The Come-Outer chapel was as bare inside, almost, as it was without. Bare wooden walls, a beamed ceiling, a raised platform at one end with a table and chairs and the melodeon upon it, rows of wooden settees for the congregation—that was all. As the minister entered, the worshipers were standing up to sing. Three or four sputtering oil lamps but dimly illumined the place and made recognition uncertain.
The second verse of the hymn was just beginning as Ellery came in. Most of the forty or more grown people in the chapel were too busy wrestling with the tune to turn and look at him. A child here and there in the back row twisted a curious neck but twisted back again as parental fingers tugged at its ear. The minister tiptoed to a dark corner and took his stand in front of a vacant settee.
The man whom Ellery had decided must be Captain Eben Hammond was standing on the low platform beside the table. A quaint figure, patriarchal with its flowing white hair and beard, puritanical with its set, smooth-shaven lips and tufted brows. Captain Eben held an open hymn book back in one hand and beat time with the other. He wore brass-bowed spectacles well down toward the tip of his nose. Swinging a heavy, stubby finger and singing in a high, quavering voice of no particular register, he led off the third verse:
“Oh, who shall weep when the roll is called
And who shall shout for joy?”
The melodeon and the hymn book were in accord as to the tune, but Captain Eben and the various members of the congregation seemed to have a desire to improvise. They sang with spirit, however, and the rhythmic pat of feet grew louder and louder. Here and there men and women were swaying and rocking their bodies in time to the music. The chorus for each verse was louder than the one preceding it.
Another hymn was given out and sung. And another and still another. The windows rattled. The patting grew to a steady “thump! thump!” Momentary pauses between lines were punctuated by hallelujahs and amens. Standing directly in front of the minister was a six-foot, raw-boned individual whose clothes smelled strongly of fish, and whose hands, each swung at the end of an exposed five inches of hairy red wrist, looked like flippers. At the end of the third hymn this personage sprang straight up into the air, cracked the heels of a pair of red cowhide boots together, and whooped: “Glory be! Send the PAOWER!” in a voice like the screech of a northeast gale. Mr. Ellery, whom this gymnastic feat had taken by surprise, jumped in sympathy, although not as high.
The singing over, the worshipers sat down. Captain Eben took a figured handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. The thin, nearsighted young woman who had been humped over the keyboard of the melodeon, straightened up. The worshipers relaxed a little and began to look about.
Then the captain adjusted his spectacles and opened a Bible, which he took from the table beside him. Clearing his throat, he announced that he would read from the Word, tenth chapter of Jeremiah:
“'Thus saith the Lord. Learn not the way of the heathen, and be not dismayed at the signs of heaven; for the heathen are dismayed at them.
“'For the customs of the people are vain: for one cutteth a tree out of the forest, the work of the hands of the workmen, with the ax.'”
He read in a measured singsong, stopping occasionally to hold the book in a better light and peering at the fine print through his spectacles. And as he read, there was a sudden rustle on one of the back benches. A child had turned, stared, and pulled at its mother's sleeve. The rustle grew and spread.
Captain Eben drawled on to the twentieth verse:
“'My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken: my children are gone forth from me, and they are not: there is none to stretch forth my tent any more, and to set up my curtains!
“'For the pastors are become brutish and have not sought the Lord: therefore they shall not prosper, and—'”
“A-MEN!”
The shout came from the second bench from the front, where Ezekiel Bassett, clam digger and fervent religionist, was always to be found on meeting nights. Ezekiel was the father of Susannah B. Bassett, “Sukey B.” for short, who played the melodeon. He had been, by successive seizures, a Seventh Day Baptist, a Second Adventist, a Millerite, a Regular, and was now the most energetic of Come-Outers. Later he was to become a Spiritualist and preside at table-tipping seances.
Ezekiel's amen was so sudden and emphatic that it startled the reader into looking up. Instead of the faces of his congregation, he found himself treated to a view of their back hair. Nearly every head was turned toward the rear corner of the room, there was a buzz of whispering and, in front, many men and women were standing up to look. Captain Eben was scandalized.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “Is this a prayer meetin' or—or—what? Brethren and sisters, I must say—”
Ezekiel Bassett stepped forward and whispered in his ear. The captain's expression of righteous indignation changed to one of blank astonishment. He, too, gazed at the dark corner. Then his lips tightened and he rapped smartly on the table.
“Brethren and sisters,” he thundered, in the voice which, of old, had enforced obedience aboard his coasting schooner, “remember this is the house of the Lord. Be reverent!”
He waited until every eye had swung about to meet his. Then he regarded his abashed but excited hearers with a steady and prolonged stare.
“My friends,” he said, “let us bow in prayer.”
John Ellery could have repeated that prayer, almost word for word, years after that night. The captain prayed for the few here gathered together: Let them be steadfast. Let them be constant in the way. The path they were treading might be narrow and beset with thorns, but it was the path leading to glory.
“Scoffers may sneer,” he declared, his voice rising; “they may make a mock of us, they may even come into Thy presence to laugh at us, but theirs is the laugh that turns to groanin'. O Lord, strengthen us to-night to speak what's in our hearts, without fear.” (“A-men!”) “To prophesy in Thy name! To bid the mockers and them that dare—dare to profane this sanctuary be careful. Hired singers and trumpets and vain shows we have not” (“Thank the Lord! Amen!”), “but the true faith and the joy of it we do have.” (“Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Glory!”)
And so on, his remarks becoming more personal and ever pointing like a compass needle to the occupant of that seat in the corner. The minister's determination to attend a Come-Outer meeting, though it had reached the sticking point only a half hour before, was the result of considerable deliberation. He had argued with himself and had made up his mind to find out for himself just what these people did. He was finding out, certainly. His motives were good and he had come with no desire to scoff, but, for the life of him, he could not help feeling like a criminal. Incidentally, it provoked him to feel that way.
“O Lord,” prayed Captain Hammond, the perspiration in beads on his forehead, “Thou hast said that the pastors become brutish and have not sought Thee and that they shan't prosper. Help us tonight to labor with this one that he may see his error and repent in sackcloth and ashes.”
They sang once more, a hymn that prophesied woe to the unbeliever. Then Ezekiel Bassett rose to “testify.” The testimony was mainly to the effect that he was happy because he had fled to the ark of safety while there was yet time.
“I found out,” he shouted, “that fancy music and—ah—and—ah—sot sermons and fine duds and suchlike wa'n't goin' to do ME no good. I needed somethin' else. I needed good times in my religion” (“Hallelujah!”) “and I've found 'em right here. Yes, sir! right here. And I say this out loud,” turning to glare at the intruder, “and I don't care who comes to poke fun at me for sayin' it.” (“Amen!”)
A sharp-nosed female followed Mr. Bassett. She spoke with evident feeling and in a voice that trembled and shook when her emotion carried it aloft. SHE'D had enough of high-toned religion. Yes, and of them that upheld it. When her brother Simeon was took bad with phthisic, “wheezin' like a busted bellerses” and 'twas “up and down, trot, trot, trot,” to fetch and carry for him day in and night out, did the folks from the Reg'lar church help her? She guessed NOT. The only one that came nigh her was Laviny Pepper, and she came only to gas and gabble and find out things that wa'n't none of her business. What help she got was from a Come-Outer, from Eben Hammond, bless his good soul! (“Amen!”) That phthisic settled her for Reg'larism. Yes, and for them that preached it, too. So there!
Captain Eben called for more testimony. But the testifiers were, to use the old minstrel joke, backward in coming forward that evening. At an ordinary meeting, by this time, the shouts and enthusiasm would have been at their height and half a dozen Come-Outers on their feet at once, relating their experiences and proclaiming their happiness. But tonight there was a damper; the presence of the leader of the opposition cast a shadow over the gathering. Only the bravest attempted speech. The others sat silent, showing their resentment and contempt by frowning glances over their shoulders and portentous nods one to the other.
“Come, brethren,” commanded the captain sharply; “we are waitin' to hear you. Are you afraid? If your faith is real, nothin' nor nobody should keep you from cryin' it out loud. Now, if ever, is the accepted time. Speak up for the spirit that's in you.”
An elderly man, grave and quiet, arose and said a few words, dignified and solemn words of prayer and thankfulness for the comfort this little society of true believers had been to him. Ellery realized that here was another sort of Come-Outer, one of the Hammond type. Evidently, they were not all like Ezekiel and the shrill-voiced woman.
Then, from the settee in front of him, rose the lengthy and fishy person with the cowhide boots and enormous hands. His name was Josiah Badger and he was, according to Trumet's estimate, “a little mite lackin' in his top riggin'.” He stuttered, and this infirmity became more and more apparent as he grew eloquent.
“I—I ain't afraid,” he proclaimed. “They can call me a C-C-Come-Outer all they want to. I—I don't care if they do. Let 'em, I say; l-let 'em! They can p-p-poke their fun and p-p-p-pup-pup-poke it, but I tell 'em to h-heave ahead and p-pup-pup-POKE. When I used to g-go to their old Reg'lar meetin' house, all I done was to go to sleep. But I don't go to sleep here, glory hallelujah! No, sir! There's too much b-b-blessed noise and we have too g-good times to g-go to sleep here. That old K-Kyan Pepper called me t-town f-fool t'other day. T-tut-town fool's what he called me. Says I to him, says I: 'You-you-y-you ain't got spunk enough to be a fool,' I says, 'unless Laviny says you c-can be. You old Reg'lar p-p-pepper shaker, you!”
By this time tee-hees from the children and chuckles from some of the older members interfered with Mr. Badger's fervent but jerky discourse. Captain Eben struck the table smartly.
“Silence!” he thundered. “Silence! Brother Badger, I beg your pardon for 'em. Go on!”
But Josiah's train of thought had evidently been derailed by the interruption.
“I—I—I cal'late that's about all,” he stammered and sat down.
The captain looked over the meeting.
“I'm ashamed,” he said, “ashamed of the behavior of some of us in the Lord's house. This has been a failure, this service of ours. We have kept still when we should have justified our faith, and allowed the presence of a stranger to interfere with our duty to the Almighty. And I will say,” he added, his voice rising and trembling with indignation, “to him who came here uninvited and broke up this meetin', that it would be well for him to remember the words of Scriptur', 'Woe unto ye, false prophets and workers of iniquity.' Let him remember what the Divine wisdom put into my head to read to-night: 'The pastors have become brutish and have not sought the Lord; therefore they shall not prosper.'”
“Amen!” “Amen!” “Amen!” “So be it!” The cries came from all parts of the little room. They ceased abruptly, for John Ellery was on his feet.
“Captain Hammond,” he said, “I realize that I have no right to speak in this building, but I must say one word. My coming here to-night may have been a mistake; I'm inclined to think it was. But I came not, as you seem to infer, to sneer or to scoff; certainly I had no wish to disturb your service. I came because I had heard repeatedly, since my arrival in this town, of this society and its meetings. I had heard, too, that there seemed to be a feeling of antagonism, almost hatred, against me among you here. I couldn't see why. Most of you have, I believe, been at one time members of the church where I preach. I wished to find out for myself how much of truth there was in the stories I had heard and to see if a better feeling between the two societies might not be brought about. Those were my reasons for coming here to-night. As for my being a false prophet and a worker of iniquity”—he smiled—“well, there is another verse of Scripture I would call to your attention: 'Judge not, that ye be not judged.'”
He sat down. There was silence for a moment and then a buzz of whispering. Captain Eben, who had heard him with a face of iron hardness, rapped the table.
“We will sing in closin',” he said, “the forty-second hymn. After which the benediction will be pronounced.”
The Regular minister left the Come-Outers' meeting with the unpleasant conviction that he had blundered badly. His visit, instead of tending toward better understanding and more cordial relationship, had been regarded as an intrusion. He had been provoked into a public justification, and now he was quite sure that he would have been more politic to remain silent. He realized that the evening's performance would cause a sensation and be talked about all over town. The Come-Outers would glory in their leader's denunciation of him, and his own people would perhaps feel that it served him right. If he had only told Mrs. Coffin of what he intended to do. Yet he had not told her because he meant to do it anyhow. Altogether it was a rather humiliating business.
So that old bigot was the Van Horne girl's “uncle.” It hardly seemed possible that she, who appeared so refined and ladylike when he met her at the parsonage, should be a member of that curious company. When he rose to speak he had seen her in the front row, beside the thin, middle-aged female who had entered the chapel with Captain Hammond and with her. She was looking at him intently. The lamp over the speaker's table had shone full on her face and the picture remained in his memory. He saw her eyes and the wavy shadows of her hair on her forehead.
He stepped off the platform, across the road, out of the way of homeward-bound Come-Outers, and stood there, thinking. The fog was as heavy and wet as ever; in fact, it was almost a rain. The wind was blowing hard from the northwest. The congregation dispersed in chattering groups, their lanterns dipping and swinging like fireflies. The chatter dealt entirely with one subject—himself. He heard his name mentioned at least twenty times. Out of the gusty, dripping blackness came Mr. Badger's voice.
“By time!” crowed Josiah, “he was took down a few p-p-pup-pegs, wa'n't he! My! how Eben did g-gi-gi-give it to him. He looked toler'ble white under the gills when he riz up to heave out his s-s-sus-sassy talk. And foolish, too. I cal'late I won't be the only town fuf-fuf-fool from now on. He! he!”
The noises died away in the distance. Within the chapel the tramp of heavy boots sounded as the lights were blown out, one by one. The minister frowned, sighed, and turned homeward. It is not pleasant to be called a fool, even by a recognized member of the fraternity.
He had taken but a few steps when there was a rustle in the wet grass behind him.
“Mr. Ellery,” whispered a voice, “Mr. Ellery, may I speak to you just a moment?”
He wheeled in surprise.
“Why! why, Miss Van Horne!” he exclaimed. “Is it you?”
“Mr. Ellery,” she began, speaking hurriedly and in a low voice, “I—I felt that I must say a word to you before—”
She paused and glanced back at the chapel. Ezekiel Bassett, the janitor, having extinguished the last lamp, had emerged from the door and was locking up. In another moment he clumped past them in the middle of the road, the circle of light from his lantern just missing them as they stood in the grass at the side under the hornbeam and blackberry bushes. He was alone; Sukey B. had gone on before, other and younger masculine escort having been providentially provided.
Mr. Bassett was out of hearing before Grace finished her sentence. The minister was silent, waiting and wondering.
“I felt,” she said, “that I must see you and—explain. I am SO sorry you came here to-night. Oh, I wish you hadn't. What made you do it?”
“I came,” began Ellery, somewhat stiffly, “because I—well, because I thought it might be a good thing to do. As I said—”
“Yes, I know. But it wasn't. It was so—so—”
“So foolish. Thank you, I'm aware of it. I've heard myself called a fool already since I left your church. Not that I needed to hear it. I realize the fact.”
There was a bitterness in his tone, unmistakable. And a little laugh from his companion did not tend to soothe his feelings.
“Thank you,” he said. “Perhaps it is funny. I did not find it so. Good evening.”
This was priggish, but it must be borne in mind that John Ellery was very, very fresh from the theological school, where young divines are taught to take themselves seriously. He was ashamed of himself as soon as he said it, which proved that his case was not beyond hope.
The girl detained him as he was turning away.
“I wasn't laughing at that,” she said. “I know who called you that—that name. It was Josiah Badger, and he really is one, you know. I was thinking of his testimony in meeting and how he called Ky—Abishai—a pepper shaker. That was ridiculous enough, but it reminded me of something else about Mr. Pepper, and I HAD to laugh. It wasn't at you, truly.”
So the minister begged her pardon; also he remained where he was, and heard the drops from the tree patter hollow on his hat.
“I came after you,” went on Grace rapidly and with nervous haste, “because I felt that you ought not to misjudge my uncle for what he said to-night. He wouldn't have hurt your feelings for the world. He is a good man and does good to everybody. If you only knew the good he does do, you wouldn't—you wouldn't DARE think hardly of him.”
She stamped her foot in the wet grass as she said it. She was evidently in earnest. But Ellery was not in the mood to be greatly impressed by Eben Hammond's charity or innate goodness. The old tavern keeper's references to himself were too fresh in his mind. “False prophet” and “worker of iniquity!”
“I'm not judging your uncle,” he declared. “It seemed to me that the boot was on the other leg.”
“I know, but you do judge him, and you mustn't. You see, he thought you had come to make fun of him—and us. Some of the Regular people do, people who aren't fit to tie his shoes. And so he spoke against you. He'll be sorry when he thinks it over. That's what I came to tell you. I ask your pardon for—for him.”
“Why—why, that's all right. I think I understood—”
“I'm not asking it because he's a Come-Outer and you're a Regular minister. He isn't ashamed of his religion. Neither am I. I'm a Come-Outer, too.”
“Yes. I—I supposed you were.”
“Yes, I am. There, good night, Mr. Ellery. All I ask is that you don't think too hardly of uncle. He didn't mean it.”
She turned away now, and it was the minister who detained her.
“I've been thinking,” he said slowly, for in his present state of mind it was a hard thing to say, “that perhaps I ought to apologize, too. I'm afraid I did disturb your service and I'm sorry. I meant well, but—What's that? Rain?”
There was no doubt about it; it was rain and plenty of it. It came in a swooping downpour that beat upon the trees and bushes and roared upon the roof of the chapel. The minister hurriedly raised his umbrella.
“Here!” he cried, “let me—Miss Van Horne! Where are you?”
The answer came from a short distance down the “Turn-off.”
“Good night,” called the girl. “I must run.”
Evidently, she WAS running. Therefore the young man ran after her. He caught up with her in a moment, in spite of some stumbles over the rough road.
“Here!” he commanded, “you must take the umbrella. Really, you must. You haven't one and you'll be wet through.”
She pushed the umbrella aside.
“No, no,” she answered. “I don't need it; I'm used to wet weather; truly I am. And I don't care for this hat; it's an old one. You have a long way to go and I haven't. Please, Mr. Ellery, I can't take it.”
“Very well,” was the sternly self-sacrificing reply, “then I shall certainly go with you.”
“But I don't wish you to.”
“I can't help that. I'm not going to let you go unprotected through this flood. Especially as you might have been at home before this if you hadn't stopped to speak with me.”
“But you mustn't.”
“I shall.”
Here was the irresistible force and the immovable object. They stood stock still in the middle of the road, while the rain drops jumped as they struck the umbrella top. The immovable object, being feminine, voiced the unexpected.
“All right,” she said; “then I suppose I shall have to take it.”
“What?”
“The umbrella. I'm sorry, and you'll get dreadfully wet, but it's your own fault.”
He could feel her hand near his own on the handle. He did not relinquish his grasp.
“No,” he said. “I think, on the whole, that that is unreasonable. I SHOULD get wet and, though I don't mind it when it is necessary, I—”
“Well?” rather sharply, “what are you going to do?”
“Go with you as far as your gate. I'm sorry, if my company is distasteful, but—”
He did not finish the sentence, thinking, it may be, that she might finish it for him. But she was silent, merely removing her hand from the handle. She took a step forward; he followed, holding the umbrella above her head. They plashed on, without speaking, through the rapidly forming puddles.
Presently she stumbled and he caught her arm to prevent her falling. To his surprise he felt that arm shake in his grasp.
“Why, Miss Van Horne!” he exclaimed in great concern, “are you crying? I beg your pardon. Of course I wouldn't think of going another step with you. I didn't mean to trouble you. I only—If you will please take this umbrella—”
Again he tried to transfer the umbrella and again she pushed it away.
“I—I'm not crying,” she gasped; “but—oh, dear! this is SO funny!”
Mr. Ellery gazed blankly at her through the rain-streaked dark. This was the most astonishing young person he had met in his twenty-three years of worldly experience.
“Funny!” he repeated. “Well, perhaps it is. Our ideas of fun seem to differ. I—”
“Oh, but it IS so funny. You don't understand. What do you think your congregation would say if they knew you had been to a Come-Outers' meeting and then insisted on seeing a Come-Outer girl home?”
John Ellery swallowed hard. A vision of Captain Elkanah Daniels and the stately Miss Annabel rose before his mind's eye. He hadn't thought of his congregation in connection with this impromptu rescue of a damsel in distress.
“Ha, ha!” he laughed mournfully. “I guess it is rather funny, after all.”
“It certainly is. Now will you leave me and go back to your parsonage?”
“Not unless you take the umbrella.”
“Very well. It is a beautiful evening for a walk, don't you think so? Mr. Ellery, I'm afraid we shan't have you with us in Trumet very long.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, because you're so very, very original. Are your sermons that way, too? Captain Elkanah doesn't like his ministers to be too original.”
The minister set his teeth. At that moment he felt an intense desire to bid the Daniels family mind their own business. Then another thought struck him.
“Possibly your Uncle Eben might be somewhat—er—surprised if he knew you were with me. Perhaps he might have something to say on the subject.”
“I guess he would. We shall know very soon. I ran away and left him with Mrs. Poundberry, our housekeeper. He doesn't know where I am. I wonder he hasn't turned back to look for me before this. We shall probably meet him at any moment.”
She seemed to enjoy the prospect of the meeting. Ellery wondered what on earth he should say to Captain Hammond—that is, provided he was allowed to say anything.
Suddenly a heavier gust of rain and wind beat upon them. The minister struggled with the umbrella. The gust passed and with it the fog. An instant before it had been all about them, shutting them within inky walls. Now it was not. Through the rain he could see the shadowy silhouettes of bushes at the road side. Fifty yards away the lighted windows of the Hammond tavern gleamed yellow. Farther on, over a ragged, moving fringe of grass and weeds, was a black flat expanse—the bay. And a little way out upon that expanse twinkled the lights of a vessel. A chain rattled. Voices shouting exultingly came to their ears.
“Why!” exclaimed Grace in excited wonder, “it's the packet! She was due this morning, but we didn't expect her in till to-morrow. How did she find her way in the fog? I must tell uncle.”
She started to run toward the house. The minister would have followed with the umbrella, but she stopped him.
“No, Mr. Ellery,” she urged earnestly. “No, please don't. I'm all right now. Thank you. Good night.”
A few steps farther on she turned.
“I hope Cap'n Elkanah won't know,” she whispered, the laugh returning to her voice. “Good night.”
Ellery stood still in the rain and watched her. He saw her pass the lighted windows and open a door. Into the yellow radiance she flashed and disappeared. A minute more and the bulky form of Eben Hammond, lantern in hand, a sou'wester on his head and his shoulders working themselves into an oilskin coat, burst out of the door and hurriedly limped down toward the shore. On the threshold, framed in light, stood his ward, gazing after him. And the minister gazed at her.
From the bay came the sound of oars in row-locks. A boat was approaching the wharf. And suddenly from the boat came a hail.
“Halloo! Ahoy, dad! Is that you?”
There was an answering shout from the wharf; a shout of joy. Then a rattle of oars and a clamor of talk. And Grace still stood in the doorway, waiting.
The lantern bobbed up the slope. As it reached the tavern gateway, the minister saw that it was now carried by a tall, active man, who walked with a seaman's stride and roll. Captain Eben was close beside him, talking excitedly.
They entered the yard.
“Grace! Grace!” screamed Captain Eben. “Gracie, girl, look who's come! Look!”
The tall man ran forward.
“Hi, Grace!” he cried in a deep, hearty voice. “Is that you? Ain't you got a word for your old messmate?”
The girl stepped out into the rain.
“Why! why, NAT!” she cried.
The big man picked her up bodily in his arms and carried her into the house. Captain Eben followed and the door closed.
John Ellery picked his way homeward through the puddles and the pouring rain.
He found Keziah in the sitting room, seated by the table, evidently writing a letter. She looked tired and grave—for her.
“Well!” she exclaimed as he entered. “I guess you're soppin' now, sartin sure. There's a light in your room. Take off your wet things and throw 'em down to me, and I'll dry 'em in the kitchen. Better leave your boots here now and stand that umbrella in the sink. The kettle's on the stove; you'd better have somethin' hot—ginger tea or somethin'. I told you not to go out such a night as this. Where in the world have you been?”
The minister said he would tell her all about it in the morning. Just now he thought he had better go up and take off his wet clothes. He declined the ginger tea, and, after removing his boots, went upstairs to his room.
Keziah dipped her pen in the ink and went on with her letter.
“I inclose ten dollars,” she wrote. “It is all I can send you now. More than I ought to afford. Goodness knows why I send anything. You don't deserve it. But while I live and you do I can't—”
The minister called from the landing.
“Here is my coat,” he said. “The cuffs and lower part of the sleeves are pretty wet. By the way, the packet came in to-night. They didn't expect her so soon on account of the fog. There was a passenger aboard whom I think must be that Nathaniel Hammond you told me of.”
Keziah's pen stopped. The wet coat struck the hall floor with a soft thump. The tick of the clock sounded loud in the room. A sheet of wind-driven rain lashed the windows.
“Did you hear?” called the minister. “I said that Nathaniel Hammond, Captain Eben's son, came on the packet. I didn't meet him, but I'm sure it was he. Er—Mrs. Coffin, are you there? Do you hear me?”
The housekeeper laid the pen down beside the unfinished letter.
“Yes,” she said, “I hear you. Good night.”
For minutes she sat there, leaning back in her chair and staring at the wall. Then she rose, went into the hall, picked up the coat, and took it out into the kitchen, where she hung it on the clotheshorse by the cook stove. After a while she returned to the table and took up the pen. Her face in the lamplight looked more tired and grave than ever.
It was a long time before John Ellery fell asleep. He had much to think of—of the morrow, of the talk his rash visit to the chapel would cause, of the explanation he must make to Captain Elkanah and the rest. But the picture that was before his closed eyes as he lay there was neither of Captain Elkanah nor the parish committee; it was that of a girl, with dark hair and a slim, graceful figure, standing in a lighted doorway and peering out into the rain.
When Ellery came down to breakfast the rain was over, the wind had gone down, and the morning sunshine was pouring in at the dining-room windows. Outside the lilacs were in bud, the bluebirds were singing, and there was a sniff of real spring in the air. The storm was at an end and yet the young minister was conscious of a troublesome feeling that, for him, it was just beginning.
However, he had determined while dressing to make a clean breast of it to his housekeeper—a nominally clean breast, that is. There were some things he would not tell her, some that he would not speak of to anyone, the picture in the doorway for instance. True, it was only a picture and of no moment, but it was pleasant to remember. One of the very few pleasant things connected with the previous evening.
So, as they sat opposite each other at the table, he began his confession. The muffins scorched in the oven and the coffeepot boiled over as he told his story, for Keziah was too much interested to think of trifles. Interested and astounded, for, since Come-Outers had been Come-Outers and the split in the society took place, no Regular minister had crossed the threshold of a seceder's dwelling, much less attended their services and walked home with a member of their congregation. She knew what this amazing procedure was likely to mean, if her parson did not.
“Well!” she exclaimed when the recital was finished. “Well!”
“I—I'm afraid I was too hasty,” observed Mr. Ellery thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would have been wiser not to have done it.”
“Perhaps 'twould. Yes, I wouldn't wonder a mite.”
“It will be talked about some, I suppose. Don't you think so?”
“Some, yes.”
“I'm afraid some of my own people may think it queer.”
“Queer! Say, Mr. Ellery, you remind me of a half-breed Portugee feller—half Portugee and a half Indian—that went to sea with my father, back in the old days. He hardly ever spoke a word, mainly grunted and made signs. One day he and another fo'mast hand went aloft in a calm to do somethin' to the tops'l. The half-breed—they called him Billy Peter and he always called himself that—was out on the end of the yard, with his foot on the rope underneath, I forget the name of it, when the tarred twine he had for a shoe string caught. Tryin' to get it loose it broke sudden, his shoe pulled off, he lost his balance and fell. He grabbed at the yard, saved himself for a second, fell again, grabbed the next yard, then a rope and so on down, grabbin' and pullin' all the way. First his shoe hit the deck, then his sheath knife, then a piece of rope, and finally himself, landin' right on top of the Irish cook who was goin' aft from the galley with father's dinner.
“There was the greatest racket you ever heard, pans fallin', dishes smashin', men yellin', and the cook swearin'. Father run on deck, thinkin' the ship was dismasted. He found the cook and Billy Peter sittin' in the middle of the mess, lookin' at each other. Neither was hurt a mite. The mates and the crew, part of 'em, was standin' starin' at the pair.
“'For Heaven sakes!' says father; 'what happened?'
“The half-breed looked up and rubbed his head. 'Ugh!' says he, 'Billy Peter bust his shoe string.'
“The cook, his name was O'Neill, looked at him disgusted. 'Well, begorra!' says he, 'Billy Peter, you don't exaggerate none, do ye! It's a good thing BOTH of 'em didn't bust or we'd have foundered.'
“You remind me of Billy Peter, Mr. Ellery, you don't exaggerate. Queer? Some folks think your goin' to that meetin' last night QUEER? At this moment one half of Trumet is talkin' about it and runnin' out to tell the other half. I guess I'd better hurry up with this breakfast. We're goin' to have callers.”
Strange to say, however, this prophecy of early morning visitors did not prove true. Nine o'clock, then ten, and no visitor came to the parsonage. Mrs. Coffin affirmed that she did not understand it. Where was Didama? Where Lavinia Pepper? Had the “Trumet Daily Advertiser” suspended publication?
At half past ten the gate slammed. Keziah peered from the window.
“Humph!” she ejaculated. “Here comes Elkanah and he's got storm signals set, by the looks. He's comin' after you, Mr. Ellery.”
“Very well,” was the calm reply; “let him come.”
“What are you goin' to say to him?”
“Nothing, except that I did what I considered right at the time. Show him into the study, Mrs. Coffin, please.”
Captain Daniels marched to the dining-room door, his gold-headed cane marking time like a drumbeat. He nodded curtly to Keziah, who answered the knock, and stepped across the threshold.
“Hum—ha!” he barked. “Is the minister—hum—ha! is Mr. Ellery in?”
“Yes, he's in.”
“Tell him I want to see him.”
The housekeeper announced the visitor.
“He's as sour as a skimmin' of last week's milk,” she whispered. “Don't be afraid of him, though.”
“Oh, I'm not. Show him in.”
“All right. Say, Mr. Ellery, it's none of my business, but I wouldn't say anything about your seein' Grace home. That's none of HIS business, either, or anybody else's.”
The head of the parish committee stalked into the study and the door closed behind him. A rumble of voices in animated conversation succeeded.
Mrs. Coffin went out into the kitchen and resumed her business of making a dried-apple pie. There was a hot fire in the stove and she opened the back door to let in the fresh air. She worked briskly, rolling out the dough, filling the deep dish, and pinking the edges of the upper crust with a fork. She was thinking as she worked, but not of the minister or his visitor.
She put the pie in the oven and set the damper. And, as she knelt by the stove, something struck her lightly on the back of the neck. She looked up and about her, but there was no one in sight. Then she picked up the object which had struck her. It was a cranberry, withered and softened by the winter frosts.
She looked at the cranberry, then at the open door, and her eyes twinkled. Running quickly to the threshold she peered out. The back yard was, apparently, empty, save for a few hens belonging to near neighbors, and these had stopped scratching for a living and were huddled near the fence.
“Hum!” she mused. “You rascal! Eddie Snow, if it's you, I'll be after you in a minute. Just because you're big enough to quit school and drive store wagon is no reason why I can't—Hey? Oh!”
She was looking down below the door, which opened outward and was swung partly back on its hinges. From under the door projected a boot, a man's boot and one of ample size.
Keziah's cheeks, already red from the heat of the stove, reddened still more. Her lips twitched and her eyes sparkled.
“Hum!” she said again. “They say you can tell the Old Scratch by his footprints, even if you can't smell the sulphur. Anyhow, you can tell a Hammond by the size of his boots. Come out from behind that door this minute. Ain't you ashamed of yourself?”
The owner of the boot stepped forth from behind the door and seized her by both hands.
“Halloo, Keziah!” he cried joyfully. “My, but it's good to see you.”
“Halloo, Nat!” said Keziah heartily. “It's kind of good to see you, too.”
The rest of him was in keeping with his boots. He was big and broad-shouldered and bearded. His face, above the beard, was tanned to a deep reddish brown, and the corners of his eyes were marked with dozens of tiny wrinkles. He was dressed in blue cloth and wore a wide-brimmed, soft felt hat. He entered the kitchen and tossed the hat into a corner.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “Why don't you act surprised to see a feller? Here I've been cruisin' from the Horn to Barnegat and back again, and you act as if I'd just dropped in to fetch the cup of molasses I borrowed yesterday. What do you mean by it?”
“Oh, I heard you'd made port.”
“Did, hey? That's Trumet, sure pop. You ain't the only one. I sneaked off acrost lots so's to dodge the gang of neighbors that I knew would be sailin' into our yard, the whole fleet loaded to the gunwale with questions. Wanted to see you first, Keziah.”
“Yes. So, instead of callin' like a Christian, you crept up the back way and threw cranberries at me. Ain't you ashamed of yourself?”
“Not a mite.” He took a handful of the frostbitten berries from his coat pocket and inspected them lovingly. “Ain't they fine?” he asked, crunching two or three between his teeth. “I picked 'em up as I came along. I tell you, that's the home taste, all right.”
“Don't eat those frozen things. They'll give you your never-get-over.”
“What? Cape Cod cranberries! Never in the world. I'd rather eat sand down here than the finest mug my steward can cook. Tell you what I'll do, though; I'll swear off on the cranberries if you'll give me a four-inch slice of that pie I saw you put in the oven. Dried-apple, I'll bet my sou'wester. Think you might ask a feller to sit down. Ain't you glad to see me?”
Mrs. Coffin pulled forward one of the kitchen chairs. He seated himself on it and it groaned under his weight.
“Whew!” he whistled. “Never made to stand rough weather, was it? Well, AIN'T you glad?”
Keziah looked at him gravely.
“You know I'm glad, Nat,” she said.
“So? I hoped you would be, but I did want to hear you say it. Now you come to anchor yourself and let's have a talk. I've been countin' on it ever since we set tops'ls off Surinam.”
The housekeeper took the other chair.
“How are you—” she began. He stopped her.
“S-shh!” he interrupted. “Don't say anything for a minute. Let me look at you. Just as clean and wholesome and good-lookin' as ever. They don't make girls like that anywhere else but down on this old sand bar. Not a day older, by the jumpin'—”
She held up her hand.
“Hush, Nat,” she protested; “don't talk foolish. Girl? Not a day older? Why, if feelin's count for anything, I'm as old as Methusaleh. Haven't I had enough to make me old?”
He was grave immediately.
“I beg your pardon, Keziah,” he said. “I'm a dough head, that's a fact. I hadn't forgot about Sol, but I was so glad to be home again and to see dad and Grace and the old town and you that everything else flew out of my mind. Poor Sol! I liked him.”
“He liked you, too. No wonder, considerin' what you did to—”
“Belay! Never mind that. Poor chap! Well, he's rid of his sufferin's at last. Tell me about it, if you can without bringin' all the trouble back too plain.”
So she told him of her brother's sickness and death, of having to give up the old home, and, finally, of her acceptance of the housekeeper's position. He listened, at first with sympathy and then with suppressed indignation.
“By the jumpin' Moses!” he exclaimed. “And Elkanah was goin' to turn you out of house and home. The mean, pompous old—”
“Hush! hush! he's in there with Mr. Ellery.”
“Who? Elkanah?”
“Yes; they're in the study.”
“By the jumpin'—Let me talk to him for a few minutes. I'LL tell him what's good for his health. You just listen.”
He rose from the chair, but she made him sit down again.
“No, no,” she protested. “He wasn't to blame. He had to have his rent and I didn't feel that I could afford to keep up a whole house, just for myself. And, besides, I ought to be thankful to him, I suppose. He got me this place.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he did. I rather guess Zeb Mayo or somebody may have suggested it to him first, but—”
“Humph! I rather guess so, too.”
“Well, you can't always tell. Sometimes when you really get inside of a person you find a generous streak that—”
“Not in a Daniels. Anybody that got inside of Elkanah would find nothin' but Elkanah there, and 'twould be crowded at that. So he's talkin' to the new parson, hey? Bossin' him, too, I'll bet.”
“I ain't so sure. Mr. Ellery's young, but he's got a mind of his own.”
Captain Hammond chuckled and slapped his knee.
“Ho, ho!” he laughed. “I've been hearin' somethin' about that mind. Went to the chapel last night, I understand, and he and dad had a set-to. Oh, I heard about it! Wish I might have been there.”
“How does your father act about it?”
“'Bout the way a red-hot stove acts when you spill water on it; every time he thinks of the minister he sizzles. Ho, ho! I do wish I could have been there.”
“What does Grace say?”
“Oh, she doesn't say much. I wouldn't wonder if she felt the way I do, though we both keep quiet. I'll tell you, between ourselves and the ship's pump, that I sort of glory in the young chap's spunk.”
“Good! So do I. I like him.”
“See here, Keziah! I'm gettin' frightened. You ain't settin' your cap to be a parson's wife, are you? Because—”
“Don't be silly. I might adopt him, but that's all, I guess.”
Her friend leaned forward.
“Keziah,” he said earnestly, “there's no sense in your slavin' yourself to death here. I can think of a good deal pleasanter berth than that. Pleasanter for me, anyhow, and I'd do my best to make it pleasant for you. You've only got to say the word and—No? Well, then all I can do is hope through another voyage.”
“Please don't, Nat. You know.”
“No, I don't know.”
“Well, perhaps you don't. But I know. I like you, Nat. I count on you as the straightest, truest friend I've got; and I want to keep on countin' on you just that way. Mayn't I?”
“'Course you can, Keziah. But—”
“Then don't say another word, please.”
He sighed and looked out at the open door. The kitchen clock ticked loud in the silence.
“All right,” he said at last. “All right, but I'm goin' to keep on hopin'.”
“You mustn't, Nat.”
“Keziah, when you set your foot down you're pretty stubborn; but I've got somethin' of a foot myself. You remember you said so a few minutes ago. Hi, hum! Well, speakin' of dad reminds me that I'm kind of worried about him.”
“You are? Why? Isn't he well?”
“Pretty well, but he ain't strong, and he gets too excited over things like last night's foolishness. Grace tells me that the doctor says he must be careful or he'll drop off sudden some of these days. He had a shock five or six years ago, a little one, and I've been anxious about him ever since. I've got to go to New York off and on for the next month; after that I hope to be home for a spell and I can keep an eye on him. Keziah, if you'll listen I'll whisper somethin' to you—religion's a good thing and so's a mustard plaster, but both of 'em can be put on too strong. Dad is just a little mite crazy on Come-Outers, I'm afraid.”
“Oh, no, I guess not! You mustn't worry. How did Grace look to you?”
“Like the harbor light on a stormy night. She's a brick, that girl, and gets prettier every minute. Wonder to me some of the young chaps down here don't carry her off by main strength. She'll make somebody a good wife.”
“Um-hm. Have—have you ever thought of her that way yourself?”
“Keziah!”
“Well, don't get mad. I think a lot of Grace, and I don't know anyone I'd rather see you marry.”
“I do. Keziah, that's enough of that. Are you and dad in partnership to get me spliced and out of the way? He was at me this mornin' along the same line. Don't say anything like that again, even in fun. YOU know why.”
“All right, all right. Now tell me about yourself. Have you had a good voyage? How do you like your owners? How did Zach Foster ever get the packet in through yesterday's fog?”
“Voyage was all right. Some rugged weather on the trip out, but homeward bound we slid along like a slush bucket on a greased plank. Owners are all right. Good people as ever I sailed for. As for Zach and the packet—Ho, ho!”
He laughed, rocking back and forth on the chair, which creaked in sympathy.
“What's the joke?” demanded the housekeeper. “Don't do that! That chair wasn't made for elephants to use.”
“Hey? 'Tis pretty weak in the knees, ain't it? Dad would say 'twas a piece with the creed of those that owned it. I—What's that? Somebody's comin'. I'm goin' to clear out. I don't want to be put through my catechism yet a while.”
“No, you mustn't go. I want you to meet Mr. Ellery. You sit out on the wash bench by the back door till I get rid of whoever 'tis that's comin'. Scoot!”
Nat “scooted,” stopping to snatch up his hat as he ran. Keziah went into the dining room and admitted Captain Zebedee Mayo, who was panting from the exertion of his walk.
“Whew!” puffed Captain Zeb, mopping his forehead. “How be you, Keziah? What? You ain't all alone! Thought you'd have a cabin full of gab machines by this time. Have they been and gone?”
“No, they haven't been. I—My land, my pie!”
She rushed into the kitchen and snatched the pastry from the oven. Her new caller followed her.
“So they ain't been, hey?” he said. “That's queer.”
“Elkanah's here. He's in there with the minister now.”
“He is? Givin' the young feller Hail Columby, I cal'late. Well, now, he shan't. He, he! When they told me how the minister passed old hop-and-go-fetch-it what was due him at the chapel last night I riz up and hoorayed till my wife shut the windows. She said the neighbors all thought I was loony, anyhow, and I needn't prove it to 'em. He, he! But Elkanah ain't got any funny bone. He's as solemn as a stuffed owl, and he'll—Well, I'm goin' to put MY oar in. I'm parish committee, too, I cal'late, and I've got somethin' to say, even if I wa'n't christened Daniels. Here goes!”
He headed for the study, but before he crossed the threshold of the kitchen Ellery and his visitor came out into the dining room. Captain Elkanah's face was flushed, and he fidgeted. The minister looked determined but calm.
“Ahoy there, Elkanah!” hailed Zebedee cheerfully. “'Mornin', Mr. Ellery. Been havin' officers' counsel, have you?”
“Good morning, Captain Mayo,” said the minister.
“'Mornin', Zebedee,” grunted Elkanah. “I have—hum—ha!—been discussing the regrettable affair of last night with Mr. Ellery. I have tried—hum—ha! to show him that respectable people of our society don't associate with Come-Outers, and that for a Regular minister to go to their meetings is something neither the congregation nor the parish committee approves of. No—er—hum—ha! no!”
“And I explained to Captain Daniels,” observed the minister, “that I went there for what seemed to me good reasons, and, as they did seem to me good at the time, I'm not ashamed of having gone. It was an honest mistake on my part and I may make more.”
“But the society—” began Elkanah. Captain Zeb interrupted him.
“Don't worry about the society, Mr. Ellery,” he said with emphasis. “Nor about the parish committee, either. Great fishhooks! the most of us are tickled to death over what you said to Eben Hammond. We think it's a mighty good joke. YOU didn't know, of course, and what you did was done innocent. He! he! he! Did you lay him out, hey?”
“Zebedee,” began Captain Daniels, “I must say I can't see anything to laugh at.”
“You never could, Elkanah. I remember that time when you and me and some of the fellers home from sea went out sailin' and the boom knocked you overboard with your Sunday clothes on. Lordy, how the rest of us did holler! but you never cracked a smile. If you'd seen yourself when we hauled you in! whiskers runnin' salt water; beaver hat lookin' like a drownded kitten—”
“There! There! Never mind that. I think you'll find a good many of the society feel as I do, shocked and—hum—ha!—sorry. I'm surprised they haven't been here to say so.”
“I expected them,” remarked the minister.
“So did I,” chimed in Captain Zeb. “But I cal'late to know why they ain't been. They're all too busy crowin' over the way Nat Hammond fetched the packet home last night. WHAT? You ain't heard? Great fishhooks! it's the best thing ever—”
“I've heard about it,” snapped Elkanah impatiently. “Mr. Ellery, I'm glad you realize that your action was a mistake and I will take pains to have that immejitly made plain to—”
“YOU ain't heard, Keziah, have you?” broke in Zebedee. “Nor you, Mr. Ellery? Well, I must tell you. Here's where I gain a lap on Didama Rogers. Seems the Deborah S.—that's the packet's name, Mr. Ellery—she hauled out of Boston night afore last on the ebb, with a fair wind and sky clear as a bell. But they hadn't much more'n got outside of Minot's 'fore the fog shut down, thicker'n gruel for a sick rich man. The wind held till 'long toward mornin'; then she flattened to a dead calm. 'Bije Perry, the mate, he spun the yarn to me, and he said 'twas thick and flat as ever he see and kept gettin' no better fast.
“They drifted along till noon time and then they was somewheres out in the bay, but that's about all you could say. Zach, he was stewin' and sputterin' like a pair of fried eels, and Lafayette Gage and Emulous Peters—they're Denboro folks, Mr. Ellery, and about sixteen p'ints t'other side of no account—they was the only passengers aboard except Nat Hammond, and they put in their time playin' high low jack in the cabin. The lookout was for'ard tootin' a tin horn and his bellerin' was the most excitin' thing goin' on. After dinner—corned beef and cabbage—trust Zach for that, though it's next door to cannibalism to put cabbage in HIS mouth—after dinner all hands was on deck when Nat says: 'Hush!' he says. 'Don't I hear somethin'?'
“They listened, and then they all heard it—all 'cept Zach, who's deef in his larboard ear.
“'Stand by!' roars Nat. 'It's a squall, dead astern and comin' abilin'! I'll take her, 'Bije. You look out for them tops'ls.'
“So Nat grabs the wheel and 'Bije tears for'ard and sends the two fo'mast hands aloft on the jump. Zach was skipper, but all he done was race around and holler and trip over his own feet. Oh, he's a prize sailor, he is! Don't talk to me about them Fosters! I—”
“Nobody is talkin' about 'em but you, Zeb,” observed Keziah drily. “Go on. How about the squall?”
“It hit 'em 'fore they got even one tops'l clewed down. That one, the foretops'l 'twas, split to rags. The main tops'l was set, and when the squall struck, the rotten old topmast went by the board 'Kerrash-o!' 'Course splinters flew like all possessed, and one of 'em, about a foot long, sailed past Nat's head, where he stood heavin' his whole weight on the wheel, and lit right on the binnacle, smashin' it to matches.
“They say Nat never paid the least attention, no more'n if the chunk of wood had been a June bug buzzin' past. He just held that wheel hard down and that saved the packet. She come around and put her nose dead in the wind just in time. As 'twas, 'Bije says there was a second when the water by her lee rail looked right underneath him as he hung onto the deck with finger nails and teeth.
“Well, there they was, afloat, but with their upper riggin' gone and the compass smashed flat. A howlin' no'thwester blowin' and fog thick as ever. Zach was a whimperin', fidgetin' old woman, Lafayette and Emulous was prayin' in the scuppers—and that ain't an exercise they're used to, neither—and even 'Bije was mighty shook up and worried—he says he was himself. But Nat Hammond was as cool and refreshin' as the bottom of my well up home.
“'Better clear away that mess aloft, hadn't you?' he says to the skipper.
“Zach said he guessed so; he wa'n't sure of nothin'. However, they cleared it away, and incidentally 'Bije yanked the prayer meetin' out of the scuppers and set 'em to work. Then Nat suggests gettin' the spare compass and, lo and behold you! there wa'n't any. Compasses cost money and money's made to keep, so Zach thinks.
“So there they was. Wind was fair, or ought to be, but 'twas blowin' hard and so thick you couldn't hardly see the jib boom. Zach he wanted to anchor, then he didn't, then he did, and so on. Nobody paid much attention to him.
“'What'll we do, Nat?' says 'Bije. He knew who was the real seaman aboard.
“'Keep her as she is, dead afore it, if you ask me, says Nat. 'Guess we'll hit the broadside of the cape somewheres if this gale holds.'
“So they kept her as she was. And it got to be night and they knew they'd ought to be 'most onto the edge of the flats off here, if their reck'nin' was nigh right. They hove the lead and got five fathom. No flats about that.
“Zach was for anchorin' again. 'What do you think, Nat?' asks 'Bije.
“'Anchor, of course, if you want to,' Nat says. 'You're runnin' this craft. I'm only passenger.'
“'But what do you THINK?' whines Zach. 'Can't you tell us what you do think?'
“'Well, if 'twas me, I wouldn't anchor till I had to. Prob'ly 'twill fair off to-morrow, but if it shouldn't, we might have to lay out here all day. Anyhow, we'd have to wait for a full tide.'
“'I'm afraid we're off the course,' says 'Bije, else we'd been acrost the bar by this time.'
“'Well,' Nat tells him, 'if we are off the course and too far inshore, we would have made the bar—the Bayport bar—if not the Trumet one. And if we're off the course and too far out, we'd ought to have deeper water than five fathom, hadn't we? 'Course I'm not sure, but—What's that, lands-man?'
“'Three and a half, sir,' says the feller with the lead. That showed they was edgin' in somewheres. Nat he sniffed, for all the world like a dog catchin' a scent, so 'Bije declares.
“'I can smell home,' he says.
“Three fathom the lead give 'em, then two and a half, then a scant two. They was drawin' six feet. Zach couldn't stand it.
“'I'm goin' to anchor,' he squeals, frantic. 'I believe we're plumb over to Wellmouth and drivin' right onto Horsefoot Shoal.'
“'It's either that or the bar,' chimes in 'Bije. 'And whichever 'tis, we can't anchor in the middle of it.'
“'But what'll we do?' shouts Zach. 'Can't nobody say somethin' to DO?'
“'Tell you I smell home,' says Nat, calm and chipper, 'and I'd know that smell if I met it in Jericho. Ha! there she deepens again. That was the bar and we're over it.'
“The wind had gone down to a stiff sailin' breeze, and the old Debby S. slapped along afore it. Sometimes there was twelve foot under her keel and sometimes eight or nine. Once 'twas only seven and a half. Zach and 'Bije both looked at each other, but Nat only smiled.
“'Oh, you can laugh!' hollers Zach. ''Tain't your vessel you're runnin' into danger. YOU aint paid out your good money—'
“Nat never answered; but he stopped smilin'.
“And all to once the water deepened. Hammond swung her up into the wind.
“'NOW you can anchor,' says he.
“'And 'bout time, too, I guess,' says 'Bije. 'I cal'late the skipper's right. This IS Horsefoot and we're right between the shoals. Yes, sir, and I hear breakers. Lively there!'
“They hove over the mudhook and dropped the sails. Nat shook his head.
“'Breakers or not,' says he, 'I tell you I've smelt home for the last half hour. Now, by the jumpin' Moses, I can TASTE it!'
“And inside of a couple of shakes come the rain. It poured for a while and then the fog cleared. Right acrost their bows was Trumet, with the town clock strikin' ten. Over the flat place between the hills they could see the light on the ocean side. And they was anchored right in the deep hole inside the breakwater, as sure as I'm knee high to a marlin spike!
“'Bije just stared at Hammond with his mouth open.
“'Nat,' says he, 'you're a seaman, if I do say it. I thought I was a pretty good bay pilot, but I can't steer a vessel without a compass through a night as black as Pharaoh's Egypt, and in a thick fog besides, and land her square on top of her moorin's. If my hat wa'n't sloshin' around thirty mile astern, I snum if I wouldn't take it off to you this minute!'
“'Nat,' stammers Zach, 'I must say I—'
“Nat snapped him shut like a tobacco box. 'You needn't,' says he. 'But I'll say this to you, Zach Foster. When I undertake to handle a vessel I handle her best I know how, and the fact that I don't own her makes no difference to me. You just put that down somewheres so you won't forget it.'
“And this mornin',” crowed Captain Zebedee, concluding his long yarn, “after that, mind you, that lubber Zach Foster is around town tellin' folks that his schooner had been over the course so often she COULDN'T get lost. She found her way home herself. WHAT do you think of that?”
The two members of the parish committee left the parsonage soon after Captain Mayo had finished his story. Elkanah had listened with growing irritation and impatience. Zebedee lingered a moment behind his companions.
“Don't you fret yourself about what happened last night, Mr. Ellery,” he whispered. “It'll be all right. 'Course nobody'd want you to keep up chummin' in with Come-Outers, but what you said to old Eben'll square you this time. So long.”
The minister shut the door behind his departing guests. Then he went out into the kitchen, whither the housekeeper had preceded him. He found her standing on the back step, looking across the fields. The wash bench was untenanted.
“Hum!” mused Ellery thoughtfully, “that was a good story of Captain Mayo's. This man Hammond must be a fine chap. I should like to meet him.”
Keziah still looked away over the fields. She did not wish her employer to see her face—just then.
“I thought you would meet him,” she said. “He was here a little while ago and I asked him to wait. I guess Zeb's yarn was too much for him; he doesn't like to be praised.”
“So? Was he here? At the Regular parsonage? I'm surprised.”
“He and I have known each other for a long while.”
“Well, I'm sorry he's gone. I think I should like him.”
Keziah turned from the door.
“I know you would,” she said.
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