December was nearly over. Christmas had come. Bos'n had hung up her stocking by the base-burner stove, and found it warty and dropsical the next morning, with a generous overflow of gifts piled on the floor beneath it. The Board of Strategy sent presents; so did Miss Dawes and Georgianna. As for Captain Cy he spent many evening hours, after the rest of his household was in bed, poring over catalogues of toys and books, and the orders he sent to the big shops in Boston were lengthy and costly. The little girl's eyes opened wide when she saw the stocking and the treasures heaped on the floor. She sat in her “nighty” amidst the wonders, books, and playthings in a circle about her, and the biggest doll of all hugged close in her arms. Captain Cy, who had arisen at half past five in order to be with her on the great occasion, was at least as happy as she.
“Like 'em, do you?” he asked, smiling.
“like 'em! O Uncle Cy! What makes everybody so good to me?”
“I don't know. Strange thing, ain't it—considerin' what a hard little ticket you are.”
Bos'n laughed. She understood her “Uncle Cy,” and didn't mind being called a “hard ticket” by him.
“I—I—didn't believe anybody COULD have such a nice Christmas. I never saw so many nice things.”
“Humph! What do you like best?”
The answer was a question, and was characteristic.
“Which did you give me?” asked Bos'n.
The captain would have dodged, but she wouldn't let him. So one by one the presents he had given were indicated and put by themselves. The remainder were but few, but she insisted that the givers of these should be named. When the sorting was over she sat silently hugging her doll and, apparently, thinking.
“Well?” inquired the amused captain. “Made up your mind yet? Which do you like best?”
The child nodded.
“Why, these, of course,” she declared with emphasis, pointing with her dollie's slippered foot at Captain Cy's pile.
“So? Do, hey? Didn't know I could pick so well. All right; the first prize is mine. Who takes the second?”
This time Bos'n deliberated before answering. At last, however, she bent forward and touched the teacher's gifts.
“These,” she said. “I like these next best.”
Captain Cy was surprised.
“Sho!” he exclaimed. “You don't say!”
“Yes. I think I like teacher next to you. I like Georgianna and Mr. Tidditt and Mr. Bangs, of course, but I like her a little better. Don't you, uncle Cyrus?”
The captain changed the subject. He asked her what she should name her doll.
The Board of Strategy came in during the forenoon, and the presents had to be shown to them. While the exhibition was in progress Miss Dawes called. And before she left Gabe Lumley drove up in the depot wagon bearing a big express package addressed to “Miss Emily Thomas, Bayport.”
“Humph!” exclaimed Captain Cy. “Somethin' more for Bos'n, hey! Who in the world sent it, do you s'pose?”
Asaph and Bailey made various inane suggestions as to the sender. Phoebe said nothing. There was a frown on her face as she watched the captain get to work on the box with chisel and hammer. It contained a beautiful doll, fully and expensively dressed, and pinned to the dress was a card—“To dear little Emmie, from her lonesome Papa.”
The Board of Strategy looked at the doll in wonder and astonishment. Captain Cy strode away to the window.
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bangs. “I didn't believe he had that much heart inside of him. I bet you that cost four or five dollars; ain't that so, Cy?”
The captain did not answer.
“Don't you think so, teacher?” repeated Bailey, turning to Phoebe. “What ails you? You don't seem surprised.”
“I'm not,” replied the lady. “I expected something of that sort.”
Captain Cy wheeled from the window.
“You DID?” he asked.
“Yes. Miss Phinney said the other day she had heard that that man was going to give his daughter a beautiful present. She was very enthusiastic about his generosity and self-sacrifice. I asked who told her and she said Mr. Simpson.”
“Oh! Tad? Is that so!” The captain looked at her.
“Yes. And I think there is no doubt that Simpson had orders to make the 'generosity' known to as many townspeople as possible.”
“Hum! I see. You figure that Thomas cal'lates 'twill help his popularity and make his case stronger; is that it?”
“Not exactly. I doubt if he ever thought of such a thing himself. But some one thought for him—and some one must have supplied the money.”
“Well, they say he's to work up in Boston.”
“I know. But no one can tell where he works. Captain Whittaker, this is Mr. Atkins's doing—you know it. Now, WHY does he, a busy man, take such an interest in getting this child away from you?”
Captain Cy shook his head and smiled.
“Teacher,” he said, “you're dead set on taggin' Heman with a mystery, ain't you?”
“Miss Dawes,” asked the forgetful Bailey, “when you and me went drivin' t'other day did you find out anything from—”
Phoebe interrupted quickly.
“Mr. Bangs,” she said, “at what time do we distribute Christmas presents at your boarding house? I suppose you must have many Christmas secrets to keep. You keep a secret SO well.”
Mr. Bangs turned red. The hint concerning secret keeping was not wasted. He did not mention the drive again.
A little later Captain Cy found Bos'n busily playing with the doll he had given her. The other, her father's gift, was nowhere in sight.
“I put her back in the box,” said the child in reply to his question. “She was awful pretty, but I think I'm goin' to love this one best.”
The remark seems a foolish thing to give comfort to a grown man, but Captain Cy found comfort in it, and comfort was what he needed.
He needed it more as time went on. In January the court gave its decision. The captain's appointment as guardian was revoked. With the father alive, and professedly anxious to provide for the child's support, nothing else was to be expected, so Mr. Peabody said. The latter entered an appeal which would delay matters for a time, two or three months perhaps; meanwhile Captain Cy was to retain custody of Bos'n.
But the court's action, expected though it was, made the captain very blue and downcast. He could see no hope. He felt certain that he should lose the little girl in the end, in spite of the long succession of appeals which his lawyer contemplated. And what would become of her then? What sort of training would she be likely to have? Who would her associates be, under the authority of a father such as hers? And what would he do, alone in the old house, when she had gone for good? He could not bear to think of it, and yet he thought of little else.
The evenings, after Bos'n had gone to bed, were the worst. During the day he tried his best to be busy at something or other. The doll house was finished, and he had begun to fashion a full-rigged ship in miniature. In reality Emily, being a normal little girl, was not greatly interested in ships, but, because Uncle Cy was making it, she pretended to be vastly concerned about this one. On Saturdays and after school hours she sat on a box in the wood shed, where the captain had put up a small stove, and watched him work. The taboo which so many of our righteous and Atkins-worshiping townspeople had put upon the Whittaker place and its occupants included her, and a number of children had been forbidden to play with her. This, however, did not prevent their tormenting her about her father and her disreputable guardian.
But the captain's evenings were miserable. He no longer went to Simmons's. He didn't care for the crowd there, and knew they were all “down” on him. Josiah Dimick called occasionally, and the Board of Strategy often, but their conversation was rather tiresome. There were times when Captain Cy hated Bayport, the house he had “fixed up” with such interest and pride, and the old sitting room in particular. The mental picture of comfort and contentment which had been his dream through so many years of struggle and wandering, looked farther off than ever. Sometimes he was tempted to run away, taking Bos'n with him. But the captain had never run away from a fight yet; he had never abandoned a ship while there was a chance of keeping her afloat. And, besides, there was another reason.
Phoebe Dawes had come to be his chief reliance. He saw a great deal of her. Often when she walked home from school, she found him hanging over the front gate, and they talked of various things—of Bos'n's progress with her studies, of the school work, and similar topics. He called her by her first name now, although in this there was nothing unusual—after a few weeks' acquaintance we Bayporters almost invariably address people by their “front” names. Sometimes she came to the house with Emily. Then the three sat by the stove in the sitting room, and the apartment became really cheerful, in the captain's eyes.
Phoebe was in good spirits. She was as hopeful as Captain Cy was despondent. She seemed to have little fear of the outcome of the legal proceedings, the appeals and the rest. In fact, she now appeared desirous of evading the subject, and there was about her an air of suppressed excitement. Her optimism was the best sort of bracer for the captain's failing courage. Her advice was always good, and a talk with her left him with shoulders squared, mentally, and almost happy.
One cold, rainy afternoon, early in February, she came in with Bos'n, who had availed herself of the shelter of the teacher's umbrella. Georgianna was in the kitchen baking, and Emily had been promised a “saucer pie”—so the child went out to superintend the construction of that treat.
“Set down, teacher,” said Captain Cy, pushing forward a rocker. “My! but I'm glad to see you. 'Twas bluer'n a whetstone 'round here to-day. What's the news—anything?”
“Why, no,” replied Phoebe, accepting the rocker and throwing open her wet jacket; “there's no news in particular. But I wanted to ask if you had seen the Breeze?”
“Um—hum,” was the listless answer. “I presume likely you mean the news about the appropriation, and the editorial dig at yours truly? Yes, I've seen it. They don't bother me much. I've got more important things on my mind just now.”
Congressman Atkins's pledge in his farewell speech, concerning the mighty effort he was to make toward securing the appropriation for Bayport harbor, was in process of fulfillment—so he had written to the local paper. But, alas! the mighty effort was likely to prove unavailing. In spite of the Honorable Heman's battle for his constituents' rights it seemed certain that the bill would not provide the thirty thousand dollars for Bayport; at least, not this year's bill. Other and more powerful interests would win out and, instead, another section of the coast be improved at the public expense. The congressman was deeply sorry, almost broken-hearted. He had battled hard for his beloved town, he had worked night and day. But, to be perfectly frank, there was little or no hope.
Few of us blamed Heman Atkins. The majority considered his letter “noble” and “so feeling.” But some one must be blamed for a community disappointment like this, and the scapegoat was on the premises. How about that “committee of one” self-appointed at town meeting? How about the blatant person who had declared HE could have gotten the appropriation? What had the “committee” done? Nothing! nothing at all! He had not even written to the Capital—so far as anyone could find out—much less gone there.
So, at Simmons's and the sewing circle, and after meeting on Sunday, Cy Whittaker was again discussed and derided. And this week's Breeze, out that morning, contained a sarcastic editorial which mentioned no names, but hinted at “a certain now notorious person” who had boasted loudly, but who had again “been weighed in the balance of public opinion and found wanting.”
Miss Dawes did not seem pleased with the captain's nonchalant attitude toward the Breeze and its editorial. She tapped the braided mat with her foot.
“Captain Cyrus,” she said, “if you intended doing nothing toward securing that appropriation why did you accept the responsibility for it at the meeting?”
Captain Cy looked up. Her tone reminded him of their first meeting, when she had reproved him for going to sleep and leaving Bos'n to the mercy of the Cahoon cow.
“Well,” he said, “afore this Thomas business happened, to knock all my plans on their beam ends, I'd done consider'ble thinkin' about that appropriation. It seemed to me that there must be some reason for Heman's comin' about so sudden. He was sartin sure of the thirty thousand for a spell; then, all to once, he begun to take in sail and go on t'other tack. I don't know much about politics, but I know HE knows all the politics there is. And it seemed to me that if a live man, one with eyes in his head, went to Washington and looked around he might find the reason. And, if he did find it, maybe Heman could be coaxed into changin' his mind again. Anyhow, I was willin' to take the risk of tryin'; and, besides, Tad and Abe Leonard had me on the griddle at that meetin', and I spoke up sharp—too sharp, maybe.”
“But you still believe that you MIGHT help if you went to Washington?”
“Yes. I guess I do. Anyhow, I'd ask some pretty p'inted questions. You see, I ain't lived here in Bayport all my life, and I don't swaller ALL the bait Heman heaves overboard.”
“Then why don't you go?”
“Hey? Why don't I go? And leave Bos'n and—”
“Emily would be all right and perfectly safe. Georgianna thinks the world of her. And, Captain Whittaker, I don't like to hear these people talk of you as they do. I don't like to read such things in the paper, that you were only bragging in order to be popular, and meant to shirk when the time came for action. I know they're not true. I KNOW it!”
Captain Cy was gratified, and his gratification showed in his voice.
“Thank you, Phoebe,” he said. “I am much obliged to you. But, you see, I don't take any interest in such things any more. When I realize that pretty soon I've got to give up that little girl for good I can't bear to be away from her a minute hardly. I don't like to leave her here alone with Georgianna and—”
“I will keep an eye on her. You trust me, don't you?”
“Trust YOU? By the big dipper, you're about the only one I CAN trust these days. I don't know how I'd have pulled through this if you hadn't helped. You're diff'rent from Ase and Bailey and their kind—not meanin' anything against them, either. But you're broad-minded and cool-headed and—and—Do you know, if I'd had a woman like you to advise me all these years and keep me from goin' off the course, I might have been somebody by now.”
“I think you're somebody as it is.”
“Don't talk that way. I own up I like to hear you, but I'm 'fraid it ain't true. You say I amount to somethin'. Well, what? I come back home here, with some money in my pocket, thinkin' that was about all was necessary to make me a good deal of a feller. The old Cy Whittaker place, I said to myself, was goin' to be a real Cy Whittaker place again. And I'd be a real Whittaker, a man who should stand for somethin', as my dad and granddad did afore me. The town should respect me, and I'd do things to help it along. And what's it all come to? Why, every young one on the street is told to be good for fear he'll grow up like me. Ain't that so? Course it's so! I'm—”
“You SHALL not speak so! Do you imagine that you're not respected by everyone whose respect counts for anything? Yes, and by others, too. Don't you suppose Mr. Atkins respects you, down in his heart—if he has one? Doesn't your housekeeper, who sees you every day, respect and like you? And little Emily—doesn't she love you more than she does all the rest of us together?”
“Well, I guess Bos'n does care for the old man some, that's a fact. She says she likes you next best, though. Did you know that?”
But Miss Dawes was indignant.
“Captain Whittaker,” she declared, “one would think you were a hundred years old to hear you. You are always calling yourself an old man. Does Mr. Atkins call himself old? And he is older than you.”
“Well, I'm over fifty, Phoebe.” In spite of the habit for which he had just been reproached, the captain found this a difficult statement to make.
“I know. But you're younger than most of us at thirty-five. You see, I'm confessing, too,” she added with a laugh and a little blush.
Captain Cy made a mental calculation.
“Twenty years,” he said musingly. “Twenty years is a long time. No, I'm old. And worse than that, I'm an old fool, I guess. If I hadn't been I'd have stayed in South America instead of comin' here to be hooted out of the town I was born in.”
The teacher stamped her foot.
“Oh, what SHALL I do with you!” she exclaimed. “It is wicked for you to say such things. Do you suppose that Mr. Atkins would find it necessary to work as he is doing to beat a fool? And, besides, you're not complimentary to me. Should I, do you think, take such an interest in one who was an imbecile?”
“Well, 'tis mighty good of you. Your comin' here so to help Bos'n's fight along is—”
“How do you know it is Bos'n altogether? I—” She stopped suddenly, and the color rushed to her face. She rose from the rocker. “I—really, I don't see how we came to be discussing such nonsense,” she said. “Our ages and that sort of thing! Captain Cyrus, I wish you would go to Washington. I think you ought to go.”
But the captain's thoughts were far from Washington at that moment. His own face was alight, and his eyes shone.
“Phoebe,” he faltered unbelievingly, “what was you goin' to say? Do you mean that—that—”
The side door of the house opened. The next instant Mr. Tidditt, a dripping umbrella in his hand, entered the sitting room.
“Hello, Whit!” he hailed. “Just run in for a minute to say howdy.” Then he noticed the schoolmistress, and his expression changed. “Oh! how be you, Miss Dawes?” he said. “I didn't see you fust off. Don't run away on my account.”
“I was just going,” said Phoebe, buttoning her jacket. Captain Cy accompanied her to the door.
“Good-by,” she said. “There was something else I meant to say, but I think it is best to wait. I hope to have some good news for you soon. Something that will send you to Washington with a light heart. Perhaps I shall hear to-morrow. If so, I will call after school and tell you.”
“Yes, do,” urged the captain eagerly. “You'll find me here waitin'. Good news or not, do come. I—I ain't said all I wanted to, myself.”
He returned to the sitting room. The town clerk was standing by the stove. He looked troubled.
“What's the row, Ase?” asked Cy cheerily. He was overflowing with good nature.
“Oh, nothin' special,” replied Mr. Tidditt. “You look joyful enough for two of us. Had good company, ain't you?”
“Why, yes; 'bout as good as there is. What makes you look so glum?”
Asaph hesitated.
“Phoebe was here yesterday, too, wan't she?” he asked.
“Yup. What of it?”
“And the day afore that?”
“No, not for three days afore that. But what OF it, I ask you?”
“Well, now, Cy, you mustn't get mad. I'm a friend of yours, and friends ought to be able to say 'most anything to each other. If—if I was you, I wouldn't let Phoebe come so often—not here, you know, at your house. Course, I know she comes with Bos'n and all, but—”
“Out with it!” The captain's tone was ominous. “What are you drivin' at?”
The caller fidgeted.
“Well, Whit,” he stammered, “there's consider'ble talkin' goin' on, that's all.”
“Talkin'? What kind of talkin'?”
“Well, you know the kind. This town does a good deal of it, 'specially after church and prayer meetin'. Seem's if they thought 'twas a sort of proper place. I don't myself; I kind of like to keep my charity and brotherly love spread out through the week, but—”
“Ase, are the folks in this town sayin' a word against Phoebe Dawes because she comes here to see—Bos'n?”
“Don't—don't get mad, Whit. Don't look at me like that. I ain't said nothin'. Why, a spell ago, at the boardin' house, I—”
He told of the meal at the perfect boarding house where Miss Dawes championed his friend's cause. Also of the conversation which followed, and his own part in it. Captain Cy paced the floor.
“I wouldn't have her come so often, Cy,” pleaded Asaph. “Honest, I wouldn't. Course, you and me know they're mean, miser'ble liars, but it's her I'm thinkin' of. She's a young woman and single. And you're a good many years older'n she is. And so, of course, you and she ain't ever goin' to get married. And have you thought what effect it might have on her keepin' her teacher's place? The committee's a majority against her as 'tis. And—you know I don't think so, but a good many folks do—you ain't got the best name just now. Darn it all! I ain't puttin' this the way I'd ought to, but YOU know what I mean, don't you, Cy?”
Captain Cy was leaning against the window frame, his head upon his arm. He was not looking out, because the shade was drawn. Tidditt waited anxiously for him to answer. At last he turned.
“Ase,” he said, “I'm much obliged to you. You've pounded it in pretty hard, but I cal'late I'd ought to have had it done to me. I'm a fool—an OLD fool, just as I said a while back—and nothin' nor NOBODY ought to have made me forget it. For a minute or so I—but there! don't you fret. That young woman shan't risk her job nor her reputation on account of me—nor of Bos'n, either. I'll see to that. And see here,” he added fiercely, “I can't stop women's tongues, even when they're as bad as some of the tongues in this town, BUT if you hear a MAN say one word against Phoebe Dawes, only one word, you tell me his name. You hear, Ase? You tell me his name. Now run along, will you? I ain't safe company just now.”
Asaph, frightened at the effect of his words, hurriedly departed. Captain Cy paced the room for the next fifteen minutes. Then he opened the kitchen door.
“Bos'n,” he called, “come in and set in my lap a while; don't you want to? I'm—I'm sort of lonesome, little girl.”
The next afternoon, when the schoolmistress, who had been delayed by the inevitable examination papers, stopped at the Cy Whittaker place, she was met by Georgianna; Emily, who stood behind the housekeeper in the doorway, was crying.
“Cap'n Cy has gone away—to Washin'ton,” declared Georgianna. “Though what he's gone there for's more'n I know. He said he'd send his hotel address soon's he got there. He went on the three o'clock train.”
Phoebe was astonished.
“Gone?” she repeated. “So soon! Why, he told me he should certainly be here to hear some news I expected to-day. Didn't he leave any message for me?”
The housekeeper turned red.
“Miss Phoebe,” she said, “he told me to tell you somethin', and it's so dreadful I don't hardly dast to say it. I think his troubles have driven him crazy. He said to tell you that you'd better not come to this house any more.”
In the old days, the great days of sailing ships and land merchant fleets, Bayport was a community of travelers. Every ambitious man went to sea, and eventually, if he lived, became a captain. Then he took his wife, and in most cases his children, with him on long voyages. To the stay-at-homes came letters with odd, foreign stamps and postmarks. Our what-nots and parlor mantels were filled with carved bits of ivory, gorgeous shells, alabaster candlesticks, and plaster miniatures of the Leaning Tower at Pisa or the Coliseum at Rome. We usually began a conversation with “When my husband and I were at Hong Kong the last time—” or “I remember at Mauritius they always—” New Orleans or 'Frisco were the nearest domestic ports the mention of which was considered worth while.
But this is so no longer. A trip to Boston is, of course, no novelty to the most of us; but when we visit New York we take care to advertise it beforehand. And the few who avail themselves of the spring “cut rates” and go on excursions to Washington, plan definite programmes for each day at the Capital, and discuss them with envious friends for weeks in advance. And if the prearranged programme is not scrupulously carried out, we feel that we have been defrauded. It was the regret of Aunt Sophronia Hallett's life that, on her Washington excursion, she had not seen the “Diplomatic Corpse.” She saw the President and the Monument and Congress and “the relics in the Smithsonian Institute,” but the “Corpse” was not on view; Aunt Sophronia never quite got over the disappointment.
Probably no other Bayporter, in recent years, has started for Washington on such short notice or with so ill-defined a programme as Captain Cy. He went because he felt that he must go somewhere. After the conversation with Asaph, he simply could not remain at home. If Phoebe Dawes called, he knew that he must see her, and if he saw her, what should he say to her? He could not tell her that she must not visit the Cy Whittaker place again. If he did, she would insist upon the reason. If he told her of the “town talk,” he felt sure, knowing her, that she would indignantly refuse to heed the malicious gossip. And he was firmly resolved not to permit her to compromise her life and her future by friendship with a social outcast like himself. As for anything deeper and more sacred than friendship, that was ridiculous. If, for a moment, a remark of hers had led him to dream of such a thing, it was because he was, as he had so often declared, an “old fool.”
So Captain Cy had resolved upon flight, and he fled to Washington because the business of the “committee of one” offered a legitimate excuse for going there. The blunt message he had intrusted to Georgianna would, he believed, arouse Phoebe's indignation. She would not call again. And when he returned to Bos'n, it would be to take up the child's fight alone. If he lost that fight, or WHEN he lost it, he would close the Cy Whittaker place, and leave Bayport for good.
He had been in Washington once before, years ago, when he was first mate of a ship and had a few weeks' shore leave. Then he went there on a pleasure trip with some seagoing friends, and had a jolly time. But there was precious little jollity in the present visit. He had never felt so thoroughly miserable. In order to forget, he made up his mind to work his hardest to discover why the harbor appropriation was not to be given to Bayport.
The city had changed greatly. He would scarcely have known it. He went to the hotel where he had stayed before, and found a big, modern building in its place. The clerk was inclined to be rather curt and perfunctory at first, but when he learned that the captain was not anxious concerning the price of accommodations, but merely wanted a “comf'table berth somewheres on the saloon deck,” and appeared to have plenty of money, he grew polite. Captain Cy was shown to his room, where he left his valise. Then he went down to dinner.
After the meal was over, he seated himself in one of the big leather chairs in the hotel lobby, smoked and thought. In the summer, before Bos'n came, and before her father had arisen to upset every calculation and wreck all his plans, the captain had given serious thought to what he should do if Congressman Atkins failed, as even then he seemed likely to do, in securing that appropriation. The obvious thing, of course, would have been to hunt up Mr. Atkins and question him. But this was altogether too obvious. In the first place, the strained relations between them would make the interview uncomfortable; and, in the second, if there was anything underhand in Heman's backsliding on the appropriation, Atkins was too wary a bird to be snared with questions.
But Captain Cy had another acquaintance in the city, the son of a still older acquaintance, who had been a wealthy shipping merchant and mine owner in California. The son was also a congressman, from a coast State, and the captain had read of him in the papers. A sketch of his life had been printed, and this made his identity absolutely certain. Captain Cy's original idea had been to write to this congressman. Now he determined to find and interview him.
He inquired concerning him of the hotel clerk, who, like all Washington clerks, was a walking edition of “Who's Who at the Capital.”
“Congressman Everdean?” repeated the all-knowing young gentleman. “Yes. He's in town. Has rooms at the Gloria; second hotel on the right as you go up the avenue. Only a short walk. What can I do for you, sir?”
The Gloria was an even bigger hotel than the one where the captain had his “berth.” An inquiry at the desk, of another important clerk, was answered with a brisk:
“Mr. Everdean? Yes, he rooms here. Don't know whether he's in or not. Evening, judge. Nice Winter weather we're having.”
The judge, who was a ponderous person vaguely suggesting the great Heman, admitted that the weather was fine, patronizing it as he did so. The clerk continued the conversation. Captain Cy waited. At length he spoke.
“Excuse me, commodore,” he said; “I don't like to break in until you've settled whether you have it snow or not, but I'm here to see Congressman Everdean. Hadn't you better order one of your fo'mast hands to hunt him up?”
The judge condescended to smile, as did several other men who stood near. The clerk reddened.
“Do you want to see Mr. Everdean?” he snapped.
“Why, yes, I did. But I can't see him from here without strainin' my eyesight.”
The clerk sharply demanded one of the captain's visiting cards. He didn't get one, for the very good reason that there was none in existence.
“Tell him an old friend of his dad's is here on the main deck waitin' for him,” said Captain Cy. “That'll do first rate. Thank you, admiral.”
Word came that the congressman would be down in a few moments. The captain beguiled the interval by leaning on the rail and regarding the clerk with an awed curiosity that annoyed its object exceedingly. The inspection was still on when a tall man, of an age somewhere in the early thirties, walked briskly up to the desk.
“Who is it that wants to see me?” he asked.
The clerk waved a deprecatory hand in Captain Cy's direction. The newcomer turned.
“My name is Everdean,” he said. “Are you—hey?—Great Scott! Is it possible this is Captain Whittaker?”
The captain was immensely pleased.
“Well, I declare, Ed!” he exclaimed. “I didn't believe you'd remember me after all these years. You was nothin' but a boy when I saw you out in 'Frisco. Well! well! No wonder you're in Congress. A man that can remember faces like that ought to be President.”
Everdean laughed as they shook hands.
“Don't suppose I'd forget the chap who used to dine with us and tell me those sea stories, do you?” he said. “I'm mighty glad to see you. What are you doing here? The last father and I heard of you, you were in South America. Given up the sea, they said, and getting rich fast.”
Captain Cy chuckled.
“It's a good thing I learned long ago not to believe all I hear,” he answered, “else I'd have been so sure I was rich that I'd have spent all I had, and been permanent boarder at the poorhouse by now. No, thanks; I've had dinner. Why, yes, I'll smoke, if you'll help along. How's your father? Smart, is he?”
The congressman insisted that they should adjourn to his rooms. An unmarried man, he kept bachelor's hall at the hotel during his stay in Washington. There, in comfortable chairs, they spoke of old times, when the captain was seafaring and the Everdean home had been his while his ship was in port at 'Frisco. He told of his return to Bayport, and the renovation of the old house. Of Bos'n he said nothing. At last Everdean asked what had brought him to Washington.
“Well,” said Captain Cy, “I'll tell you. I'm like the feller in court without a lawyer; he said he couldn't tell whether he was guilty or not 'count of havin' no professional advice. That's what I've come to you for, Ed—professional advice.”
He told the harbor appropriation story. At the incident of the “committee of one” his friend laughed heartily.
“Rather put your foot in it that time, Captain, didn't you?” he said.
“Yup. Then I got t'other one stuck tryin' to get the first clear. How's it look to you? All straight, do you think? or is there a nigger in the wood pile?”
Mr. Everdean seemed to reflect.
“Well, Captain,” he said, “I can't tell. You're asking delicate questions. Politicians are like doctors, they usually back up each other's opinions. Still, you're at least as good a friend of mine as Atkins is. Queer HE should bob up in this matter! Why, he—but never mind that now. I tell you, Captain Whittaker, you come around and have dinner with me to-morrow night. In the meantime I'll see the chairman of the committee on that bill—one of the so-called 'pork' bills it is. Possibly from him and some other acquaintances of mine I may learn something. At any rate, you come to dinner.”
So the invitation was accepted, and Captain Cy went back to his own hotel and his room. He slept but little, although it was not worry over the appropriation question which kept him awake. Next morning he wrote a note to Georgianna, giving his Washington address. With it he enclosed a long letter to Bos'n, telling her he should be home pretty soon, and that she must be a good girl and “boss the ship” during his absence. He sent his regards to Asaph and Bailey, but Phoebe's name he did not mention. Then he put in a miserable day wandering about the city. At eight that evening he and his Western friend sat down at a corner table in the big dining room of the Gloria.
The captain began to ask questions as soon as the soup was served, but Everdean refused to answer.
“No, no,” he said, “pleasure first and business afterwards; that's a congressional motto. I can't talk Atkins with my dinner and enjoy it.”
“Can't, hey? You wouldn't be popular at our perfect boarding house back home. There they serve Heman hot for breakfast and dinner, and warm him over for supper. All right, I can wait.”
The conversation wandered from Buenos Ayres to 'Frisco and back again until the cigars and coffee were reached. Then the congressman blew a fragrant ring into the air and, from behind it, looked quizzically at his companion.
“Well,” he observed, “so far as that appropriation of yours is concerned—”
He paused and blew a second ring. Captain Cy stroked his beard.
“Um—yes,” he drawled, “now that you mention it, seems to me there was some talk of an appropriation.”
Mr. Everdean laughed.
“I've been making inquiries,” he said. “I saw the chairman of the committee on the pork bill. I know him well. He's a good fellow, but—”
“Yes, I know. I've seen lots of politicians like that; they're all good fellers, but—If I was in politics I'd make a law to cut 'But' out of the dictionary.”
“Well, this chap really is a good fellow. I asked about the thirty thousand dollars for your town. He asked me why I didn't go to the congressman from that district, and not bother him about it. I said perhaps I would go to the congressman later, but I came to him first.”
“Sartin. Same as the feller with a sick mother-in-law stopped in at the undertaker's on his way to call the doctor. All right; heave ahead.”
“Well, we had a rather long conversation. I discovered that the Bayport item was originally included in the bill, but recently had been stricken out.”
“Yes, I see. Uncle Sam had to economize, hey? Save somethin' for a rainy day.”
“Well, possibly. Still the bill is just as heavy. Now, Captain Whittaker, I don't KNOW anything about this affair, and it's not my business. But I've been about to-day, and I asked questions, and—I'm going to tell you a fairy tale. It isn't as interesting as your sea yarns, but—Do you like fairy stories?”
“Land, yes! Tell a few myself when it's necessary. Sometimes I almost believe 'em. Well?”
“Of course, you must remember this IS a fairy story. Let's suppose that once on a time—that's the way they always begin—once on a time there was a great man, great in his own country, who was sent abroad by his people to represent them among the rulers of the land. So, in order to typically represent them, he dressed in glad and expensive raiment, went about in dignity, and—”
“And whiskers. Don't leave out the whiskers!”
“All right—and whiskers. And it came to pass that the people whom he represented wished to—to—er—bring about a certain needed improvement in their—their beautiful and enterprising community.”
“Sho! sho! how natural that sounds! You must be a mind reader.”
“No. But I have to make speeches in my own community occasionally. Well, the people asked their great man to get the money needed for this improvement from the rulers of the land aforementioned. And he was at first all enthusiasm and upon the—the parchment scroll where such matters are inscribed was written the name of the beautiful and enterprising community, and the sum of money it asked for. And the deal was as good as made. Excuse the modern phraseology; my fairy lingo got mixed there.”
“Never mind. I can get the drift just as well—maybe better.”
“And the deal was as good as made. But before the vote was taken another chap came to the great man and said: 'Look here! I want to get an appropriation of, say, fifty thousand dollars, to deepen and improve a river down in my State'—a Southern State we'll say. 'I've been to the chairman of the pork bill committee, and he says it's impossible. The bill simply can't be loaded any further. But I find that you have an item in there for deepening and improving a harbor back in your own district. Why don't you cut that item out—shove it over until next year? You can easily find a satisfactory explanation for your constituents. AND you want to remember this: the improvement of this river means that the—the—well, a certain sugar-growing company—can get their stuff to market at a figure which will send its stock up and up. And you are said to own a considerable amount of that stock. So why not drop the harbor item and substitute my river slice? Then—' Well, I guess that's the end of the tale.”
He paused and relit his cigar. Captain Cy thoughtfully marked with his fork on the tablecloth.
“Hum!” he grunted. “That's a very interestin' yarn. Yes, yes! don't know's I ever heard a more interestin' one. I presume likely there ain't a mite of proof that it's true?”
“Not an atom. I told you it was a fairy tale. And I mustn't be quoted in the matter. Honestly, the most of it is guess work, at that. But perhaps a 'committee of one,' dropping a hint at home, might at least arouse some uncomfortable questioning of a certain great man. That's about all, though. Proof is quite another thing.”
The captain pondered. He was fully aware that the unpopularity of the “committee” would nullify whatever good its hinting might do.
“Humph!” he grunted again. “It's one thing to smell a rat and another to nail its tail to the floor. But I'm mighty obliged to you, all the same. And I'll think it over hard. Say! I can see one thing—you don't take a very big shine to Heman yourself.”
“Not too big—no. Do you?”
“Well, I don't wake up nights and cry for him.”
Everdean laughed.
“That's characteristic,” he said. “You have your own way of putting things, Captain, and it's hard to be improved on. Atkins has never done anything to me. I just—I just don't like him, that's all. Father never liked him, either, in the old days; and yet—and it's odd, too—he was the means of the old gentleman's making the most of his money.”
“He? Who? Not Heman?”
“Yes, Heman Atkins. But, so far as that goes, father started him toward wealth, I suppose. At least, he was poor enough before the mine was sold.”
“What are you talkin' about? Heman got his start tradin' over in the South Seas. Sellin' the Kanakas glass beads and calico for pearls and copra—two cupfuls of pearls for every bead. Anyhow, that's the way the yarn goes.”
“I can't help that. He was just a common sailor who had run away from his ship and was gold mining in California. And when he and his partner struck it rich father borrowed money, headed a company, and bought them out. That mine was the Excelsior, and it's just as productive to-day as it ever was. I rather think Atkins must be very sorry he sold. I suppose, by right, I should be very grateful to your distinguished representative.”
“Well, I do declare! Sho, sho! Ain't that funny now? He's never said a word about it at home. I don't believe there's a soul in Bayport knows that. We all thought 'twas South Sea tradin' that boosted Heman. And your own dad! I declare, this is a small world!”
“It's odd father never told you about it. It's one of the old gentleman's pet stories. He came West in 1850, and was running a little shipping store in 'Frisco. He met Atkins and the other young sailor, his partner, before they left their ship. They were in the store, buying various things, and father got to know them pretty well. Then they ran away to the diggings—you simply couldn't keep a crew in those times—and he didn't see them again for a good while. Then they came in one day and showed him specimens from a claim they had back in the mountains. They were mighty good specimens, and what they said about the claim convinced father that they had a valuable property. So he went to see a few well-to-do friends of his, and the outcome was that a party was made up to go and inspect. The young fellows were willing to sell out, for it was a quartz working and they hadn't the money to carry it on.
“The inspection showed that the claim was likely to be even better than they thought, so, after some bargaining, the deal was completed. They sold out for seventy-five thousand dollars, and it was the best trade father ever made. He's so proud of his judgment and foresight in making it that I wonder he never told you the story.”
“He never did. When was this?”
“In '54. What?”
“I didn't speak. The date seemed kind of familiar to me, that's all. Seem's as if I heard it recent, but I can't remember when. Seventy-five thousand, hey? Well, that wan't so bad, was it? With that for a nest egg, no wonder Heman's managed to hatch a pretty respectable brood of dollars.”
“Oh, the whole seventy-five wasn't his, of course. Half belonged to his partner. But the poor devil didn't live to enjoy it. After the articles were signed and before the money was paid over, he was taken sick with a fever and died.”
“Hey? He died? With a FEVER?”
“Yes. But he left a pretty good legacy to his heirs, didn't he. For a common sailor—or second mate; I believe that's what he was—thirty-seven thousand five hundred is doing well. It must have come as a big surprise to them. The whole sum was paid to Atkins, who—What's the matter with you?”
Captain Cy was leaning back in his chair. He was as white as the tablecloth.
“Are you ill?” asked the congressman anxiously. “Take some water. Shall I call—”
The captain waved his hand.
“No, no!” he stammered. “No! I'm all right. Do you—for the Lord's sake tell me this! What was the name of this partner that died?”
Mr. Everdean looked curiously at his friend before he answered.
“Sure you're not sick?” he asked. “Well, all right. The partner's name? Why, I've heard it often enough. It's on the deed of sale that father has framed in his room at home. The old gentleman is as proud of that as anything in the house. The name was—was—”
“For God sakes,” cried Captain Cy, “don't say 'twas John Thayer! 'Cause if you do I shan't believe it.”
“That's what it was—John Thayer. How did you guess? Did you know him? I remember now that he was another Down Easter, like Atkins.”
The captain did not answer. He clasped his forehead with both hands and leaned his elbows on the table. Everdean was plainly alarmed.
“I'm going to call a doctor,” he began, rising. But Captain Cy waved him back again.
“Set still!” he ordered. “Set still, I tell you! You say the whole seventy-five thousand was paid to Heman, but that John Thayer signed the bill of sale afore he died, as half partner? And your dad's got the original deed and—and—he remembers the whole business?”
“Yes, he's got the deed—framed. It's on record, too, of course. Remembers? I should say he did! He'll talk for a week on that subject, if you give him a chance.”
The captain sprang to his feet. His chair tipped backward and fell to the floor. An obsequious waiter ran to right it, but Captain Cy paid no attention to him.
“Where's my coat?” he demanded. “Where's my coat and hat?”
“What ails you?” asked Everdean. “Are you going crazy?”
“Goin' CRAZY? No, no! I'm goin' to California. When's the next train?”
The Honorable Heman Atkins sat in the library of his Washington home, before a snapping log fire, reading a letter. Mr. Atkins had, as he would have expressed it, “served his people” in Congress for so many years that he had long since passed the hotel stage of living at the Capital. He rented a furnished house on an eminently respectable street, and the polished doorplate bore his name in uncompromising characters.
The library furniture was solid and dignified. Its businesslike appearance impressed the stray excursionist from the Atkins district, when he or she visited the great man in whose affairs we felt such a personal interest. Particularly impressive and significant was a map of the district hanging over the congressman's desk, and an oil painting of the Atkins mansion at Bayport, which, with the iron dogs and urns conspicuous in its foreground, occupied the middle of the largest wall space.
The cheery fire was very comforting on a night like this, for the sleet was driving against the windowpanes, the sidewalks were ankle deep in slush, and the wet, cold wind from the Potomac was whistling down the street. Somewhere about the house an unfastened shutter slammed in the gusts. Mr. Atkins should have been extremely comfortable as he sat there by the fire. He had spent many comfortable winters in that room. But now there was a frown on his face as he read the letter in his hand. It was from Simpson, and stated, among other things, that Cyrus Whittaker had been absent from Bayport for over two weeks, and that no one seemed to know where he had gone. “The idea seems to be that he started for Washington,” wrote Tad; “but if that is so, it is queer you haven't seen him. I am suspicious that he is up to something about that harbor business. I should keep my eye peeled if I was you.”
Alicia, the Atkins hopeful, rustled into the room.
“Papa,” she said, “I've come to kiss you good night.”
Her father performed the ceremony in a perfunctory way.
“All right, all right,” he said. “Now run along to bed and don't bother me, there's a good girl. I wish,” he added testily to the housekeeper who had followed Alicia into the room, “I wish you'd see to that loose blind. It makes me nervous. Such things as that should be attended to without specific orders from me.”
The housekeeper promised to attend to the blind. She and the girl left the library. Heman reread the Simpson letter. Then he dropped it in his lap and sat thinking and twirling his eyeglasses at the end of their black cord. His thoughts seemed to be not of the pleasantest. The lines about his mouth had deepened during the last few months. He looked older.
The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Atkins came out of his reverie with a start, arose and walked across the room to the wall where the instrument hung. It was before the days of the convenient desk 'phone. He took the receiver from its hook and spoke into the transmitter.
“Hello!” he said. “Hello! Yes, yes! stop ringing. What is it?”
The wire buzzed and purred in the storm. “Hello!” said a voice. “Hello, there! Is this Mr. Atkins's house?”
“Yes; it is. What do you want?”
“Hey? Is this where the Honorable Heman Atkins lives?”
“Yes, yes, I tell you! This is Mr. Atkins speaking. What do you want?”
“Oh! is that you, Heman? This is Whittaker—Cy Whittaker. Understand?”
Mr. Atkins understood. Yet for an instant he did not reply. He had been thinking, as he sat by the fire, of certain persons and certain ugly, though remote, possibilities. Now, from a mysterious somewhere, one of those persons was speaking to him. The hand holding the receiver shook momentarily.
“Hello! I say, Heman, do you understand? This is Whittaker talkin'.”
“I—er—understand,” said the congressman, slowly. “Well, sir?”
“I'm here in Washin'ton.”
“I have been informed that you were in the city. Well, sir?”
“Oh! knew I was here, did you? Is that so? Who told you? Tad wrote, I suppose, hey?”
The congressman did not reply immediately. This man, whom he disliked more than anyone else in the world, had an irritating faculty of putting his finger on the truth. And the flippancy in the tone was maddening. Mr. Atkins was not used to flippancy.
“I believe I am not called upon to disclose my source of information,” he said with chilling dignity. “It appears to have been trustworthy. I presume you have 'phoned me concerning the appropriation matter. I do not recognize your right to intrude in that affair, and I shall decline to discuss it. Yes, sir. To my people, to those who have a right to question, I am and shall always be willing to explain my position. Good night.”
“Wait! Hello! Hold on a minute. Don't get mad, Heman. I only wanted to say just a word. You'll let me say a word, won't you?”
This was more like it. This was more nearly the tone in which Mr. Atkins was wont to be addressed. It was possible that the man, recognizing the uselessness of further opposition, desired to surrender.
“I cannot,” declared the Honorable, “understand why you should wish to speak with me. We have very little in common, very little, I'm thankful to say. However, I will hear you briefly. Go on.”
“Much obliged. Well, Heman, I only wanted to say that I thought maybe you'd better have a little talk with me. I'm here at the hotel, the Regent. You know where 'tis, I presume likely. I guess you'd better come right down and see me.”
Heman gasped, actually gasped, with astonishment.
“I had better come and see YOU? I—! Well, sir! WELL! I am not accustomed—”
“I know, but I think you'd better. It's dirty weather, and I've got cold somehow or other. I ain't feelin' quite up to the mark, so I cal'late I'll stay in port much as I can. You come right down. I'll be in my room, and the hotel folks 'll tell you where 'tis. I'll be waitin' for you.”
Mr. Atkins breathed hard. In his present frame of mind he would have liked to deliver a blast into that transmitter which would cause the person at the other end of the line to shrivel under its heat. But he was a politician of long training, and he knew that such blasts were sometimes expensive treats. It might be well to hear what his enemy had to say. But as to going to see him—that was out of the question.
“I do not,” he thundered, “I do not care to continue this conversation. If—if you wish to see me, after what has taken place between us, I am willing, in spite of personal repugnance, to grant you a brief interview. My servants will admit you here at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. But I tell you now, that your interference with this appropriation matter is as useless as it is ridiculous and impudent. It is of a piece with the rest of your conduct.”
“All right, Heman, all right,” was the calm answer. “I don't say you've got to come. I only say I guess you'd better. I'm goin' back to Bayport tomorrer, early. And if I was you I'd come and see me to-night.”
“I have no wish to see you. Nor do I care to talk with you further. That appropriation—”
“Maybe it ain't all appropriation.”
“Then I cannot understand—”
“I know, but I understand. I've come to understand consider'ble many things in the last fortni't. There! I can't holler into this machine any longer. I've been clear out to 'Frisco and back in eleven days, and I got cold in those blessed sleepin' cars. I—”
The receiver fell from the congressman's hand. It was a difficult object to pick up again. Heman groped for it in a blind, strangely inadequate way. Yet he wished to recover it very much.
“Wait! wait!” he shouted anxiously. “I—I—I dropped the—Are you there, Whittaker? Are you—Oh! yes! I didn't—Did you say—er—'Frisco?”
“Yes, San Francisco, California. I've been West on a little cruise. Had an interestin' time. It's an interestin' place; don't you think so? Well, I'm sorry you can't come. Good night.”
“Wait!” faltered the great man. “I—I—let me think, Cyrus. I do not wish to seem—er—arrogant in this matter. It is not usual for me to visit my constituents, but—but—I have no engagement this evening, and you are not well, and—Hello! are you there? Hello! Why, under the circumstances, I think—Yes, I will come. I'll come—er—at once.”
The telephone enables one to procure a cab in a short time. Yet, to Heman Atkins, that cab was years in coming. He paced the library floor, his hand to his forehead and his brain whirling. It couldn't be! It must be a coincidence! He had been an idiot to display his agitation and surrender so weakly. And yet—and yet—
The ride through the storm to the Regent Hotel gave him opportunity for more thought. But he gained little comfort from thinking. If it was a coincidence, well and good. If not—
A bell boy conducted him to the Whittaker room “on the saloon deck.” It was a small room, very different from the Atkins library, and Captain Cy, in a cane-seated chair, was huddled close to the steam radiator. He looked far from well.
“Evenin', Heman,” he said as the congressman entered. “Pretty dirty night, ain't it? What we'd call a gray no'theaster back home. Sit down. Don't mind my not gettin' up. This heatin' arrangement feels mighty comf'table just now. If I get too far away from it I shiver my deck planks loose. Take off your things.”
Mr. Atkins did not remove his overcoat. His hat he tossed on the bed. He glanced fearfully at his companion. The latter's greeting had been so casual and everyday that he took courage. And the captain looked anything but formidable as he hugged the radiator. Perhaps things were not so bad as he had feared. He resolved not to seem alarmed, at all events.
“Have a cigar, Heman?” said Captain Cy. “No? Well, all right; I will, if you don't mind.”
He lit the cigar. The congressman cleared his throat.
“Cyrus,” he said, “I am not accustomed to run at the beck and call of my—er—acquaintances, but, even though we have disagreed of late, even though to me your conduct seems quite unjustifiable, still, for the sake of our boyhood friendship, and, because you are not well, I—er—came.”
Captain Cy coughed spasmodically, a cough that seemed to be tearing him to pieces. He looked at his cigar regretfully, and laid it on the top of the radiator.
“Too bad,” he observed. “Tobacco gen'rally iles up my talkin' machinery, but just now it seems to make me bark like a ship's dog shut up in the hold. Why, yes, Heman, I see you've come. Much obliged to you.”
This politeness was still more encouraging. Atkins leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“I presume,” he said, “that you wish to ask concerning the appropriation. I regret—”
“You needn't. I guess we'll get the appropriation.”
Heman's condescension vanished. He leaned forward and uncrossed his legs.
“Indeed?” he said slowly, his eyes fixed on the captain's placid face.
“Yes—indeed.”
“Whittaker, what are you talking about? Do you suppose that I have been the representative of my people in Congress all these years without knowing whereof I speak? They left the matter in my hands, and your interference—”
“I ain't goin' to interfere. I'M goin' to leave it in your hands, too. And I cal'late you'll be able to find a way to get it. Um—hum, I guess likely you will.”
The visitor rose to his feet. The time had come for another blast from Olympus. He raised the mighty right arm. But Captain Cy spoke first.
“Sit down, Heman,” said the captain quietly. “Sit down. This ain't town meetin'. Never mind the appropriation now. There's other matters to be talked about first. Sit down, I tell you.”
Mr. Atkins was purple in the face, but he sat down. The captain coughed again.
“Heman,” he began when the spasm was over, “I asked you to come here to-night for—well, blessed if I know exactly. It didn't make much difference to me whether you came or not.”
“Then, sir, I must say that, of all the impudent—”
“S-s-h-h! for the land sakes! Speechmakin' must be as bad as the rum habit, when a feller's got it chronic as you have. No, it didn't make much difference to me whether you came or not. But, honest, you've got to be a kind of Bunker Hill monument to the folks back home. They kneel down at your foundations and look up at you, and tell each other how many foot high you are, and what it cost to build you, and how you stand for patriotism and purity, till—well, I couldn't see you tumble down without givin' you a chance. I couldn't; 'twould be like blowin' up a church.”
The purple had left the Atkins face, but the speechmaking habit is not likely to be broken.
“Cyrus Whittaker,” he stammered, “have you been drinking? Your language to me is abominable. Why I permit myself to remain here and listen to such—”
“If you'll keep still I'll tell you why. And, if I was you, I wouldn't be too anxious to find out. This everlastin' cold don't make me over 'n' above good-tempered, and when I think of what you've done to that little girl, or what you tried to do, I have to hold myself down tight, TIGHT, and don't you forget it! Now, you keep quiet and listen. It'll be best for you, Heman. Your cards ain't under the table any longer. I've seen your hand, and I know why you've been playin' it. I know the whole game. I've been West, and Everdean and I have had a talk.”
Mr. Atkins had again risen from the chair. Now he fell heavily back into it. His lips moved as if he meant to speak, but he did not. At the mention of the Everdean name he made a queer, choking sound in his throat.
“I know the whole business, Heman,” went on the captain. “I know why you was so knocked over when you learned who Bos'n was, the night of the party. I know why you took up with that blackguard, Thomas, and why you've spent your good money hirin' lawyers for him. I know about the mine. I know the whole thing from first to last. Shall I tell you? Do you want to hear it?”
The great man did not answer. A drop of perspiration shone on his high forehead, and the veins of his big, white hands stood out as he clutched the arms of his chair. The monument was tottering on its base.
“It's a dirty mess, the whole of it,” continued Captain Cy. “And yet, I can see—I suppose I can see some excuse for you at the beginnin'. When old man Everdean and his crowd bought you and John Thayer out, 'way back there in '54, after John died, and all the money was put into your hands, I cal'late you was honest then. I wouldn't wonder if you MEANT to hand over the thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars to your partner's widow. But 'twas harder and more risky to send money East in them days than 'tis now, and so you waited, thinkin' maybe that you'd fetch it to Emily when you come yourself. But you didn't come home for some years; you went tradin' down along the Feejees and around that way. That's how I reasoned it out these last few days on the train. I give you credit for bein' honest first along.
“But never mind whether you was or not, you haven't been since. You never paid over a cent of that poor feller's money—honest money, that belonged to his heirs, and belongs to 'em now. You've hung onto it, stole it, used it for yours. And Emily worked and scratched for a livin' and died poor. And Mary, she died, after bein' abused and deserted by that cussed husband of hers. And you thought you was safe, I cal'late. And then Bos'n turns up right in your own town, right acrost the road from you! By the big dipper! it's enough to make a feller believe that the Almighty does take a hand in straightenin' out such things, when us humans bungle 'em—it is so!
“Course I ain't sure, Heman, what you meant to do when you found that the child you'd stole that money from was goin' to be under your face and eyes till you or she died. I cal'late you was afraid I'd find somethin' out, wan't you? I presume likely you thought that I, not havin' quite the reverence for you that the rest of the Bayporters have, might be sharp enough or lucky enough to smell a rat. Perhaps you suspicioned that I knew the Everdeans. Anyhow, you wanted to get the child as fur out of your sight and out of my hands as you could—ain't that so? And when her dad turned up, you thought you saw your chance. Heman, you answer me this: Ain't it part of your bargain with Thomas that when he gets his little girl, he shall take her and clear out, away off somewheres, for good? Ain't it, now—what?”
The monument was swaying, was swinging from side to side, but it did not quite fall—not then. The congressman's cheeks hung flabby, his forehead was wet, and he shook from head to foot; but he clenched his jaws and made one last attempt at defiance.
“I—I don't know what you mean,” he declared. “You—you seem to be accusing me of something. Of stealing, I believe. Do you understand who I am? I have some influence and reputation, and it is dangerous to—to try to frighten me. Proofs are required in law, and—”
“S-s-h-h! You know I've got the proofs. They were easy enough to get, once I happened on the track of 'em. Lord sakes, Heman, I ain't a fool! What's the use of your pretendin' to be one? There's the deed out in 'Frisco, with yours and John's name on it. There's the records to prove the sale. There's the receipt for the seventy-five thousand signed by you, on behalf of yourself and your partner's widow. There's old man Everdean alive and competent to testify. There's John Thayer's will on file over to Orham. Proofs! Why, you THIEF! if it's proofs you want, I've got enough to send you to state's prison for the rest of your life. Don't you dare say 'proofs' to me again! Heman Atkins, you owe me, as Bos'n's guardian, thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars, with interest since 1854. What you goin' to do about it?”
Here was one ray, a feeble ray, of light.
“You're not her guardian,” cried Atkins. “The courts have thrown you out. And your appeal won't stand, either. If any money is due, it belongs to her father. She isn't of age! No, sir! her father—”
Captain Cy's patience had been giving way. Now he lost it altogether. He strode across the room and shook his forefinger in his victim's face.
“So!” he cried. “That's your tack, is it? By the big dipper! You GO to her father—just you go to him and tell him! Just hint to him that you owe his daughter thirty-odd thousand dollars, and see what he'll do. Good heavens above! he was ready to sell her out to me for fifty dollars' wuth of sand bank in Orham. Almost ready, he was, till you offered a higher price to him to fight. Why, he'll have your hide nailed up on the barn door! If you don't pay him every red copper, down on the nail, he'll wring you dry. And then he'll blackmail you forever and ever, amen! Unless, of course, I go home and stop the blackmail by printing my story in the Breeze. I've a precious good mind to do it. By the Almighty, I WILL do it! unless you come off that high horse of yours and talk like a man.”
And then the monument fell, fell prostrate, with a sickly, pitiful crash. If we of Bayport could have seen our congressman then! The great man, great no longer, broke down completely. He cried like a baby. It was all true—all true. He had not meant to steal, at first. He had been led into using the money in his business. Then he had meant to send it to the heirs, but he didn't know their whereabouts. Captain Cy smiled at this excuse. And now he couldn't pay—he COULDN'T. He had hardly that sum in the world. He had lost money in stocks, his property in the South had gone to the bad! He would be ruined. He would have to go to prison. He was getting to be an old man. And there was Alicia, his daughter! Think of her! Think of the disgrace! And so on, over and over, with the one recurring burden—what was the captain going to do? what was he going to do? It was a miserable, dreadful exhibition, and Captain Cy could feel no pride in his triumph.
“There! there!” he said at last. “Stop it, man; stop it, for goodness sakes! Pull yourself together. I guess we can fix it up somehow. I ain't goin' to be too hard on you. If it wan't for your meanness in bein' willin' to let Bos'n suffer her life long with that drunken beast of a dad of hers, I'd feel almost like tellin' you to get up and forget it. But THAT'S got to be stopped. Now, you listen to me.”
Heman listened. He was on his knees beside the bed, his face buried in his arms, and his gray hair, the leonine Atkins hair, which he was wont to toss backward in the heated periods of his eloquence, tumbled and draggled. Captain Cy looked down at him.
“This whole business about Bos'n must be stopped,” he said, “and stopped right off. You tell your lawyers to drop the case. Her dad is only hangin' around because you pay him to. He don't want her; he don't care what becomes of her. If you pay him enough, he'll go, won't he? and not come back?”
The congressman raised his head.
“Why, yes,” he faltered; “I think he will. Yes, I think I could arrange that. But, Cyrus—”
The captain held up his hand.
“I intend to look out for Bos'n,” he said. “She cares for me more'n anyone else in the world. She's as much to me as my own child ever could be, and I'll see that she is happy and provided for. I'm religious enough to believe she was sent to me, and I intend to stick to my trust. As for the money—”
“Yes, yes! The money?”
“Well, I won't be too hard on you that way, either. We'll talk that over later on. Maybe we can arrange for you to pay it a little at a time. You can sign a paper showin' that you owe it, and we'll fix the payin' to suit all hands. 'Tain't as if the child was in want. I've got some money of my own, and what's mine's hers. I think we needn't worry about the money part.”
“God bless you, Cyrus! I—”
“Yes, all right. I'm sure your askin' for the blessin' 'll be a great help. Now, you do your part, and I'll do mine. No one knows of this business but me. I didn't tell Everdean a word. He don't know why I hustled out there and back, nor why I asked so many questions. And he ain't the kind to pry into what don't concern him. So you're pretty safe, I cal'late. Now, if you don't mind, I wish you'd run along home. I'm—I'm used up, sort of.”
Mr. Atkins arose from his knees. Even then, broken as he was—he looked ten years older than when he entered the room—he could hardly believe what he had just heard.
“You mean,” he faltered, “Cyrus, do you mean that—that you're not going to reveal this—this—”
“That I'm not goin' to tell on you? Yup; that's what I mean. You get rid of Thomas and squelch that law case, and I'll keep mum. You can trust me for that.”
“But—but, Cyrus, the people at home? Your story in the Breeze? You're not—”
“No, they needn't know, either. It'll be between you and me.”
“God bless you! I'll never forget—”
“That's right. You mustn't. Forgettin' is the one thing you mustn't do. And, see here, you're boss of the political fleet in Bayport; you steer the school committee now. Phoebe Dawes ain't too popular with that committee; I'd see that she was popularized.”
“Yes, yes; she shall be. She shall not be disturbed. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Why, yes, I guess there is. Speakin' of popularity made me think of it. That harbor appropriation had better go through.”
A very faint tinge of color came into the congressman's chalky face. He hesitated in his reply.
“I—I don't know about that, Cyrus,” he said. “The bill will probably be voted on in a few days. It is made up and—”
“Then I'd strain a p'int and make it over. I'd work real hard on it. I'm sorry about that sugar river, but I cal'late Bayport 'll have to come first. Yes, it'll have to, Heman; it sartin will.”
The reference to the “sugar river” was the final straw. Evidently this man knew everything.
“I—I'll try my best,” affirmed Heman. “Thank you, Cyrus. You have been more merciful than I had a right to expect.”
“Yes, I guess I have. Why do I do it?” He smiled and shook his head. “Well, I don't know. For two reasons, maybe. First, I'd hate to be responsible for tippin' over such a sky-towerin' idol as you've been to make ruins for Angie Phinney and the other blackbirds to peck at and caw over. And second—well, it does sound presumin', don't it, but I kind of pity you. Say, Heman,” he added with a chuckle, “that's a kind of distinction, in a way, ain't it? A good many folks have hurrahed over you and worshipped you—some of 'em, I guess likely, have envied you; but, by the big dipper! I do believe I'm the only one in this round world that ever PITIED you. Good-by. The elevator's right down the hall.”
It required some resolution for the Honorable Atkins to walk down that corridor and press the elevator button. But he did it, somehow. A guest came out of one of the rooms and approached him as he stood there. It was a man he knew. Heman squared his shoulders and set every nerve and muscle.
“Good evening, Mr. Atkins,” said the man. “A miserable night, isn't it?”
“Miserable, indeed,” replied the congressman. The strength in his voice surprised him. The man passed on. Heman descended in the elevator, walked steadily through the crowded lobby and out to the curb where his cab was waiting. The driver noticed nothing strange in his fare's appearance. He noticed nothing strange when the Atkins residence was reached and its tenant mounted the stone steps and opened the door with his latchkey. But, if he had seen the dignified form collapse in a library chair and moan and rock back and forth until the morning hours, he would have wondered very much indeed.
Meanwhile Captain Cy, coughing and shivering by the radiator, had been summoned from that warm haven by a knock at his door. A bell boy stood at the threshold, holding a brown envelope in his hand.
“The clerk sent this up to you, sir,” he said. “It came a week ago. When you went away, you didn't leave any address, and whatever letters came for you were sent back to Bayport, Massachusetts. The clerk says you registered from there, sir. But he kept this telegram. It was in your box, and the day clerk forgot to give it to you this afternoon.”
The captain tore open the envelope. The telegram was from his lawyer, Mr. Peabody. It was dated a week before, and read as follows:
“Come home at once. Important.”
The blizzard began that night. Bayport has a generous allowance of storms and gales during a winter, although, as a usual thing, there is more rain than snow and more wind than either. But we can count with certainty on at least one blizzard between November and April, and about the time when Captain Cy, feverish and ill, the delayed telegram in his pocket and a great fear in his heart, boarded the sleeper of the East-bound train at Washington, snow was beginning to fall in our village.
Next morning, when Georgianna came downstairs to prepare Bos'n's breakfast—the housekeeper had ceased to “go home nights” since the captain's absence—the world outside was a tumbled, driving whirl of white. The woodshed and barn, dimly seen through the smother, were but gray shapes, emerging now and then only to be wiped from the vision as by a great flapping cloth wielded by the mighty hand of the wind. The old house shook in the blasts, the windowpanes rattled as if handfuls of small shot were being thrown against them, and the carpet on the floor of the dining room puffed up in miniature billows.
School was out of the question, and Bos'n, her breakfast eaten, prepared to put in a cozy day with her dolls and Christmas playthings.
“When DO you s'pose Uncle Cyrus will get home?” she asked of the housekeeper. She had asked the same thing at least three times a day during the fortnight, and Georgianna's answer was always just as unsatisfactory:
“I don't know, dearie, I'm sure. He'll be here pretty soon, though, don't you fret.”
“Oh, I ain't going to fret. I know he'll come. He said he would, and Uncle Cy always does what he says he will.”
About twelve Asaph made his appearance, a white statue.
“Godfrey scissors!” he panted, shaking his snow-plastered cap over the coal hod. “Say, this is one of 'em, ain't it? Don't know's I ever see more of a one. Drift out by the front fence pretty nigh up to my waist. This 'll be a nasty night along the Orham beach. The lifesavers 'll have their hands full. Whew! I'm about tuckered out.”
“Been to the post office?” asked Georgianna in a low tone.
“Yup. I been there. Mornin' mail just this minute sorted. Train's two hours late. Gabe says more'n likely the evenin' train won't be able to get through at all, if this keeps up.”
“Was there anything from—”
Mr. Tidditt glanced at Bos'n and shook his head.
“Not a word,” he said. “Funny, ain't it? It don't seem a bit like him. And he can't be to Washin'ton, because all them letters came back. I—I swan to man, I'm beginnin' to get worried.”
“Worried? I'm pretty nigh crazy! What does Phoebe Dawes say?”
“She don't say much. It's pretty tough, when everything else is workin' out so fine, thanks to her, to have this happen. No, she don't say much, but she acts pretty solemn.”
“Say, Mr. Tidditt?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“You don't s'pose anything that happened betwixt her and Cap'n Whittaker that afternoon is responsible for—for his stayin' away so, do you? You know what he told me to tell her—about her not comin' here?”
Asaph fidgeted with the wet cap.
“Aw, that ain't nothin',” he stammered. “That is, I hope it ain't. I did say somethin' to him that—but Phoebe understands. She's a smart woman.”
“You haven't told them boardin' house tattletales about the—Emmie, you go fetch me a card of matches from the kitchen, won't you—of what's been found out about that Thomas thing?”
“Course I ain't. Didn't Peabody say not to tell a soul till we was sure? S'pose I'd tell Keturah and Angie? Might's well paint it on a sign and be done with it. No, no! I've kept mum and you do the same. Well, I must be goin'. Hope to goodness we hear some good news from Whit by to-morrer.”
But when to-morrow came news of any kind was unobtainable. No trains could get through, and the telephone and telegraph wires were out of commission, owing to the great storm. Bayport was buried under a white coverlet, three feet thick on a level, which shone in the winter sun as if powdered with diamond dust. The street-shoveling brigade, meaning most of the active male citizens, was busy with plows and shovels. Simmons's was deserted in the evenings, for most of the regular habitues went to bed after supper, tired out.
Two days of this. Then Gabe Lumley, his depot wagon replaced by a sleigh, drove the panting Daniel into the yard of the Cy Whittaker place. Gabe was much excited. He had news of importance to communicate and was puffed up in consequence.
“The wire's all right again, Georgianna,” he said to the housekeeper, who had hurried to the door to meet him. “Fust message just come through. Guess who it's for?”
“Stop your foolishness, Gabe Lumley!” ordered Miss Taylor. “Hand over that telegram this minute. Don't you stop to talk! Hand it over!”
Gabe didn't intend to be “corked” thus peremptorily.
“It's pretty important news, Georgianna,” he declared. “Kind of bad news, too. I think I'd ought to prepare you for it, sort of. When Cap'n Obed Pepper died, I—”
“DIED! For the land sakes! WHAT are you sayin'? Give me that, you foolhead! Give it to me!”
She snatched the telegram from him and tore it open. It was not as bad as might have been, but it was bad enough. Lawyer Peabody wired that Captain Cyrus Whittaker was at his home in Ostable, sick in bed, and threatened with pneumonia.
Captain Cy, hurrying homeward in response to the attorney's former telegram, had reached Boston the day of the blizzard. He had taken the train for Bayport that afternoon. The train had reached Ostable after nine o'clock that night, but could get no farther. The captain, burning with fever and torn by chills, had wallowed through the drifts to his lawyer's home and collapsed on his doorstep. Now he was very ill and, at times, delirious.
For two weeks he lay, fighting off the threatened attack of pneumonia. But he won the fight, and, at last, word came to the anxious ones at Bayport that he was past the danger point and would pull through. There was rejoicing at the Cy Whittaker place. The Board of Strategy came and performed an impromptu war dance around the dining-room table.
“Whe-e-e!” shouted Bailey Bangs, tossing Bos'n above his head. “Your Uncle Cy's weathered the Horn and is bound for clear water now. Three cheers for our side! Won't we give him a reception when we get him back here!”
“Won't we?” crowed Asaph. “Well, I just guess we will! You ought to hear Angie and the rest of 'em chant hymns of glory about him. A body'd think they always knew he was the salt of the earth. Maybe I don't rub it in a little, hey? Oh, no, maybe not!”
“And Heman!” chimed in Mr. Bangs. “And Heman! Would you ever believe HE'D change so all of a sudden? Bully old Whit! I can mention his name now without Ketury's landin' onto me like a snowslide. Whee! I say, wh-e-e-e!”
He continued to say it; and Georgianna and Asaph said what amounted to the same thing. A change had come over our Bayport social atmosphere, a marvelous change. And at Simmons's and—more wonderful still—at Tad Simpson's barber' shop, plans were being made and perfected for proceedings in which Cyrus Whittaker was to play the most prominent part.
Meanwhile the convalescence went on at a rapid rate. As soon as he was permitted to talk, Captain Cy began to question his lawyer. How about the appeal? Had Atkins done anything further? The answers were satisfactory. The case had been dropped: the Honorable Heman had announced its withdrawal. He had said that he had changed his mind and should not continue to espouse the Thomas cause. In fact, he seemed to have whirled completely about on his pedestal and, like a compass, now pointed only in one direction—toward his “boyhood friend” and present neighbor, Cyrus Whittaker.
“It's perfectly astounding,” commented Peabody. “What in the world, captain, did you do to him while you were in Washington?”
“Oh! nothin' much,” was the rather disinterested answer. “Him and me had a talk, and he saw the error of his ways, I cal'late. How's Bos'n to-day? Did you give her my love when you 'phoned?”
“So far as the case is concerned,” went on the lawyer, “I think we should have won that, anyway. It's a curious thing. Thomas has disappeared. How he got word, or who he got it from, I don't know; but he must have, and he's gone somewhere, no one knows where. And yet I'm not certain that we were on the right trail. It seemed certain a week ago, but now—”
The captain had not been listening. He was thinking. Thomas had gone, had he! Good! Heman was living up to his promises. And Bos'n, God bless her, was free from that danger.
“Have you heard from Emmie, I asked you?” he repeated.
He would not listen to anything further concerning Thomas, either then or later. He was sick of the whole business, he declared, and now that everything was all right, didn't wish to talk about it again. He asked nothing about the appropriation, and the lawyer, acting under strict orders, did not mention it.
Only once did Captain Cy inquire concerning a person in his home town who was not a member of his household.
“How is—er—how's the teacher?” he inquired one morning.
“How's who?”
“Why—Phoebe Dawes, the school-teacher. Smart, is she?”
“Yes, indeed! Why, she has been the most—”
The doctor came in just then and the interview terminated. It was not resumed, because that afternoon Mr. Peabody started for Boston on a business trip, to be gone some time.
And at last came the great day, the day when Captain Cy was to be taken home. He was up and about, had been out for several short walks, and was very nearly his own self again. He was in good spirits, too, at times, but had fits of seeming depression which, under the circumstances, were unexplainable. The doctor thought they were due to his recent illness and forbade questioning.
The original plan had been for the captain to go to Bayport in the train, but the morning set for his departure was such a beautiful one that Mr. Peabody, who had the day before returned from the city, suggested driving over. So the open carriage, drawn by the Peabody “span,” was brought around to the front steps, and the captain, bundled up until, as he said, he felt like a wharf rat inside a cotton bale, emerged from the house which had sheltered him for a weary month and climbed to the back seat. The attorney got in beside him.
“All ashore that's goin' ashore,” observed Captain Cy. Then to the driver, who stood by the horses' heads, he added: “Stand by to get ship under way, commodore. I'm homeward bound, and there's a little messmate of mine waitin' on the dock already, I wouldn't wonder. So don't hang around these waters no longer'n you can help.”
But Mr. Peabody smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Just a minute, captain,” he said. “We've got another passenger. She came to the house last evening, but Dr. Cole thought this would be an exciting day for you, and you must sleep in preparation for it. So we kept her in the background. It was something of a job but—Hurrah! here she is!”
Mrs. Peabody, the lawyer's wife, opened the front door. She was laughing. The next moment a small figure shot past her, down the steps, and into the carriage like a red-hooded bombshell.
“Uncle Cyrus!” she screamed joyously. “Uncle Cyrus, it's me! Here I am!”
And Captain Cy, springing up and shedding wraps and robes, received the bombshell with open arms and hugged it tight.
“Bos'n!” he shouted. “By the big dipper! BOS'N! Why, you little—you—you—”
That was a wonderful ride. Emily sat in the captain's lap—he positively refused to let her sit beside him on the seat, although Peabody urged it, fearing the child might tire him—and her tongue rattled like a sewing machine. She had a thousand things to tell, about her school, about Georgianna, about her dolls, about Lonesome, the cat, and how many mice he had caught, about the big snowstorm.
“Georgianna wanted me to stay at home and wait for you, Uncle Cy,” she said, “but I teased and teased and finally they said I could come over. I came yesterday on the train. Mr. Tidditt went with me to the depot. Mrs. Peabody let me peek into your room last night and I saw you eating supper. You didn't know I was there, did you?”
“You bet I didn't! There'd have been a mutiny right then if I'd caught sight of you. You little sculpin! Playin' it on your Uncle Cy, was you? I didn't know you could keep a secret so well.”
“Oh, yes I can! Why, I know an ever so much bigger secret, too. It is—Why! I 'most forgot. You just wait.”
The captain laughingly begged her to divulge the big secret, but she shook her small head and refused. The horses trotted on at a lively pace, and the miles separating Ostable and Bayport were subtracted one by one. It was magnificent winter weather. The snow had disappeared from the road, except in widely separated spots, but the big drifts still heaped the fields and shone and sparkled in the sunshine. Against their whiteness the pitch pines and cedars stood darkly green and the skeleton scrub oaks and bushes cast delicate blue-penciled shadows. The bay, seen over the flooded, frozen salt meadows and distant dunes, was in its winter dress of the deepest sapphire, trimmed with whitecaps and fringed with stranded ice cakes. There was a snap and tang in the breeze which braced one like a tonic. The party in the carriage was a gay one.
“Getting tired, captain?” asked Peabody.
“Who? Me? Well, I guess not. 'Most home, Bos'n. There's the salt works ahead there.”
They passed the abandoned salt works, the crumbling ruins of a dead industry, and the boundary stone, now half hidden in a drift, marking the beginning of Bayport township. Then, from the pine grove at the curve farther on, appeared two capped and coated figures, performing a crazy fandango.
“Who's them two lunatics,” inquired Captain Cy, “whoopin' and carryin' on in the middle of the road? Has anybody up this way had a jug come by express or—Hey! WHAT? Why, you old idiots you! COME here and let me get a hold of you!”
The Board of Strategy swooped down upon the carriage like Trumet mosquitoes on a summer boarder. They swarmed into the vehicle, Bailey on the front seat and Asaph in the rear, where, somehow or other, they made room for him. There were handshakings and thumps on the back.
“What you doin' 'way up here in the west end of nowhere?” demanded Captain Cy. “By the big dipper, I'm glad to see you! How'd you get here?”
“Walked,” cackled Bailey. “Frogged it all the way. Soon's Mrs. Peabody wired you was goin' to ride, me and Ase started to meet you. Wan't you surprised?”
“We wanted to be the fust to say howdy, old man,” explained Asaph. “Wanted to welcome you back, you know.”
The captain was immensely pleased.
“Well, I'm glad I've got so much popularity, anyhow,” he said. “Guess 'twill be different when I get down street, hey? Don't cal'late Tad and Angie 'll shed the joyous tear over me. Never mind; long's my friends are glad I don't care about the rest.”
The Board looked at each other.
“Tad?” repeated Bailey. “And Angie? What you talkin' about? Why, they—Ugh!”
The last exclamation was the result of a tremendous dig in the ribs from the Tidditt fist. Asaph, who had leaned forward to administer it, was frowning and shaking his head. Mr. Bangs relapsed into a grinning silence.
West Bayport seemed to be deserted. At one or two houses, however, feminine heads appeared at the windows. One old lady shook a calico apron at the carriage. A child beside her cried: “Hurrah!”
“Aunt Hepsy h'istin' colors by mistake,” laughed the captain. “She ain't got her specs, I guess, and thinks I'm Heman. That comes of ridin' astern of a span, Peabody.”
But as they drew near the Center flags were flying from front-yard poles. Some of the houses were decorated.
“What in the world—” began Captain Cy. “Land sakes! look at the schoolhouse. And Simmons's! And—and Simpson's!”
The schoolhouse flag was flapping in the wind. The scarred wooden pillars of its portico were hidden with bunting. Simmons's front displayed a row of little banners, each bearing a letter—the letters spelled “Welcome Home.” Tad's barber shop was more or less artistically wreathed in colored tissue paper. There, too, a flag was draped over the front door. Yet not a single person was in sight.
“For goodness' sake!” cried the bewildered captain. “What's all this mean? And where is everybody. Have all hands—”
He stopped in the middle of the sentence. They were at the foot of Whittaker's Hill. Its top, between the Atkins's gate and the Whittaker fence, was black with people. Children pranced about the outskirts of the crowd. A shout came down the wind. The horses, not in the least fatigued by their long canter, trotted up the slope. The shouting grew louder. A wave of youngsters came racing to meet the equipage.
“What—what in time?” gasped Captain Cy. “What's up? I—”
And then the town clerk seized him by the arm. Peabody shook his other hand. Bos'n threw her arms about his neck. Bailey stood up and waved his hat.
“It's you, you old critter!” whooped Asaph. “It's YOU, d'you understand?”
“The appropriation has gone through,” explained the lawyer, “and this is the celebration in consequence. And you are the star attraction because, you see, everyone knows you are responsible for it.”
“That's what!” howled the excited Bangs. “And we're goin' to show you what we think of you for doin' it. We've been plannin' this for over a fortni't.”
“And I knew it all the time,” squealed Bos'n, “and I didn't tell a word, did I?”
“Three cheers for Captain Whittaker!” bellowed a person in the crowd. This person—wonder of wonders!—was Tad Simpson.
The cheering was, considering the size of the crowd, tremendous. Bewildered and amazed, Captain Cy was assisted from the carriage and escorted to his front door. Amidst the handkerchief-waving, applauding people he saw Keturah Bangs and Alpheus Smalley and Angeline Phinney and Captain Salters—even Alonzo Snow, his recent opponent in town meeting. Josiah Dimick was there, too, apparently having a fit.
On the doorstep stood Georgianna and—and—yes, it was true—beside her, grandly extending a welcoming hand, the majestic form of the Honorable Heman Atkins. Some one else was there also, some one who hurriedly slipped back into the crowd as the owner of the Cy Whittaker place came up the path between the hedges.
Mr. Atkins shook the captain's hand and then, turning toward the people, held up his own for silence. To all outward appearance, he was still the great Heman, our district idol, philanthropist, and leader. His silk hat glistened as of old, his chest swelled in the old manner, his whiskers were just as dignified and awe-inspiring. For an instant, as he met the captain's eye, his own faltered and fell, and there was a pleading expression in his face, the lines of which had deepened just a little. But only for an instant; then he began to speak.
“Cyrus,” he said, “it is my pleasant duty, on behalf of your neighbors and friends here assembled, to welcome you to your—er—ancestral home after your trying illness. I do it heartily, sincerely, gladly. And it is the more pleasing to me to perform this duty, because, as I have explained publicly to my fellow-townspeople, all disagreement between us is ended. I was wrong—again I publicly admit it. A scheming blackleg, posing in the guise of a loving father, imposed upon me. I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you. Of you and of the little girl with you I ask pardon—I entreat forgiveness.”
He paused. Captain Cy, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth, nodded, and said briefly:
“All right, Heman. I forgive you.” Few heard him: the majority were applauding the congressman. Sylvanus Cahoon, whispering in the ear of “Uncle Bedny,” expressed as his opinion that “that was about as magnaminious a thing as ever I heard said. Yes, sir! mag-na-min-ious—that's what I call it.”
“But,” continued the great Atkins, “I have said all this to you before. What I have to say now—what I left my duties in Washington expressly to come here and say—is that Bayport thanks you, I thank you, for your tremendous assistance in obtaining the appropriation which is to make our harbor a busy port where our gallant fishing fleet may ride at anchor and unload its catch, instead of transferring it in dories as heretofore. Friends, I have already told you how this man”—laying a hand on the captain's shoulder—“came to the Capital and used his influence among his acquaintances in high places, with the result that the thirty thousand dollars, which I had despaired of getting, was added to the bill. I had the pleasure of voting for that bill. It passed. I am proud of that vote.”
Tremendous applause. Then some one called for three cheers for Mr. Atkins. They were given. But the recipient merely bowed.
“No, no,” he said deprecatingly. “No, no! not for me, my friends, much as I appreciate your gratitude. My days of public service are nearly at an end. As I have intimated to some of you already, I am seriously considering retiring from political life in the near future. But that is irrelevant; it is not material at present. To-day we meet, not to say farewell to the setting, but to greet the rising sun. I call for three cheers for our committee of one—Captain Cyrus Whittaker.”
When the uproar had at last subsided, there were demands for a speech from Captain Cy. But the captain, facing them, his arms about the delighted Bos'n, positively declined to orate.
“I—I'm ever so much obliged to you, folks,” he stammered. “I am so. But you'll have to excuse me from speechmaking. They—they didn't teach it afore the mast, where I went to college. Thank you, just the same. And do come and see me, everybody. Me and this little girl,” drawing Emily nearer to him, “will be real glad to have you.”
After the handshaking and congratulating were over, the crowd dispersed. It was a great occasion; all agreed to that, but the majority considered it a divided triumph. The captain had done a lot for the town, of course, but the Honorable Atkins had made another splendid impression by his address of welcome. Most people thought it as fine as his memorable effort at town meeting. Unlike that one, however, in this instance it is safe to say that none, not even the adoring and praise-chanting Miss Phinney, derived quite the enjoyment from the congressman's speech that Captain Cy did. It tickled his sense of humor.
“Ase,” he observed irrelevantly when the five—Tidditt, Georgianna, Bailey, Bos'n, and himself were at last alone again in the sitting room, “it DON'T pay to tip over a monument, does it—not out in public, I mean. You wouldn't want to see me blow up Bunker Hill, would you?”
“Blow up Bunker Hill!” repeated Asaph in alarmed amazement. “Godfrey scissors! I believe you're goin' loony. This day's been too much for you. What are you talkin' about?”
“Oh, nothin',” with a quiet chuckle. “I was thinkin' out loud, that's all. Did you ever notice them imitation stone pillars on Heman's house? They're holler inside, but you'd never guess it. And, long as you do know they're holler, you can keep a watch on 'em. And there's one thing sure,” he added, “they ARE ornamental.”
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