . .
+What SHALL I do?”
+
+The handkerchief was in active operation. She swept past me to the door.
+There she turned.
+
+“I may forgive you some time, Mr. Paine,” she sobbed. “I suppose I shall
+have to. I can't do anything else. But don't ask me to do it now. That
+would be TOO much!”
+
+The door closed and I heard her sobs as she marched down the hall. To
+say that I was amazed and decidedly uncomfortable would be a very mild
+estimate of my feelings. Why should I expect her to forgive me? What had
+I done? I--or luck and I together--had saved one of her husband's stock
+speculations from ending in smash; but that was no injury for which I
+should beg forgiveness. At least I could not see that it was.
+
+Colton looked after her with a troubled expression.
+
+“Nerves are the devil, aren't they,” he observed. “And nerves and a
+woman together are worse than that. My wife, Paine, is--well, she hasn't
+been in good health for a long time and Mabel and I have done our best
+to give her her own way. When you've had your own way for years it
+rather hurts to be checkmated. I know that from experience. She'll feel
+better about it by and by.”
+
+“Better about what?” I demanded, involuntarily. “I don't understand Mrs.
+Colton's meaning in the least.”
+
+He looked at me keenly for a moment without speaking.
+
+“Don't you?” he asked. “You are sure you don't?”
+
+“Certainly I am sure. What I have done that requires forgiveness I don't
+see.”
+
+Another pause and more scrutiny.
+
+“So you don't understand what she means, hey?” he said again. “All
+right, all right! We won't discuss that yet a while. If you don't
+understand--never mind. Time enough for us to talk of that when you do.
+But, say, Paine,” with one of his dry smiles, “who taught you to buck a
+stock pool?”
+
+This question I could understand. I had expected this.
+
+“No one taught me,” I answered. “If I had any knowledge at all in that
+direction I was born with it, I guess. A form of original sin.”
+
+“It's a mighty profitable sort of wickedness--for me. Young man, do you
+realize what you did? How do you expect me to thank you for that, hey?”
+
+“I don't expect you to thank me at all. It was bull luck that won for
+you, Mr. Colton. Bull luck and desperation on my part. Miss Colton sent
+for me to help her. Your confidential man, Davis, refused to make a move
+without orders from you. You couldn't give any orders. Someone had to do
+something, or, so it seemed to your daughter and me, your Louisville and
+Transcontinental deal was a gone goose.”
+
+“It was more than that. I might have come pretty near being a gone goose
+along with it. Not quite gone, perhaps--I should have had a few cents
+left in the stocking--but I should have lost a lot more than I care to
+lose. So it was bull luck, hey? I don't believe it. Tell me the whole
+story, from beginning to end, will you? Mabel has told me some, but I
+want to hear it all. Go ahead!”
+
+I thought of Quimby's warning. “I'm afraid I should tire you, Mr.
+Colton. It is a long story, if I give particulars.”
+
+“Never mind, you give them. That 'tiring' business is some more of that
+doctor's foolishness. HE makes me tired, all right. You tell me what I
+want to know or I'll get out of this bed and shake it out of you.”
+
+He looked as if he meant to carry out his threat. I began my tale at the
+beginning and went on to the astonishing end.
+
+“Don't ask me why I did this or that, Mr. Colton,” I concluded. “I don't
+know. I think I was off my head part of the time. But something HAD to
+be done. I tried to look at the affair in a common-sense way, and--”
+
+“And, HAVING common-sense, you used it. Paine, you're a brick! Your kind
+of common-sense is so rare that it's worth paying any price for. Ha! ha!
+So it was Keene and his 'Development Company' that gave you the idea.
+That's good! That little failure of mine wasn't altogether a failure,
+after all. You saw it was a case where a bluff might win, and you had
+the sand to bluff it through. That comes of living so long where there
+is more sand than anything else, I imagine, hey! Ha! ha! Well, bull luck
+or insanity or whatever you call it, it did the trick. Of course I'm
+more obliged to you than I can tell. You know that.”
+
+“That's all right, Mr. Colton. Now I think I must be going. You've
+talked enough.”
+
+“You sit still. I haven't begun to talk yet. Paine, before you did this
+thing for me I had taken a fancy to you. I believed there was good
+stuff in you and that I could use you in my business. Now I know I can't
+afford to do without you. . . . Stop! let me finish. Young man, I told
+you once that when I made up my mind to do a thing, I always did it.
+ALWAYS; do you understand? I am going to get you. You are coming with
+me.”
+
+I had foreseen this, of course. But I had hoped to get away from that
+room before he reached the point. He had reached it, however, and
+perhaps it was as well he had. We would end this for all time.
+
+“Mr. Colton,” I answered, “you have a monopoly of some things, but of
+others you have not. I am just as determined to have my own way in this
+matter as you are. I shall NOT accept your offer of employment. That is
+final.”
+
+“Final be damned! Young man--”
+
+“Mr. Colton, if you persist I shall go away.”
+
+“Go away! Before I tell you to? Why, you--”
+
+I rose. “The doctor told me that you must not excite yourself,” I said.
+“I am going. Good-by.”
+
+He was excited, there was no doubt of that. He sat up in bed.
+
+“You come back!” he ordered. “Come back! If you don't--Well, by the
+Lord, if you don't I'll get up and come after you!”
+
+I believe he would have tried to do it. I was frightened, on his
+account. I turned reluctantly. He sank back on the pillow, grinning
+triumphantly.
+
+“Sit down there,” he panted. “Sit down. Now I want you to tell me the
+real reason why you won't work for me. By gad! you're the first one in
+many a day I have had to ask twice. Why? Tell me the truth! Why?”
+
+I hesitated. “Well, for one reason,” I said, “I don't care for your
+business.”
+
+“Don't CARE for it! After what you just did!”
+
+“I did that because I was driven to it. But I don't care for the stock
+game. Once I used to think I liked that sort of thing; now I know I
+don't. If I am anything I am a bank man, a poor sort of one, perhaps,
+but--”
+
+“Bank man! Why, you idiot! I don't care what you are. I can use you in
+a dozen places. You don't have to buck the market. I'll do that myself.
+But there are plenty of places where your brains and that common-sense
+you talk about will be invaluable to me. I do a banking business, on the
+side, myself. I own a mining property, a good one, out West. It needs a
+financial manager, and needs one badly. You come with me, do you hear!
+I'll place you where you fit, before I get through with you, and I'll
+make you a rich man in ten years. There! now will you say yes?”
+
+I shook my head. “No,” I said.
+
+“NO! You are enough to drive a well man crazy, to say nothing of a
+half-sick relic like me. _I_ say yes--yes--YES! Sooner or later I'll
+MAKE you. You've lost your place here. You told me yourself that that
+old crank Dean is going to make this town too hot to hold you. You'll
+HAVE to go away. Now won't you?”
+
+I nodded. “I shall go away,” I answered. “I have made up my mind to go,
+now that Mother seems well enough for me to leave her.”
+
+“Where will you go?”
+
+“I don't know.”
+
+He stared at me in silence for what seemed a long time. I thought he
+must be exhausted, and once more I rose to go.
+
+“Stop! Stay where you are,” he ordered. “I haven't got the answer to
+you yet, and I know it. There's something back of all this, something
+I don't know about. I'm going to find out what it is, if it takes me a
+year. You can tell me now, if you want to. It will save time. What is
+the real reason why you won't take my offer?”
+
+I don't know why I did it. I had kept the secret all the years and
+certainly, when I entered that room, I had no intention of revealing it.
+Yet, now, when he asked this question I turned on him and blurted out
+what I had sworn no one--least of all he or his--should ever know.
+
+“I'll tell you why,” I cried, desperately. “I can't take the place you
+offer because you know nothing about me. You don't know who I am. If you
+did you . . . . Mr. Colton, you don't even know my name.”
+
+He looked at me and shook his head, impatiently. “Either you ARE crazy,
+or I am,” he muttered. “Don't know your name!”
+
+“No, you don't! You think I am Roscoe Paine. I am not. I am Roscoe
+Bennett, and my father was Carleton Bennett, the embezzler.”
+
+I had said it. And the moment afterward I was sorry. I would have given
+anything to take back the words, but repentance came too late. I had
+said it.
+
+I heard him draw a deep breath. I did not look at him. I did not care
+to see his face and read on it the disgust and contempt I was sure it
+expressed.
+
+“Humph!” he exclaimed. “Humph! Do you mean to tell me that your father
+was Carleton Bennett--Bennett of Bennett and Company?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well! well! well! Carleton Bennett! No wonder there was something
+familiar about your mother, something that I seemed to remember. I met
+her years ago. Well! well! So you're Carleton Bennett's son?”
+
+“Yes, I am his son.”
+
+“Well, what of it?”
+
+I looked at him now. He was smiling, actually smiling. His illness had
+affected his mind.
+
+“What OF it!” I gasped.
+
+“Ye-es, what of it? What has that got to do with your working for me?”
+
+I could have struck him. If he had not been weak and ill and
+irresponsible for what he was saying I think I should.
+
+“Mr. Colton,” I said, striving to speak calmly, “you don't understand.
+My father was Carleton Bennett, the embezzler, the thief, the man whose
+name was and is a disgrace all over the country. Mother and I came here
+to hide from that disgrace, to begin a new, clean life under a clean
+name. Do you think--? Oh, you don't understand!”
+
+“I understand all right. This is the first time I HAVE understood. I see
+now why a clever man like you was willing to spend his days in a place
+like Denboro. Well, you aren't going to spend any more of them there.
+You're going to let me make something worth while out of you.”
+
+This sounded, in one way, like sanity. But in another--
+
+“Mr. Colton,” I cried, “even if you meant it, which you don't--do you
+suppose I would go back to New York, where so many know me, and enter
+your employ under an assumed name? Run the risk of--”
+
+“Hush! Enter it under your own name. It's a good name. The Bennetts are
+one of our oldest families. Ask my wife; she'll tell you that.”
+
+“A good name!”
+
+“Yes. I declare, Paine--Bennett, I mean--I shall begin to believe you
+haven't got the sense I credited you with. I can see what has been
+the matter with you. You came here, you and your sick mother, with the
+scandal of your father's crookedness hanging over you and her sickness
+making her super-sensitive, and you two kept the secret and brooded over
+it so long that you have come to think you are criminals, too. You're
+not. You haven't done anything crooked. What's the matter with you, man?
+Be sensible!”
+
+“Sensible!”
+
+“Yes, sensible, if you can. I don't care who your father was. He was
+a smart banker, before he went wrong, and I can see now where you
+inherited your ability. But never mind that. He's dead; let him stay so.
+I'm not trying to get him. It's you I want.”
+
+“You want ME! Do you mean you would take me into your employ, knowing
+who I am?”
+
+“Sure! It is because I know WHAT you are that I want you.”
+
+“Mr. Colton, you--I don't know what to say to you.”
+
+“Try saying 'yes' and see how it seems. It will be a change, anyhow.”
+
+“No, no! I cannot; it is impossible.”
+
+“Oh, you make me weary! . . . Humph! What is it now? Any more
+'reasons'?”
+
+“Yes.” I faced him squarely. “Yes,” I said, “there is another reason,
+one that makes it impossible, utterly impossible, if nothing else did.
+When I tell you what it is you will understand what I mean and agree
+with me. Your daughter and I have been thrown together a great deal
+since she came to Denboro. Our meetings have not been of my seeking, nor
+of hers. Of late I have realized that, for my own sake, for the sake of
+my peace of mind, I must not meet her. I must not be where she is. I--”
+
+“Here! Stop!” he broke in sharply. “What is this? Do you mean to tell me
+that you and Mabel--”
+
+“It is not her fault. It is my own, entirely. Mr. Colton, I--”
+
+“Stop, I tell you! Do you mean to tell me that you are--that you have
+been making love to my daughter?”
+
+“No. Certainly not.”
+
+“Then what do you mean? That she has been making love to you?”
+
+“Mr. Colton--”
+
+“There! Don't act like the Wild Man of Borneo. Do you mean that you are
+in love with her?”
+
+“Don't you see now why I cannot accept? I must go away. I am going.”
+
+“Humph! That will do. . . . Humph! Well, Paine--Bennett, I should say;
+it is hard to keep track of your names--you are rather--er--reckless,
+it seems to me. Mabel is our only child and her mother and I,
+naturally, had planned for her future . . . Have you told her of
+your--recklessness?”
+
+“Of course not! I shall not see her again. I shall leave Denboro as soon
+as I can. She will never know.”
+
+“Humph! I see . . . I see . . . Well, I don't know that there is
+anything for me to say.”
+
+“There is not.”
+
+“I am sorry for you, of course.”
+
+“Thank you.”
+
+There was a sharp rap at the door. Doctor Quimby opened it and entered
+the room. He glanced from me to his patient and his face expressed sharp
+disapproval.
+
+“You'd better go, Ros,” he snapped. “What is the matter with you? Didn't
+I tell you not to excite him.”
+
+“I'M not excited,” observed Colton, drily.
+
+“Clear out this minute!” continued the angry doctor. “Ros Paine, I
+thought you had more sense.”
+
+“So did I,” this from “Big Jim”. “However, I am learning a lot these
+days. Good-by, Paine.”
+
+I was at the door.
+
+“Oh, by the way,” he called after me, “let me make a suggestion. If I
+were you, Roscoe, I wouldn't leave Denboro to-day. Not before to-morrow
+morning, at any rate.”
+
+I did not understand him and I asked for no explanation. It was the
+first time he had addressed me by my Christian name, but it was not
+until afterward that I remembered that fact.
+
+
+
+That afternoon I was alone in my haven of refuge, the boathouse. Mother
+and I had had a long talk. I told her everything that had transpired.
+I kept back nothing, either of my acts or my feelings. She said she was
+not sorry for what I had done. She was rather glad, than otherwise, that
+I had disclosed our secret to Mr. Colton.
+
+“He knows now, Roscoe,” she said. “And he was right, too. You and I have
+brooded over our sorrow and what we considered our disgrace much more
+than we should. He is right, Boy. We are innocent of any wrong-doing.”
+
+“Yes, Mother,” I answered, “I suppose we are. But we must keep the
+secret still. No one else in Denboro must know. You know what gossip
+there would be. There is enough now. I presume I am called a traitor and
+a blackguard by every person in the town.”
+
+“Why no, you are not. That is the strange thing about it. Luther was up
+at the post-office this morning and no one seems to know of your sale of
+the land. Captain Dean has, apparently, kept the news to himself. Why do
+you suppose he does that?”
+
+“I don't know. I don't know, unless it is because he--no, I can't
+understand it at all. However, they will know soon enough. By the way,
+I have never asked Dorinda where Lute was that noon--it seems ages
+ago--when he was missing at dinner time. And how did he know of Mr.
+Colton's illness?”
+
+She smiled. “Poor Luther!” she said. “He announced his intention of
+running away, you remember. As a matter of fact he met the Coltons'
+chauffeur in the motor car and the chauffeur invited him to go to
+Bayport with him. The chauffeur had an errand there. Lute accepted--as
+he says, automobile rides don't come his way every day in the week--and
+they had trouble with the engine and did not get back until almost
+night. Then Miss Colton told him of her father's seizure and gave him
+the note for you. It was to you she turned in her trouble, Boy. She
+trusts you. Roscoe, I--I think she--”
+
+“Don't say it, Mother. All that is ended. I am going to forget--if I
+can.”
+
+The rest of our conversation need not be written here. She said many
+things, such as fond mothers say to their sons and which the sons know
+too well they do not deserve. We discussed my leaving Denboro and she
+was so brave and self-sacrificing that my conscience smote me.
+
+“I'll stay, Mother,” I said. “I can't leave you. I'll stay and fight it
+out with you. After all, it will not be much worse than it was before I
+went to the bank.”
+
+But she would not hear of my staying. I had a friend in Chicago, a
+distant relative who knew our story. Perhaps he could help me to a start
+somewhere. She kissed me and bade me keep up my courage, and I left
+her. I ate a hurried meal, a combination of breakfast and dinner, and,
+dodging Lute, who was in the back yard waiting to question me concerning
+the Coltons, walked down to the boathouse. There, in my armchair, I
+tried to think, to map out some sort of plan for my future.
+
+It was a hopeless task. I was not interested in it. I did not much care
+what became of me. If it were not for Mother I should not have cared at
+all. Nevertheless, for her sake, I must try to plan, and I did.
+
+I was still trying when I heard footsteps approaching the door, the
+small door at the side, not the big one in front. I did not rise to open
+the door, nor did I turn my head. The visitor was Lute, probably, and if
+I kept still he might think I was not within and go away again.
+
+The door opened. “Here he is,” said a voice, a voice that I recognized.
+I turned quickly and sprang to my feet. Standing behind me was Captain
+Jedediah Dean and with him George Taylor--George Taylor, who should have
+been--whom I had supposed to be in Washington with his bride!
+
+“Here he is,” said Captain Jed, again. “Well, Ros, we've come to see
+you.”
+
+But I paid no attention to him. It was his companion I was staring at.
+What was he doing here?
+
+“George!” I cried. “GEORGE!”
+
+He stepped forward and held out his hand. He was smiling, but there was
+a look in his eye which expressed the exact opposite of smiles.
+
+“Ros,” he said, quietly, “Ros Paine, you bull-headed, big-hearted old
+chump, how are you?”
+
+But I could only stare at him. Why had he come to Denboro? What did his
+coming to me mean? Why had he come with Captain Jed, the man who had
+vowed that he was done with me forever? And why was the captain looking
+at me so oddly?
+
+“George!” I cried in alarm, “George, you haven't--you haven't made a
+fool of yourself? You haven't--”
+
+Captain Jed interrupted me. “He ain't the fool, Ros,” he said. “That
+is, he ain't now. I'm the fool. I ought to have known better. Ros, I--I
+don't know's you'll give it to me, but anyhow I'm goin' to ask it; I beg
+your pardon.”
+
+“Ros,” said Taylor, before I could reply, “don't stand staring as if
+you were petrified. Sit down and let me look at you. You pig-headed old
+idiot, you! What do you mean by it? What did you do it for?”
+
+He pushed me into the chair I had just vacated. Captain Dean took
+another. George remained standing.
+
+“He IS petrified, I do believe!” he exclaimed.
+
+But my petrification was only temporary. I was beginning to understand,
+and to be more alarmed than ever.
+
+“What are you doing here in Denboro?” I demanded.
+
+Captain Jed answered for him. “He's here because I telegraphed for him
+yesterday,” he said. “I wired him to come straight home and take charge
+of the bank. I had fired you, like the dumb fool I was, and I wanted him
+to take command. He got here on the mornin' train.”
+
+I remembered what Phin Cahoon had said about the telegram and the
+captain's making him promise not to mention the name of the person to
+whom it was sent. It was George, of course. If I had been in a normal
+state of mind when Phin told me I should have guessed as much.
+
+Taylor took up the conversation. “Yes, I got here,” he said. “And when
+I got here--or a little before--” with a glance at the captain--“I found
+out what had been going on since I left. You old chump, Ros Paine! What
+did you do it for?”
+
+I looked at him and then at his companion. What I saw there confirmed my
+worst suspicions.
+
+“George,” I said, “if you have told him you must be crazy.”
+
+“I was crazy not to tell him before. I was crazy not to guess what you
+had been up to. But I didn't suppose anybody would be crazy enough to do
+what you did, Ros. I didn't imagine for a minute that you would be crazy
+enough to throw away your job and get yourself into the trouble you knew
+was sure to come, just to help me. To help ME, by the Lord! Ros! Ros!
+what can I say to you!”
+
+“You've said enough, and more than enough,” I answered, bitterly. “I did
+what I did so that you might keep your secret. I did it to help you and
+Nellie. And if you had kept still no one need ever have known, no one
+but you and I, George. And now you--”
+
+“Shut up, Ros!” he interrupted. “Shut up, I tell you! Why, confound
+you, what do you think I am? Do you suppose I would let you sacrifice
+yourself like that, while I set still and saw you kicked out of town?
+What do you think I am?”
+
+“But what was the use of it?” I demanded. “It was done. Nothing you
+could say would change it. For Nellie's sake--”
+
+“There! there!” broke in Captain Jed, “Nellie knows. George told her the
+day they was married. He told her before they was married. He was man
+enough to do that and I honor him for it. If he'd only come to me then
+it would have been a mighty sight better. I'd have understood when I
+heard about your sellin' Colton the land, and I wouldn't have made
+a jackass of myself by treatin' you as I done. You! the man that
+sacrificed yourself to keep my girl from breakin' her heart! When I
+think what you saved us all from I--I--By the Almighty, Ros Paine! I'll
+make it up to you somehow. I will! I swear I will!”
+
+He turned away and looked out of the window. George laid a hand on his
+shoulder.
+
+“I am the one to make it up, Cap'n,” he said, solemnly. “If I live I'll
+make it up to Ros here, and to you, and to Nellie, God bless her! I
+expected you would never speak to me again when I'd told you. Telling
+you--next to telling Nellie--was the toughest job I ever tackled. But
+I'll make it up to you both, and to Ros. Thank the Lord, it ain't too
+late to make it up to him!”
+
+“We'll both make it up to him, George,” replied Captain Jed. “As far
+as we can, we will. If he wants to come back to the bank this minute he
+can. We'll be proud to have him. But I cal'late,” with a smile, “he'll
+have bigger fish to fry than we can give him. If what we've just heard
+is true, he will.”
+
+“I don't know what you mean,” I answered. “And as for the bank--well,
+you forget one thing: I sold the Shore Lane and the town knows it. How
+long would the other directors tolerate me in that bank, after that, do
+you think?”
+
+To my surprise they looked at each other and laughed. Captain Dean shook
+his head.
+
+“No,” he said, “you're mistook, Ros. The town don't know you sold it.
+I didn't tell 'em because I wanted George in command of that bank afore
+the row broke loose. I larned of the sale myself, by chance, over to
+Ostable and I never told anybody except Dorindy Rogers and her fool of
+a husband. I'll see that they keep still tongues in their heads. And as
+for the Lane--well, that won't be closed. Colton don't own it no more.”
+
+“Don't OWN it,” I repeated. “Don't own it! He does. I sold it to him
+myself.”
+
+“Yes. And George, here, bought it back not an hour ago. We saw His
+Majesty--sick in bed he was, but just as high and mighty and independent
+as ever--and George bought back the land and the Lane for thirty-five
+hundred dollars. The old man didn't seem to give a durn about it any
+more. He'd had his own way, he said, and that was all he cared about.
+Besides, he ain't goin' to stay in Denboro much longer. The old
+lady--his wife--is sick of the place and he only come here on her
+account. He cal'lates that New York is good enough for him. I cal'late
+'tis. Anyhow, Denboro won't hang onto his coattails to hold him back.
+Tell Ros the whole story, George.”
+
+George told it, beginning with his receipt of his father-in-law's
+telegram and his hurried return to the Cape. He had gone directly to
+Captain Dean and confessed the whole thing. The captain had behaved like
+a trump, I learned. Instead of denouncing his daughter's husband he had
+forgiven him freely. Then they had gone to see Colton and George had
+bought the land.
+
+“And I shall give it to the town,” he said. “It's the least I can do.
+You wonder where the money came from, Ros? I guess you ain't seen the
+newspapers. There was a high old time in the stock market yesterday and
+Louisville and Transcontinental climbed half-way to the moon. From being
+a pauper I'm pretty well fixed.”
+
+“I'm heartily glad of it, George,” I said. “But there is one thing I
+don't understand. You say you learned of my selling the land before you
+reached Denboro. Captain Jed says no one but he and my people knew it.
+How did you find it out?”
+
+Again my two callers looked at each other.
+
+“Why, somebody--a friend of yours--come to me at the Ostable station and
+dragged Nellie and me off the train. We rode with that person the rest
+of the way and--the said person told us what had happened and begged
+us to help you. Seemed to have made a middling good guess that I COULD
+help, if I would.”
+
+“A person--a friend of mine! Why, I haven't any friend, any friend who
+knew the truth, or could guess.”
+
+“Yes, you have.”
+
+“Who was it?”
+
+George laughed aloud and Captain Jed laughed with him.
+
+“I guess I shan't tell you,” said the former. “I promised I wouldn't.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+
+They left me soon after this. I tried to make them tell who the
+mysterious friend might be, but they refused. The kind things they said
+and the gratitude they both expressed I shall never forget. They did not
+strenuously urge me to return to the bank, and that seemed strange to
+me.
+
+“The job's yours if you want it, Ros,” said Captain Jed. “We'd be only
+too happy to have you if you'd come--any time, sooner or later. But I
+don't think you will.”
+
+“No,” I answered, “I shall not. I have made other plans. I am going to
+leave Denboro.”
+
+That did not seem to surprise them and I was still more puzzled. They
+shook hands and went away, promising to call at the house that evening
+and bring Nellie.
+
+“She wants to thank you, too, Ros,” said George.
+
+After they had gone I sat by the big door, looking out at the bay,
+smooth and beautiful in the afternoon sunlight, and thinking of what
+they had told me. For Mother's sake I was very glad. It would be easier
+for her, after I had gone; the townspeople would be friendly, instead
+of disagreeable. For her sake, I was glad. For myself nothing seemed to
+make any difference. George Taylor's words--those he had spoken to me
+that fateful evening when I found him with the revolver beside him--came
+back to me over and over. “Wait until your time comes. Wait until the
+girl comes along that you care for more than the whole world. And then
+see what you'd do. See what it would mean to give her up!”
+
+I was seeing. I knew now what it meant.
+
+I rose and went out of the boathouse. I did not care to meet anyone or
+speak with anyone. I strolled along the path by the bluff, my old walk,
+that which I had taken so many times and with such varied feelings,
+never with such miserable ones as now.
+
+The golden-rod, always late blooming on the Cape, bordered the path with
+gorgeous yellow. The leaves of the scrub oaks were beginning to turn,
+though not to fall. I walked on and entered the grove where she and I
+had met after our adventure with Carver and the stranded skiff. I turned
+the bend and saw her coming toward me.
+
+I stood still and she came on, came straight to me and held out her
+hand.
+
+“I was waiting for you,” she said. “I was on my way to your house and I
+saw you coming--so I waited.”
+
+“You waited,” I stammered. “Why?”
+
+“Because I wished to speak to you and I did not want that--that Mr.
+Rogers of yours to interrupt me. Why did you go away yesterday without
+even letting me thank you for what you had done? Why did you do it?”
+
+“Because--because you were very busy and--and I was tired. I went home
+and to bed.”
+
+“You were tired. You must have been. But that is no excuse, no good one.
+I came down and found you were gone without a word to me. And you had
+done so much for me--for my father!”
+
+“Your father thanked me this morning, Miss Colton. I saw him in his room
+and he thanked me. I did not deserve thanks. I was lucky, that was all.”
+
+“Father does not call it luck. He told me what you said to him.”
+
+“He told you! Did he tell you all I told him?”
+
+“I--I think so. He told me who you were; what your real name was.”
+
+“He did! And you were still willing to meet me!”
+
+“Yes. Why not? Does it make any difference that you are Mr.
+Bennett--instead of Mr. Paine?”
+
+“But my father was Carleton Bennett--the--the--You must have heard of
+him.”
+
+“I never knew your father. I do know his son. And I am very proud to
+know him.”
+
+“But--but, Miss Colton.”
+
+“Tell me,” she interrupted, quickly, “have you seen Mr. Taylor? He is
+here in Denboro.”
+
+“Yes. I have seen him.”
+
+“And he told you about the Lane? That he has bought it?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And you will not be,” with a smile, “driven from Denboro by that cross
+old Captain Dean?”
+
+“I shall not be driven--no.”
+
+“Then Mr. Taylor did help you. He promised me he would.”
+
+“He promised you? When? When did you see George Taylor?”
+
+She appeared confused. “I--I--Of course I saw him at the house this
+noon, when he came to see Father.”
+
+“But he could not have promised you then. He had helped me already. Did
+you see him before that?”
+
+“Why, how could I? I--”
+
+“Miss Colton, answer me. Was it you that met him at the Ostable station
+this morning? Was it?”
+
+She was as red as the reddest of the autumn leaves. She laughed,
+confusedly.
+
+“I did meet him there,” she confessed. “That queer Mr. Cahoon, the
+station agent, told me that Captain Dean had telegraphed him to come.
+I knew he would probably be on that train. And Mr. Cahoon told me about
+his being interested in stocks and very much troubled. You had told me,
+or as much as told me, that you sold the land to get money to help some
+one. I put two and two together and I guessed the rest. I met him and
+Nellie and we rode to Denboro together in our auto. He promised me that
+he would make everything right for you. I am so glad he did!”
+
+I caught my breath with a gasp.
+
+“You did that!” I exclaimed. “You did that, for me!”
+
+“Why not? Surely you had done enough for--us. I could not let you be
+'driven from town', you know.”
+
+I did not speak. I knew that I must not attempt a reply. I should say
+too much. She looked up at me, and then down again at the pine-needles
+beneath our feet.
+
+“Father says he intends to do great things for you,” she went on. “He
+says you are to come with him. He is enthusiastic about it. He believes
+you are a great man. No one but a great man, he says, could beat the
+Consolidated Pacific gang single-handed. He says you will be the best
+investment he ever made.”
+
+“I am afraid not,” I answered. “Your father made me a generous offer. I
+wish I might have been able to accept it, but I could not.”
+
+“Oh, but you are going to accept.”
+
+“No, I am not.”
+
+“He says you are. And he always has his way, you know.”
+
+“Not in this case, Miss Colton.”
+
+“But _I_ want you to accept. Surely you will do it to oblige me.”
+
+“I--I can't.”
+
+“What are you going to do; go back to the bank?”
+
+“No, I am going to leave Denboro. I don't know where I shall go. This is
+good-by, Miss Colton. It is not likely that we shall meet again.”
+
+“But why are you going?”
+
+“I cannot tell you.”
+
+She was silent, still looking down at the pine-needles. I could not see
+her face. I was silent also. I knew that I ought to go, that I should
+not remain there, with her, another moment. Yet I remained.
+
+“So you think this is our parting,” she said. “I do not.”
+
+“Don't you? I fear you are wrong.”
+
+“I am not wrong. You will not go away, Mr.--Bennett. At least, you will
+not until you go where my father sends you. You will accept his offer, I
+think.”
+
+“You are mistaken.”
+
+“No. I think I am not mistaken. I think you will accept it,
+because--because I ask you to.”
+
+“I cannot, Miss Colton.”
+
+“And your reason?”
+
+“That I cannot tell anyone.”
+
+“But you told my father.”
+
+I was stricken dumb again.
+
+She went on, speaking hurriedly, and not raising her eyes.
+
+“You told my father,” she repeated, “and he told me.”
+
+“He told you!” I cried.
+
+“Yes, he told me. I--I am not sure that he was greatly surprised. He
+thought it honorable of you and he was very glad you did tell him, but I
+think he was not surprised.”
+
+The oaks and the pines and the huckleberry bushes were dancing great
+giddy-go-rounds, a reflection of the whirlpool in my brain. Out of the
+maelstrom I managed to speak somehow.
+
+“He was not surprised!” I repeated. “He was not--not--What do you mean?”
+
+She did not answer. She drew away from me a step, but I followed her.
+
+“Why wasn't he surprised?” I asked again.
+
+“Because--because--Oh, I don't know! What have I been saying! I--Please
+don't ask me!”
+
+“But why wasn't he surprised?”
+
+“Because--because--” she hesitated. Then suddenly she looked up into my
+face, her wonderful eyes alight. “Because,” she said, “I had told him
+myself, sir.”
+
+I seized her hands.
+
+“YOU had told him? You had told him that I--I--”
+
+“No,” with a swift shake of the head, “not you. I--I did not know
+that--then. I told him that I--”
+
+But I did not wait to hear any more.
+
+
+
+Some time after that--I do not know how long after and it makes no
+difference anyway--I began to remember some resolutions I had made,
+resolves to be self-sacrificing and all that sort of thing.
+
+“But, my dear,” I faltered, “I am insane! I am stark crazy! How can I
+think of such a thing! Your mother--what will she say?”
+
+She looked up at me; looking up was not as difficult now, and, besides,
+she did not have to look far. She looked up and smiled.
+
+“I think Mother is more reconciled,” she said. “Since she learned who
+you were she seems to feel better about it.”
+
+I shook my head, ruefully. “Yet she referred to me as a 'nobody' only
+this morning,” I observed.
+
+“Yes, but that was before she knew you were a Bennett. The Bennetts are
+a very good family, so she says. And she informed me that she always
+expected me to throw myself away, so she was not altogether unprepared.”
+
+I sighed. “Throwing yourself away is exactly what you have done, I'm
+afraid,” I answered.
+
+She put her hand to my lips. “Hush!” she whispered. “At all events, I
+made a lucky throw. I'm very glad you caught me, dear.”
+
+There was a rustle of leaves just behind us and a startled exclamation.
+I turned and saw Lute Rogers standing there in the path, an expression
+on his face which I shall not attempt to describe, for no description
+could do justice to it. We looked at Lute and he looked at us.
+
+He was the first to recover.
+
+“My time!” exclaimed Lute. “My TIME!”
+
+He turned and fled.
+
+“Come here!” I shouted after him. “Come back here this minute! Lute,
+come back!”
+
+Lute came, looking shamefaced and awkward.
+
+“Where were you going?” I demanded.
+
+“I--I was cal'latin' to go and tell Dorindy,” he faltered.
+
+“You'll tell nobody. Nobody, do you hear! I'll tell Dorinda myself,
+when it is necessary. What were you doing here? spying on me in that
+fashion.”
+
+“I--I wan't spyin', Ros. Honest truth, I wan't. I--I didn't know you and
+she was--was--”
+
+“Never mind that. What were you doing here?”
+
+“I was chasin' after you, Ros. I just heard the most astonishing thing.
+Jed Dean was to the house to make Dorindy and me promise to say nothin'
+about that Shore Lane 'cause you never sold it, and he said Mr. Colton
+had offered you a turrible fine job along of him and that you was goin'
+to take it. I wanted to find you and ask it 'twas true. 'Taint true, is
+it, Ros?” wistfully. “By time! I wish 'twas.”
+
+Before I could answer Mabel spoke.
+
+“Yes, it is true, Mr. Rogers,” she said. “It is quite true and you may
+tell anyone you like. It is true, isn't it, Roscoe?”
+
+What answer could I make? What answer would you have made under the
+circumstances?
+
+“Yes,” I answered, with a sigh of resignation. “I guess it is true,
+Lute.”
+
+
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