Captain Eri knew that the hardest and most dangerous portion of his perilous trip was just at its beginning. If the dory got through the surf without capsizing, it was an even bet that she would stay right-side-up for a while longer, at any rate. So he pulled out of the little cove, and pointed the boat's bow toward the thundering smother of white, his shoulders squared, his hands tightened on the oar handles, and his under-jaw pushed out beyond the upper. Old foremast hands, those who had sailed with the Captain on his coasting voyages, would, had they seen these signs, have prophesied trouble for someone. They were Captain Eri's battle-flags, and just now his opponent was the gray Atlantic. If the latter won, it would only be after a fight.
The first wave tripped over the bar and whirled beneath him, sending the dory high into the air and splashing its occupant with spray. The Captain held the boat stationary, waiting for the second to break, and then, half rising, put all his weight and strength on the oars. The struggle had begun.
They used to say on board the Hannah M. that the skipper never got rattled. The same cool head and steady nerve that Josiah had admired when the catboat threaded the breakers at the entrance of the bay, now served the same purpose in this more tangled and infinitely more wicked maze. The dory climbed and ducked, rolled and slid, but gained, inch by inch, foot by foot. The advancing waves struck savage blows at the bow, the wind did its best to swing her broadside on, but there was one hundred and eighty pounds of clear grit and muscle tugging at the oars, and, though the muscles were not as young as they had been, there were years of experience to make every pound count. At last the preliminary round was over. The boat sprang clear of the breakers and crept out farther and farther, with six inches of water slopping in her bottom, but afloat and seaworthy.
It was not until she was far into deep water that the Captain turned her bow down the shore. When this was done, it was on the instant, and, although a little more water came inboard, there was not enough to be dangerous. Then, with the gale astern and the tide to help, Captain Eri made the dory go as she, or any other on that coast, had never gone before.
The Captain knew that the wind and the tide that were now aiding him were also sweeping the overturned lifeboat along at a rapid rate. He must come up with it before it reached the next shoal. He must reach it before the waves, and, worse than all, the cold had caused the poor fellows clinging to it for life to loose their grip.
The dory jumped from crest to crest like a hurdler. The sleet now beat directly into the Captain's face and froze on his eyebrows and lashes, but he dared not draw in an oar to free a hand. The wind caught up the spindrift and poured it over him in icy baths, but he was too warm from the furious exercise to mind.
In the lulls he turned his head and gazed over the sea, looking for the boat. Once he saw it, before the storm shut down again, and he groaned aloud to count but two black dots on its white surface. He pulled harder than ever, and grunted with every stroke, while the perspiration poured down his forehead and froze when it reached the ice dams over his eyes.
At last it was in plain sight, and the two dots, now clearly human beings, were still there. He pointed the bow straight at it and rowed on. When he looked again there was but one, a figure sprawled along the keel, clinging to the centerboard.
The flying dory bore down upon the lifeboat, and the Captain risked what little breath he had in a hail. The clinging figure raised its head, and Captain Eri felt an almost selfish sense of relief to see that it was Luther Davis. If it had to be but one, he would rather it was that one.
The bottom of the lifeboat rose like a dome from the sea that beat and roared over and around it. The centerboard had floated up and projected at the top, and it was about this that Captain Davis' arms were clasped. Captain Eri shot the dory alongside, pulled in one oar, and the two boats fitted closely together. Then Eri reached out, and, seizing his friend by the belt round his waist, pulled him from his hold. Davis fell into the bottom of the dory, only half conscious and entirely helpless.
Captain Eri lifted him so that his head and shoulders rested on a thwart, and then, setting his oar against the lifeboat's side, pushed the dory clear. Then he began rowing again.
So far he had been more successful than he had reason to expect, but the task that he must now accomplish was not less difficult. He must reach the shore safely, and with another life beside his own to guard.
It was out of the question to attempt to get back to the cove; the landing must be made on the open beach, and, although Captain Eri had more than once brought a dory safely through a high surf, he had never attempted it when his boat had nearly a foot of water in her and carried a helpless passenger.
Little by little, still running before the wind, the Captain edged in toward the shore. Luther Davis moved once or twice, but said nothing. His oilskins were frozen stiff and his beard was a lump of ice. Captain Eri began to fear that he might die from cold and exhaustion before the attempt at landing was made. The Captain resolved to wait no longer, but to take the risk of running directly for the beach.
He was near enough now to see the leaping spray of the breakers, and their bellow sounded louder than the howl of the wind or the noises of the sea about him. He bent forward and shouted in the ear of the prostrate life-saver.
“Luther!” he yelled, “Lute!”
Captain Davis' head rolled back, his eyes opened, and, in a dazed way, he looked at the figure swinging back and forth with the oars.
“Lute!” shouted Captain Eri, “listen to me! I'm goin' to try to land. D'you hear me?”
Davis' thoughts seemed to be gathering slowly. He was, ordinarily, a man of strong physique, courageous, and a fighter every inch of him, but his strength had been beaten out by the waves and chilled by the cold, and the sight of the men with whom he had lived and worked for years drowning one by one, had broken his nerve. He looked at his friend, and then at the waves.
“What's the use?” he said feebly. “They're all gone. I might as well go, too.”
Captain Eri's eyes snapped. “Lute Davis,” he exclaimed, “I never thought I'd see you playin' crybaby. Brace up! What are you, anyway?”
The half-frozen man made a plucky effort.
“All right, Eri,” he said. “I'm with you, but I ain't much good.”
“Can you stand up?”
“I don't know. I'll try.”
Little by little he raised himself to his knees.
“'Bout as fur's I can go, Eri,” he said, between his teeth. “You look out for yourself. I'll do my durndest.”
The dory was caught by the first of the great waves, and, on its crest, went flying toward the beach. Captain Eri steered it with the oars as well as he could. The wave broke, and the half-filled boat paused, was caught up by the succeeding breaker, and thrown forward again. The Captain, still trying to steer with one oar, let go of the other, and seizing his companion by the belt, pulled him to his feet.
“Now then,” he shouted, “stand by!”
The boat poised on the curling wave, went down like a hammer, struck the sand, and was buried in water. Just as it struck, Captain Eri jumped as far shoreward as he could. Davis sprang with him, but it was really the Captain's strength that carried them clear of the rail.
They kept their feet for an instant, but, in that instant, Captain Eri dragged his friend a yard or so up the shelving beach. Then they were knocked flat by the next wave. The Captain dug his toes into the sand and braced himself as the undertow sucked back. Once more he rose and they staggered on again, only to go down when the next rush of water came. Three times this performance was repeated, and, as they rose for the fourth time, the Captain roared, “Now!”
Another plunge, a splashing run, and they were on the hard sand of the beach. Then they both tumbled on their faces and breathed in great gasps.
But the Captain realized that this would not do, for, in their soaked condition, freezing to death was a matter of but a short time. He seized Davis by the shoulder and shook him again and again.
“Come on, Lute! Come on!” he insisted. “Git up! You've GOT to git up!”
And, after a while, the life-saver did get up, although he could scarcely stand. Then, with the Captain's arm around his waist, they started slowly up the beach toward the station.
They had gone but a little way when they were met by Ralph Hazeltine and Captain Perez.
Mrs. Snow had been, for her, rather nervous all that forenoon. She performed her household duties as thoroughly as usual, but Elsie, to whom the storm had brought a holiday, noticed that she looked out of the window and at the clock frequently. Once she even went so far as to tell the young lady that she felt “kind of queer; jest as if somethin' was goin' to happen.” As the housekeeper was not the kind to be troubled with presentiments, Elsie was surprised.
Dinner was on the table at twelve o'clock, but Captain Eri was not there to help eat it, and they sat down without him. And here again Mrs. Snow departed from her regular habit, for she ate little and was very quiet. She was the first to hear an unusual sound outside, and, jumping up, ran to the window.
“Somebody's drivin' into the yard,” she said. “Who on airth would be comin' here such a day as this?”
Captain Jerry joined her at the window.
“It's Abner Mayo's horse,” he said. “Maybe it's Perez comin' home.”
It was not Captain Perez, but Mr. Mayo himself, as they saw when the rubber blanket fastened across the front of the buggy was dropped and the driver sprang out. Mrs. Snow opened the door for him.
“Hello, Abner!” exclaimed Captain Jerry, as the newcomer stopped to knock the snow from his boots before coming in, “what have you done to Perez? Goin' to keep him for a steady boarder?”
But Mr. Mayo had important news to communicate, and he did not intend to lose the effect of his sensation by springing it without due preparation. He took off his hat and mittens and solemnly declined a proffered chair.
“Cap'n Burgess,” he said, “I've got somethin' to tell you—somethin' awful. The whole life-savin' crew but one is drownded, and Cap'n Eri Hedge—”
An exclamation from Mrs. Snow interrupted him. The housekeeper clasped her hands together tightly and sank into a chair. She was very white. Elsie ran to her.
“What is it, Mrs. Snow?” she asked.
“Nothin', nothin'! Go on, Mr. Mayo. Go on!”
The bearer of ill-tidings, gratified at the result of his first attempt, proceeded deliberately:
“And Cap'n Hedge and Luther Davis are over at the station pretty nigh dead. If it wa'n't for the Cap'n, Luther'd have gone, too. Eri took a dory and went off and picked him up. Perez come over to my house and told us about it, and Pashy's gone back with him to see to her brother. I didn't go down to the store this mornin', 'twas stormin' so, but as soon as I heard I harnessed up to come and tell you.”
Then, in answer to the hurried questions of Captain Jerry and Elsie, Mr. Mayo told the whole story as far as he knew it. Mrs. Snow said nothing, but sat with her hands still clasped in her lap.
“Luther is ha'f drownded and froze,” concluded Abner, “and the Cap'n got a bang with an oar when they jumped out of the dory that, Perez is afraid, broke his arm. I'm goin' right back to git Dr. Palmer. They tried to telephone him, but the wire's down.”
“Dear! dear! dear!” exclaimed Captain Jerry, completely demoralized by the news. “That's dreadful! I must go right down there, mustn't I? The poor fellers!”
Mrs. Snow rose to her feet quietly, but with a determined air.
“Are you goin' right back soon's you've got the Doctor, Mr. Mayo?” she asked.
“Why, no, I wa'n't. I ain't been to my store this mornin', and I'm 'fraid I ought to be there.”
To be frank, Abner was too great a sensation lover to forfeit the opportunity of springing his startling news on the community.
“Then, Josiah, you'll have to harness Dan'l and take me down. I mustn't wait another minute.”
“Why, Mrs. Snow!” expostulated Captain Jerry, “you mustn't go down there. The Doctor's goin', and I'll go, and Pashy's there already.”
But the housekeeper merely waved him aside.
“I want you to stay here with Elsie,” she said. “There's no tellin' how long I may be gone. Josiah 'll drive me down, won't you, Josiah?”
There was no lack of enthusiasm in the “able seaman's” answer. The boy was only too glad of the chance.
“But it ain't fit weather for you to be out in. You'll git soakin' wet.”
“I guess if Pashy Davis can stand it, I can. Elsie, will you come and help me git ready, while Josiah's harnessin'?”
As they entered the chamber above, Elsie was thunderstruck to see her companion seat herself in the rocker and cover her face with her hands. If it had been anyone else it would not have been so astonishing, but the cool, self-possessed housekeeper—she could scarcely believe it.
“Why, Mrs. Snow!” she exclaimed, “what IS it?”
The lady from Nantucket hastily rose and wiped her eyes with her apron.
“Oh, nothin',” she answered, with an attempt at a smile. “I'm kind of fidgety this mornin', and the way that man started off to tell his yarn upset me; that's all. I mustn't be such a fool.”
She set about getting ready with a vim and attention to detail that proved that her “fidgets” had not affected her common-sense. She was pale and her hands trembled a little, but she took a covered basket and packed in it cloth for bandages, a hot-water bottle, mustard, a bottle of liniment, and numerous other things likely to be of use. Last of all, she added a bottle of whisky that had been prescribed as a stimulant for John Baxter.
“I s'pose some folks would think 'twas terrible carryin' this with me,” she observed. “A woman pitched into me once for givin' it to her husband when he was sick. I told her I didn't favor RHUBARB as a steady drink, but I hoped I knew enough to give it when 'twas necessary.”
Ralph and Captain Perez were surprised men when the housekeeper, dripping, but cheerful, appeared on the scene. She and Josiah had had a stormy passage on the way down, for the easy-going Daniel had objected to being asked to trot through drifts, and Mrs. Snow had insisted that he should be made to do it. The ford was out of the question, so they stalled the old horse in the Mayo barn and borrowed Abner's dory to make the crossing.
Mrs. Snow took charge at once of the tired men, and the overtaxed Miss Patience was glad enough to have her do it. Luther Davis was in bed, and Captain Eri, after an hour's sojourn in the same snug harbor, had utterly refused to stay there longer, and now, dressed in a suit belonging to the commandant, was stretched upon a sofa in the front room.
The Captain was the most surprised of all when Mrs. Snow appeared. He fairly gasped when she first entered the room, and seemed to be struck speechless, for he said scarcely a word while she dosed him with hot drinks, rubbed his shoulder—the bone was not broken, but there was a bruise there as big as a saucer—with the liniment, and made him generally comfortable. He watched her every movement with a sort of worshipful wonder, and seemed to be thinking hard.
Captain Davis, although feeling a little better, was still very weak, and his sister and Captain Perez were with him. Josiah soon returned to the Mayo homestead to act as ferryman for Dr. Palmer when the latter should arrive, and Ralph, finding that there was nothing more that he could do, went back to the cable station. The storm had abated somewhat and the wind had gone down. Captain Eri and Mrs. Snow were alone in the front room, and, for the first time since she entered the house, the lady from Nantucket sat down to rest. Then the Captain spoke.
“Mrs. Snow,” he said gravely, “I don't believe you've changed your clothes sence you got here. You must have been soaked through, too. I wish you wouldn't take such risks. You hadn't ought to have come over here a day like this, anyway. Not but what the Lord knows it's good to have you here,” he added hastily.
The housekeeper seemed surprised.
“Cap'n Eri,” she said, “I b'lieve if you was dyin' you'd worry for fear somebody else wouldn't be comf'table while you was doing it. 'Twould be pretty hard for me to change my clothes,” she added, with a laugh, “seein' that there probably ain't anything but men's clothes in the place.” Then, with a sigh, “Poor fellers, they won't need 'em any more.”
“That's so. And they were all alive and hearty this mornin'. It's an awful thing for Luther. Has he told anything yit 'bout how it come to happen?”
“Yes, a little. The schooner was from Maine, bound to New York. Besides her own crew she had some Italians aboard, coal-handlers, they was, goin' over on a job for the owner. Cap'n Davis says he saw right away that the lifeboat would be overloaded, but he had to take 'em all, there wa'n't time for a second trip. He made the schooner's crew and the others lay down in the boat where they wouldn't hinder the men at the oars, but when they got jest at the tail of the shoal, where the sea was heaviest, them Italians lost their heads and commenced to stand up and yell, and fust thing you know, she swung broadside on and capsized. Pashy says Luther don't say much more, but she jedges, from what he does say, that some of the men hung on with him for a while, but was washed off and drownded.”
“That's right; there was four or five there when we saw her fust. 'Twas Lute's grip on the centerboard that saved him. It's an awful thing—awful!”
“Yes, and he would have gone, too, if it hadn't been for you. And you talk about MY takin' risks!”
“Well, Jerry hadn't ought to have let you come.”
“LET me come! I should like to have seen him try to stop me. The idea! Where would I be if 'twa'n't helpin' you, after all you've done for me?”
“I'VE done? I haven't done anything!”
“You've made me happier 'n I've been for years. You've been so kind that—that—”
She stopped and looked out of the window.
“It's you that's been kind,” said the Captain. “You've made a home for me; somethin' I ain't had afore sence I was a boy.”
Mrs. Snow went on as if he had not spoken.
“And to think that you might have been drownded the same as the rest,” she said. “I knew somethin' was happenin'. I jest felt it, somehow. I told Elsie I was sure of it. I couldn't think of anything but you all the forenoon.”
The Captain sat up on the couch.
“Marthy,” he said in an awed tone, “do you know what I was thinkin' of when I was pullin' through the wust of it this mornin'? I was thinkin' of you. I thought of Luther and the rest of them poor souls, of course, but I thought of you most of the time. It kept comin' back to me that if I went under I shouldn't see you ag'in. And you was thinkin' of me!”
“Yes, when that Mayo man said he had awful news, I felt sure 'twas you he was goin' to tell about. I never fainted away in my life that I know of, but I think I 'most fainted then.”
“And you cared as much as that?”
“Yes.”
Somehow both were speaking quietly, but as if it was useless longer to keep back anything. To speak the exact truth without reserve seemed the most natural thing in the world.
“Well, well, well!” said the Captain reverently, and still in the same low tone. “I said once afore that I b'lieved you was sent here, and now I'm sure of it. It seems almost as if you was sent to ME, don't it?”
The housekeeper still looked out of the window, but she answered simply, “I don't know.”
“It does, it does so. Marthy, we've been happy together while you've been here. Do you b'lieve you could be happy with me always—if you married me, I mean?”
Mrs. Snow turned and looked at him. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not wipe them away.
“Yes,” she said.
“Think now, Marthy. I ain't very young, and I ain't very rich.”
“What am I?” with a little smile.
“And you really think you could be happy if you was the wife of an old codger like me?”
“Yes.” The answer was short, but it was convincing.
Captain Eri rose to his feet.
“Gosh!” he said in a sort of unbelieving whisper. “Marthy, are you willin' to try?”
And again Mrs. Snow said “Yes.”
When Dr. Palmer came he found Luther Davis still in bed, but Captain Eri was up and dressed, and there was such a quiet air of happiness about him that the man of medicine was amazed.
“Good Lord, man!” he exclaimed, “I expected to find you flat on your back, and you look better than I've seen you for years. Taking a salt-water bath in mid-winter must agree with you.”
“It ain't so much that,” replied the Captain serenely. “It's the pay I got for takin' it.”
When the Doctor saw Perez alone, he asked the latter to keep a close watch on Captain Eri's behavior. He said he was afraid that the exertion and exposure might have affected the Captain's brain.
Perez, alarmed by this caution, did watch his friend very closely, but he saw nothing to frighten him until, as they were about to start for home, Captain Eri suddenly struck his thigh a resounding slap
“Jerry!” he groaned distressfully. “I clean forgot. I've gone back on Jerry!”
Elsie and Captain Jerry were kept busy that afternoon. Abner Mayo's news spread quickly, and people gathered at the post-office, the stores, and the billiard room to discuss it. Some of the men, notably “Cy” Warner and “Rufe” Smith, local representatives of the big Boston dailies, hurried off to the life-saving station to get the facts at first hand. Others came down to talk with Captain Jerry and Elsie. Melissa Busteed's shawl was on her shoulders and her “cloud” was tied about her head in less than two minutes after her next-door neighbor shouted the story across the back yards. She had just left the house, and Captain Jerry was delivering a sarcastic speech concerning “talkin' machines,” when Daniel plodded through the gate, drawing the buggy containing Josiah, Mrs. Snow, and Captain Eri.
For a man who had been described as “half-dead,” Captain Eri looked very well, indeed. Jerry ran to help him from the carriage, but he jumped out himself and then assisted the housekeeper to alight with an air of proud proprietorship. He was welcomed to the house like a returned prodigal, and Captain Jerry shook his well hand until the arm belonging to it seemed likely to become as stiff and sore as the other. While this handshaking was going on Captain Eri was embarrassed. He did not look his friend in the face, and most of his conversation was addressed to Elsie.
As soon as he had warmed his hands and told the story of the wreck and rescue, he said, “Jerry, come up to my room a minute, won't you? I've got somethin' I want to say.”
Vaguely wondering what the private conversation might be, Jerry followed his friend upstairs. When they were in the room, Captain Eri closed the door and faced his companion. He was confused, and stammered a little, as he said, “Jerry, I've—I've got somethin' to say to you 'bout Mrs. Snow.”
Then it was Captain Jerry's turn to be confused.
“Now, Eri,” he protested, “'tain't fair to keep pesterin' me like this. I know I ain't said nothin' to her yit, but I'm goin' to. I had a week, anyhow, and it ain't ha'f over. Land sake!” he burst forth, “d'you s'pose I ain't been thinkin' 'bout it? I ain't thought of nothin' else, hardly. I bet you I've been over the whole thing every night sence we had that talk. I go over it and GO over it. I've thought of more 'n a million ways to ask her, but there ain't one of 'em that suits me. If I was goin' to be hung 'twouldn't be no worse, and now you've got to keep a-naggin'. Let me alone till my time is up, can't you?”
“I wa'n't naggin'. I was jest goin' to tell you that you won't have to ask. I've been talkin' to her myself, and—”
The sacrifice sprang out of his chair.
“Eri Hedge!” he exclaimed indignantly. “I thought you was a friend of mine! I give you my word I'd do it in a week, and the least you could have done, seems to me, would have been to wait and give me the chance. But no! all you think 'bout's yourself. So 'fraid she'd say no and you'd lose your old housekeeper, wa'n't you? The idea! She must think I'm a good one—can't do my own courtin', and have to git somebody to do it for me! What did she say?” he asked suddenly.
“She said yes to what I asked her,” was the reply with a half smile.
Upon Captain Jerry's face settled the look of one who accepts the melancholy inevitable. He sat down again.
“I s'posed she would,” he said with a sigh. “She's known me for quite a spell now, and she's had a chance to see what kind of a man I be. Well, what else did you do? Ain't settled the weddin' day, have you?” This with marked sarcasm.
“Not yit. Jerry, you've made a mistake. I didn't ask her for you.”
“Didn't ask her—didn't—What are you talkin' 'bout, then?”
“I asked her for myself. She's goin' to marry me.”
Captain Jerry was too much astonished even to get up. Instead, he simply sat still with open mouth while his friend continued.
“I've come to think a lot of Mrs. Snow sence she's been here,” Captain Eri said slowly, “and I've found out that she's felt the same way 'bout me. I've kept still and said nothin' 'cause I thought you ought to have the fust chance and, besides, I didn't know how she felt. But to-day, while we was talkin', it all come out of itself, seems so, and—well, we're goin' to be married.”
The sacrifice—a sacrifice no longer—still sat silent, but curious changes of expression were passing over his face. Surprise, amazement, relief, and now a sort of grieved resignation.
“I feel small enough 'bout the way I've treated you, Jerry,” continued Captain Eri. “I didn't mean to—but there! it's done, and all I can do is say I'm sorry and that I meant to give you your chance. I shan't blame you if you git mad, not a bit; but I hope you won't.”
Captain Jerry sighed. When he spoke it was in a tone of sublime forgiveness.
“Eri,” he said, “I ain't mad. I won't say my feelin's ain't hurt, 'cause—'cause—well, never mind. If a wife and a home ain't for me, why I ought to be glad that you're goin' to have 'em. I wish you both luck and a good v'yage. Now, don't talk to me for a few minutes. Let me git sort of used to it.”
So they shook hands and Captain Eri, with a troubled look at his friend, went out. After he had gone, Captain Jerry got up and danced three steps of an improvised jig, his face one broad grin. Then, with an effort, he sobered down, assumed an air of due solemnity, and tramped downstairs.
If the announcement of Captain Perez' engagement caused no surprise, that of Captain Eri's certainly did—surprise and congratulation on the part of those let into the secret, for it was decided to say nothing to outsiders as yet. Ralph came over that evening and they told him about it, and he was as pleased as the rest. As for the Captain, he was only too willing to shake hands with any and everybody, although he insisted that the housekeeper had nothing to be congratulated upon, and that she was “takin' big chances.” The lady herself merely smiled at this, and quietly said that she was willing to take them.
The storm had wrecked every wire and stalled every train, and Orham was isolated for two days. Then communication was established once more, and the Boston dailies received the news of the loss of the life-savers and the crew of the schooner. And they made the most of it; sensational items were scarce just then, and the editors welcomed this one. The big black headlines spread halfway across the front pages. There were pictures of the wreck, “drawn by our artist from description,” and there were “descriptions” of all kinds. Special reporters arrived in the village and interviewed everyone they could lay hands on. Abner Mayo felt that for once he was receiving the attention he deserved.
The life-saving station and the house by the shore were besieged by photographers and newspaper men. Captain Eri indignantly refused to pose for his photograph, so he was “snapped” as he went out to the barn, and had the pleasure of seeing a likeness of himself, somewhat out of focus, and with one leg stiffly elevated, in the Sunday Blanket. The reporters waylaid him at the post-office, or at his fish shanty, and begged for interviews. They got them, brief and pointedly personal, and, though these were not printed, columns describing him as “a bluff, big-hearted hero,” were.
If ever a man was mad and disgusted, that man was the Captain. In the first place, as he said, what he had done was nothing more than any other man 'longshore would have done, and, secondly, it was nobody's business. Then again, he said, and with truth:
“This whole fuss makes me sick. Here's them fellers in the crew been goin' out, season after season, takin' folks off wrecks, and the fool papers never say nothin' 'bout it; but they go out this time, and don't save nobody and git drownded themselves, and they're heroes of a sudden. I hear they're raisin' money up to Boston to give to the widders and orphans. Well, that's all right, but they'd better keep on and git the Gov'ment to raise the sal'ries of them that's left in the service.”
The climax came when a flashily dressed stranger called, and insisted upon seeing the Captain alone. The interview lasted just about three minutes. When Mrs. Snow, alarmed by the commotion, rushed into the room, she found Captain Eri in the act of throwing after the fleeing stranger the shiny silk hat that the latter had left behind.
“Do you know what that—that swab wanted?” hotly demanded the indignant Captain. “He wanted me to rig up in ileskins and a sou'wester and show myself in dime museums. Said he'd buy that dory of Luther's that I went out in, and show that 'long with me. I told him that dory was spread up and down the beach from here to Setuckit, but he said that didn't make no diff'rence, he'd have a dory there and say 'twas the reel one. Offered me a hundred dollars a week, the skate! I'd give ten dollars right now to tell him the rest of what I had to say.”
After this the Captain went fishing every day, and when at home refused to see anybody not known personally. But the agitation went on, for the papers fed the flames, and in Boston they were raising a purse to buy gold watches and medals for him and for Captain Davis.
Shortly after four o'clock one afternoon of the week following that of the wreck, Captain Eri ventured to walk up to the village, keeping a weather eye out for reporters and smoking his pipe. He made several stops, one of them being at the schoolhouse where Josiah, now back at his desk, was studying overtime to catch up with his class.
As the Captain was strolling along, someone touched him from behind, and he turned to face Ralph Hazeltine. The electrician had been a pretty regular caller at the house of late, but Captain Eri had seen but little of him, for reasons unnecessary to state.
“Hello, Captain!” said Ralph. “Taking a constitutional? You want to look out for Warner; I hear he's after you for another rescue 'special.'”
“He'll need somebody to rescue him if he comes pesterin' 'round me,” was the reply. “You ain't seen my dime show friend nowheres, have you? I'd sort of like to meet HIM again; our other talk broke off kind of sudden.”
Ralph laughed, and said he was afraid that the museum manager wouldn't come to Orham again very soon.
“I s'pose likely not,” chuckled Captain Eri. “I ought to have kept his hat; then, maybe, he'd have come back after it. Oh, say!” he added, “I've been meanin' to ask you somethin'. Made up your mind 'bout that western job yit?”
Ralph shook his head. “Not yet,” he said slowly. “I shall very soon, though, I think.”
“Kind of puzzlin' you, is it? Not that it's really any of my affairs, you understand. There's only a few of us good folks left, as the feller said, and I'd hate to see you leave, that's all.”
“I am not anxious to go, myself. My present position gives me a good deal of leisure time for experimental work—and—well, I'll tell you in confidence—there's a possibility of my becoming superintendent one of these days, if I wish to.”
“Sho! you don't say! Mr. Langley goin' to quit?”
“He is thinking of it. The old gentleman has saved some money, and he has a sister in the West who is anxious to have him come out there and spend the remainder of his days with her. If he does, I can have his position, I guess. In fact, he has been good enough to say so.”
“Well, that's pretty fine, ain't it? Langley ain't the man to chuck his good opinions round like clam shells. You ought to feel proud.”
“I suppose I ought.”
They walked on silently for a few steps, the Captain waiting for his companion to speak, and the latter seeming disinclined to do so. At length the older man asked another question.
“Is t'other job so much better?”
“No.”
Silence again. Then Ralph said, “The other position, Captain, is very much like this one in some respects. It will place me in a country town, even smaller than Orham, where there are few young people, no amusements, and no society, in the fashionable sense of the word.”
“Humph! I thought you didn't care much for them things.”
“I don't.”
To this enigmatical answer the Captain made no immediate reply. After a moment, however, he said, slowly and with apparent irrelevance, “Mr. Hazeltine, I can remember my father tellin' 'bout a feller that lived down on the South Harniss shore when he was a boy. Queer old chap he was, named Elihu Bassett; everybody called him Uncle Elihu. In them days all hands drunk more or less rum, and Uncle Elihu drunk more. He had a way of stayin' sober for a spell, and then startin' off on a regular jamboree all by himself. He had an old flat-bottomed boat that he used to sail 'round in, but she broke her moorin's one time and got smashed up, so he wanted to buy another. Shadrach Wingate, Seth's granddad 'twas, tried to fix up a dicker with him for a boat he had. They agreed on the price, and everything was all right 'cept that Uncle Elihu stuck out that he must try her 'fore he bought her.
“So Shad fin'lly give in, and Uncle Elihu sailed over to Wellmouth in the boat. He put in his time 'round the tavern there, and when he come down to the boat ag'in, he had a jugful of Medford in his hand, and pretty nigh as much of the same stuff under his hatches. He got afloat somehow, h'isted the sail, lashed the tiller after a fashion, took a nip out of the jug and tumbled over and went fast asleep. 'Twas a still night or 'twould have been the finish. As 'twas he run aground on a flat and stuck there till mornin'.
“Next day back he comes with the boat all scraped up, and says he, 'She won't do, Shad; she don't keep her course.'
“'Don't keep her course, you old fool!' bellers Shad. 'And you tight as a drumhead and sound asleep! Think she can find her way home herself?' he says.
“'Well,' says Uncle Elihu, 'if she can't she ain't the boat for me.'”
Ralph laughed. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps Uncle Elihu was wise. Still, if he wanted the boat very much, he must have hated to put her to the test.”
“That's so,” assented the Captain, “but 'twas better to know it then than to be sorry for it afterwards.”
Both seemed to be thinking, and neither spoke again until they came to the grocery store, where Hazeltine stopped, saying that he must do an errand for Mr. Langley. They said good-night, and the Captain turned away, but came quickly back and said:
“Mr. Hazeltine, if it ain't too much trouble, would you mind steppin' up to the schoolhouse when you've done your errand? I've left somethin' there with Josiah, and I'd like to have you git it. Will you?”
“Certainly,” was the reply, and it was not until the Captain had gone that Ralph remembered he did not know what he was to get.
When he reached the school he climbed the stairs and opened the door, expecting to find Josiah alone. Instead, there was no one there but Elsie, who was sitting at the desk. She sprang up as he entered. Both were somewhat confused.
“Pardon me, Miss Preston,” he said. “Captain Eri sent me here. He said he left something with Josiah, and wished me to call for it.”
“Why, I'm sure I don't know what it can be,” replied Elsie. “Josiah has been gone for some time, and he said nothing to me about it.”
“Perhaps it is in his desk,” suggested Ralph. “Suppose we look.”
So they looked, but found nothing more than the usual assortment contained in the desk of a healthy schoolboy. The raised lid shut off the light from the window, and the desk's interior was rather dark. They had to grope in the corners, and occasionally their hands touched. Every time this happened Ralph thought of the decision that he must make so soon.
He thought of it still more when, after the search was abandoned, Elsie suggested that he help her with some problems that she was preparing for the next day's labors of the first class in arithmetic. In fact, as he sat beside her, pretending to figure, but really watching her dainty profile as it moved back and forth before his eyes, his own particular problem received far more attention than did those of the class. Suddenly he spoke:
“Teacher,” he said, “please, may I ask a question?”
“You should hold up your hand if you wish permission to speak,” was the stern reply.
“Please consider it held up.”
“Is the question as important as 'How many bushels did C. sell?' which happens to be my particular trouble just now.”
“It is to me, certainly.” Ralph was serious enough now. “It is a question that I have been wrestling with for some time. It is, shall I take the position that has been offered me in the West, or shall I stay here and become superintendent of the station? The superintendent's place may be mine, I think, if I want it.”
Elsie laid down her pencil and hesitated for a moment before she spoke. When she did reply her face was turned away from her companion.
“I should think that question might best be decided by comparing the salaries and prospects of the two positions,” she said quietly.
“The two positions are much alike in one way. You know what the life at the station means the greater portion of the year—no companions of your own age and condition, no society, no amusements. The Western offer means all this and worse, for the situation is the same all the year. I say these things because I hope you may be willing to consider them, not from my point of view solely, but from yours.”
“From mine?”
“Yes. You see I am recklessly daring to hope that, whichever lot is chosen, you may be willing to share it with me—as my wife. Elsie, do you think you could consider the question from that viewpoint?”
And—well—Elsie thought she could.
The consideration—we suppose it was the consideration—took so long that it was nearly dark when Elsie announced that she simply MUST go. It was Ralph's duty as a gentleman to help her in putting on her coat, and this took an astonishingly long time. Finally it was done, however, and they came downstairs.
“Dearest,” said Ralph, after the door was locked, “I forgot to have another hunt for whatever it was that Captain Eri wanted me to get.”
Elsie smiled rather oddly.
“Are you sure you haven't got it?” she asked demurely.
“Got it! Why—why, by George, what a numbskull I am! The old rascal! I thought there was a twinkle in his eye.”
“He said he should come back after me.”
“Well, well! Bless his heart, it's sound and sweet all the way through. Yes, I HAVE got it, and, what's more, I shall tell him that I mean to keep it.”
The gold watches from the people to the heroes of the Orham wreck having been duly bought and inscribed and the medals struck, there came up the question of presentation, and it was decided to perform the ceremony in the Orham town hall, and to make the occasion notable. The Congressman from the district agreed to make the necessary speech. The Harniss Cornet Band was to furnish music. All preparations were made, and it remained only to secure the consent of the parties most interested, namely, Captain Eri and Luther Davis.
And this was the hardest task of all. Both men at first flatly refused to be present. The Captain said he might as well go to the dime museum and be done with it; he was much obliged to the Boston folks, but his own watch was keeping good time, and he didn't need a new one badly enough to make a show of himself to get it. Captain Davis said very much the same.
But Miss Patience was proud of her brother's rise to fame, and didn't intend to let him forfeit the crowning glory. She enlisted Captain Perez as a supporter, and together they finally got Luther's unwilling consent to sit on the platform and be stared at for one evening. Meanwhile, Captain Jerry, Elsie, Ralph, and Mrs. Snow were doing their best to win Captain Eri over. When Luther surrendered, the forces joined, and the Captain threw up his hands.
“All right,” he said. “Only I ought to beg that dime museum feller's pardon. 'Tain't right to be partial this way.”
The hall was jammed to the doors. Captain Eri, seated on the platform at one end of the half-circle of selectmen, local politicians, and minor celebrities, looked from the Congressman in the middle to Luther on the other end, and then out over the crowded settees. He saw Mrs. Snow's pleasant, wholesome face beaming proudly beside Captain Jerry's red one. He saw Captain Perez and Miss Patience sitting together close to the front, and Ralph and Elsie a little further back. The Reverend Mr. Perley was there; so were the Smalls and Miss Abigail Mullett. Melissa Busteed was on the very front bench with the boys, of whom Josiah was one. The “train committee” was there—not a member missing—and at the rear of the hall, smiling and unctuous as ever, was “Web” Saunders. In spite of his stage fright the Captain grinned when he saw “Web.”
Mr. Solomon Bangs, his shirt-bosom crackling with importance, introduced the Congressman. The latter's address was, so the Item said, “a triumph of oratorical effort.” It really was a good speech, and when it touched upon the simple sacrifice of the men who had given up their lives in the course of what, to them, was everyday work, there were stifled sobs all through the hall. Luther Davis, during this portion of the address, sat with his big hand shading his eyes. Later on, when the speaker was sounding the praises of the man who “alone, forgetful of himself, braved the sea and the storm to save his friends,” those who looked at Captain Eri saw his chair hitched back, inch by inch, until, as the final outburst came, little more than his Sunday shoes was in sight. He had retired, chair and all, to the wings.
But they called him to the platform again and, amid—we quote from the Item once more—“a hurricane of applause,” the two heroes were adorned with the watches and the medals.
There was a sort of impromptu reception after the ceremony, when Captain Eri, with Mrs. Snow on his arm, struggled through the crowd toward the door.
“'Twas great, shipmate, and you deserved it!” declared magnanimous Captain Jerry, wringing his hand.
“'Tain't ha'f what you ought to have, Eri,” said Captain Perez.
“I haven't said much to thank you for savin' Luther,” whispered Miss Patience, “but I hope you know that we both appreciate what you done and never 'll forgit it.”
Ralph and Elsie also shook hands with him, and said some pleasant things. So did many others, Dr. Palmer among the number. Altogether, the journey through the hall was a sort of triumphal progress.
“Whew!” gasped the Captain, as they came out into the clear air and the moonlight, “let's hope that's the last of the dime-show bus'ness.”
“Eri,” whispered Mrs. Snow, “I'm so proud of you, I don't know what to do.”
And that remark was sweeter to the Captain's ears than all those that had preceded it.
They turned into the shore road and were alone. It was a clear winter night, fresh, white snow on the ground, not a breath of wind, and the full moon painting land and sea dark blue and silver white. The surf sounded faint and far off. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking, and through the stillness came an occasional laugh or shout from the people going home from the hall.
“Lots of things can happen in a few months, can't they?” said Mrs. Snow, glancing at the black shadow of the shuttered Baxter homestead.
“They can so,” replied the Captain. “Think what's happened sence last September. I didn't know you then, and now it seems 's if I'd always known you. John was alive then, and Elsie nor Ralph hadn't come. Perez hadn't met Pashy neither. My! my! Everybody's choosed partners but Jerry,” he chuckled, “and Jerry looked the most likely candidate 'long at the beginnin'. I'm glad,” he added, “that Ralph's made up his mind to stay here. We shan't lose him nor Elsie for a few years, anyhow.”
They paused at the knoll by the gate.
“Fair day to-morrer,” observed the Captain, looking up at the sky.
“I hope it 'll be fair weather for us the rest of our days,” said Mrs. Snow.
“You've HAD it rough enough, that's sure. Well, I hope you'll have a smooth v'yage, now.”
The lady from Nantucket looked up into his face with a happy laugh.
“I guess I shall,” she said. “I know I've got a good pilot.”
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