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Title:  The Rise of Roscoe Paine

Author:  Joseph C. Lincoln

Release Date:  March, 2001  [Etext #3137]

Edition:  10

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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 he 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," be 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."





End of Project Gutenberg's The Rise of Roscoe Paine, by J. C. Lincoln