The depot master and his friend, Mr. Phinney, were not the only ones whose souls were troubled that evening. Obed Gott, as he stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the meeting place of the “club,” was vexed and worried. His cousin, Captain Stitt, had gone into the house and up to his room, and Obed, after seeing him safely on his way, had returned to the club. But, instead of entering immediately, he stood in the Higgins doorway, thinking, and frowning as he thought. And the subject of his thought was the idol of feminine East Harniss, the “old-school gentleman,” Major Cuthbertson Scott Hardee.
The Major first came to East Harniss one balmy morning in March—came, and created an immediate sensation. “Redny” Blount, who drives the “depot wagon,” was wrestling with a sample trunk belonging to the traveling representative of Messrs. Braid & Gimp, of Boston, when he heard a voice—and such a voice—saying:
“Pardon me, my dear sir, but may I trouble you for one moment?”
Now “Redny” was not used to being addressed as “my dear sir.” He turned wonderingly, and saw the Major, in all his glory, standing beside him. “Redny's” gaze took in the tall, slim figure in the frock coat tightly buttoned; took in the white hair, worn just long enough to touch the collar of the frock coat; the long, drooping white mustache and imperial; the old-fashioned stock and open collar; the black and white checked trousers; the gaiters; and, last of all, the flat brimmed, carefully brushed, old-fashioned silk hat. Mr. Blount gasped.
“Huh?” he said.
“Pardon me, my dear sir,” repeated the Major, blandly, smoothly, and with an air of—well, not condescension, but gracious familiarity. “Will you be so extremely kind as to inform me concerning the most direct route to the hotel or boarding house?”
The word “hotel” was the only part of this speech that struck home to “Redny's” awed mind.
“Hotel?” he repeated, slowly. “Why, yes, sir. I'm goin' right that way. If you'll git right into my barge I'll fetch you there in ten minutes.”
There was enough in this reply, and the manner in which it was delivered, to have furnished the station idlers, in the ordinary course of events, with matter for gossip and discussion for a week. Mr. Blount had not addressed a person as “sir” since he went to school. But no one thought of this; all were too much overcome by the splendor of the Major's presence.
“Thank you,” replied the Major. “Thank you. I am obliged to you, sir. Augustus, you may place the baggage in this gentleman's conveyance.”
Augustus was an elderly negro, very black as to face and a trifle shabby as to clothes, but with a shadow of his master's gentility, like a reflected luster, pervading his person. He bowed low, departed, and returned dragging a large, old style trunk, and carrying a plump valise.
“Augustus,” said the Major, “you may sit upon the seat with the driver. That is,” he added, courteously, “if Mr.—Mr.—”
“Blount,” prompted the gratified “Redny.”
“If Mr. Blount will be good enough to permit you to do so.”
“Why, sartin. Jump right up. Giddap, you!”
There was but one passenger, besides the Major and Augustus, in the “depot wagon” that morning. This passenger was Mrs. Polena Ginn, who had been to Brockton on a visit. To Mrs. Polena the Major, raising his hat in a manner that no native of East Harniss could acquire by a lifetime of teaching, observed that it was a beautiful morning. The flustered widow replied that it “was so.” This was the beginning of a conversation that lasted until the “Central House” was reached, a conversation that left Polena impressed with the idea that her new acquaintance was as near the pink of perfection as mortal could be.
“It wa'n't his clothes, nuther,” she told her brother, Obed Gott, as they sat at the dinner table. “I don't know what 'twas, but you could jest see that he was a gentleman all over. I wouldn't wonder if he was one of them New York millionaires, like Mr. Williams—but SO different. 'Redny' Blount says he see his name onto the hotel register and 'twas 'Cuthbertson Scott Hardee.' Ain't that a tony name for you? And his darky man called him 'Major.' I never see sech manners on a livin' soul! Obed, I DO wish you'd stop eatin' pie with a knife.”
Under these pleasing circumstances did Major Cuthbertson Scott Hardee make his first appearance in East Harniss, and the reputation spread abroad by Mr. Blount and Mrs. Ginn was confirmed as other prominent citizens met him, and fell under the spell. In two short weeks he was the most popular and respected man in the village. The Methodist minister said, at the Thursday evening sociable, that “Major Hardee is a true type of the old-school gentleman,” whereupon Beriah Higgins, who was running for selectman, and therefore felt obliged to be interested in all educational matters, asked whereabouts that school was located, and who was teaching it now.
It was a treat to see the Major stroll down Main Street to the post office every pleasant spring morning. Coat buttoned tight, silk hat the veriest trifle on one side, one glove on and its mate carried with the cane in the other hand, and the buttonhole bouquet—always the bouquet—as fresh and bright and jaunty as its wearer himself.
It seemed that every housekeeper whose dwelling happened to be situated along that portion of the main road had business in the front yard at the time of the Major's passing. There were steps to be swept, or rugs to be shaken, or doorknobs to be polished just at that particular time. Dialogues like the following interrupted the triumphal progress at three minute intervals:
“Good-morning, Mrs. Sogberry. GOOD-morning. A delightful morning. Busy as the proverbial bee once more, I see. I can never cease to admire the industry and model neatness of the Massachusetts housekeeper. And how is your charming daughter this morning? Better, I trust?”
“Well, now, Major Hardee, I don't know. Abbie ain't so well's I wish she was. She set up a spell yesterday, but the doctor says she ain't gittin' along the way she'd ought to. I says to him, s'I, 'Abbie ain't never what you'd call a reel hearty eater, but, my land! when she don't eat NOTHIN',' I says—”
And so on and so on, with the Major always willing to listen, always sympathetic, and always so charmingly courteous.
The Central House, East Harniss's sole hotel, and a very small one at that, closed its doors on April 10th. Mr. Godfrey, its proprietor, had come to the country for his health. He had been inveigled, by an advertisement in a Boston paper, into buying the Central House at East Harniss. It would afford him, so he reasoned, light employment and a living. The employment was light enough, but the living was lighter. He kept the Central House for a year. Then he gave it up as a bad job and returned to the city. “I might keep my health if I stayed,” he admitted, in explaining his position to Captain Berry, “but if I want to keep to what little money I have left, I'd better go. Might as well die of disease as starvation.”
Everyone expected that the “gentleman of the old school” would go also, but one evening Abner Payne, whose business is “real estate, fire and life insurance, justice of the peace, and houses to let and for sale,” rushed into the post office to announce that the Major had leased the “Gorham place,” furnished, and intended to make East Harniss his home.
“He likes the village so well he's goin' to stay here always,” explained Abner. “Says he's been all 'round the world, but he never see a place he liked so well's he does East Harniss. How's that for high, hey? And you callin' it a one-horse town, Obed Gott!”
The Major moved into the “Gorham place” the next morning. It—the “place”—was an old-fashioned house on the hill, though not on Mr. Williams' “Boulevard.” It had been one of the finest mansions in town once on a time, but had deteriorated rapidly since old Captain Elijah Gorham died. Augustus carried the Major's baggage from the hotel to the house. This was done very early and none of the natives saw the transfer. There was some speculation as to how the darky managed to carry the big trunk single-handed; one of two persons asked Augustus this very question, but they received no satisfactory answer. Augustus was habitually close-mouthed. Mr. Godfrey left town that same morning on the first train.
The Major christened his new home “Silver-leaf Hall,” because of two great “silver-leaf” trees that stood by the front door. He had some repairing, paper hanging and painting done, ordered a big stock of groceries from the local dealer, and showed by his every action that his stay in East Harniss was to be a lengthy one. He hired a pew in the Methodist church, and joined the “club.” Augustus did the marketing for “Silver-leaf Hall,” and had evidently been promoted to the position of housekeeper.
The Major moved in April. It was now the third week in June and his popularity was, if possible, more pronounced than ever. On this particular, the evening of Captain Bailey Stitt's unexpected arrival, Obed had been sitting by the tea table in his dining room after supper, going over the account books of his paint, paper, and oil store. His sister, Mrs. Polena Ginn, was washing dishes in the kitchen.
“Wat's that letter you're readin', Obed?” she called from her post by the sink.
“Nothin',” said her brother, gruffly, crumpling up the sheet of note paper and jamming it into his pocket.
“My sakes! you're shorter'n pie crust to-night. What's the matter? Anything gone wrong at the store?”
“No.”
Silence again, only broken by the clatter of dishes. Then Polena said:
“Obed, when are you goin' to take me up to the clubroom so's I can see that picture of Major Hardee that he presented the club with? Everybody says it's just lovely. Sarah T. says it's perfectly elegant, only not quite so handsome as the Major reelly is. She says it don't flatter him none.”
“Humph! Anybody'd think Hardee was some kind of a wonder, the way you women folks go on 'bout him. How do you know but what he might be a reg'lar fraud? Looks ain't everything.”
“Well, I never! Obed Gott, I should think you'd be 'shamed of yourself, talkin' that way. I shan't speak another word to you to-night. I never see you act so unlikely. An old fraud! The idea! That grand, noble man!”
Obed tried to make some sort of half-hearted apology, but his sister wouldn't listen to it. Polena's dignity was touched. She was a woman of consequence in East Harniss, was Polena. Her husband had, at his death, left her ten thousand dollars in her own right, and she owned bonds and had money in the Wellmouth Bank. Nobody, not even her brother, was allowed to talk to her in that fashion.
To tell the truth, Obed was sorry he had offended his sister. He had been throwing out hints of late as to the necessity of building an addition to the paint and oil store, and had cast a longing look upon a portion of Polena's ten thousand. The lady had not promised to extend the financial aid, but she had gone so far as to say she would think about it. So Obed regretted his insinuations against the Major's integrity.
After a while he threw the account books upon the top of the chest of drawers, put on his hat and coat and announced that he was going over to the depot for a “spell.” Polena did not deign to reply, so, after repeating the observation, he went out and slammed the door.
Now, two hours later, as he stood in the doorway of the club, he was debating what he should do in a certain matter. That matter concerned Major Hardee and was, therefore, an extremely delicate one. At length Mr. Gott climbed the narrow stairs and entered the clubroom. It was blue with tobacco smoke.
The six or eight members present hailed him absently and went on with their games of checkers or “seven-up.” He attempted a game of checkers and lost, which did not tend to make his temper any sweeter. His ill nature was so apparent that Beriah Higgins, who suffered from dyspepsia and consequent ill temper, finally commented upon it.
“What's the matter with you, Obed?” he asked tartly. “Too much of P'lena's mince pie?”
“No,” grunted Mr. Gott shortly.
“What is it, then? Ain't paint sellin' well?”
“Sellin' well 'nough. I could sell a hundred ton of paint to-morrow, more'n likely, but when it come to gittin' the money for it, that would be another story. If folks would pay their bills there wouldn't be no trouble.”
“Who's stuck you now?”
“I don't s'pose anybody has, but it's just as bad when they don't pay up. I've got to have money to keep a-goin' with. It don't make no diff'rence if it's as good a customer as Major Hardee; he ought to remember that we ain't all rich like him and—”
A general movement among all the club members interrupted him. The checker players left their boards and came over; the “seven-up” devotees dropped their cards and joined the circle.
“What was that you said?” asked Higgins, uneasily. “The Major owin' you money, was it?”
“Oh, course I know he's all right and a fine man and all that,” protested Obed, feeling himself put on the defensive. “But that ain't it. What's a feller goin' to do when he needs the money and gets a letter like that?”
He drew the crumpled sheet of note paper from his pocket, and threw it on the table. Higgins picked it up and read it aloud, as follows:
SILVERLEAF HALL, June 20th.
MY DEAR MR. GOTT: I am in receipt of your courteous communication of recent date. I make it an unvarying rule to keep little ready money here in East Harniss, preferring rather to let it remain at interest in the financial institutions of the cities. Another rule of mine, peculiar, I dare say—even eccentric, if you like—is never to pay by check. I am expecting remittances from my attorneys, however, and will then bear you in mind. Again thanking you for your courtesy, and begging you to extend to your sister my kindest regards, I remain, my dear sir,
Yours very respectfully,
CUTHBERTSON SCOTT HARDEE.
P. S.—I shall be delighted to have the pleasure of entertaining your sister and yourself at dinner at the hall on any date agreeable to you. Kindly let me hear from you regarding this at your earliest convenience. I must insist upon this privilege, so do not disappoint me, I beg.
The reception accorded this most gentlemanly epistle was peculiar. Mr. Higgins laid it upon the table and put his hand into his own pocket. So did Ezra Weeks, the butcher; Caleb Small, the dry goods dealer; “Hen” Leadbetter, the livery stable keeper; “Bash” Taylor, the milkman, and three or four others. And, wonder of wonders, each produced a sheet of note paper exactly like Obed's.
They spread them out on the table. The dates were, of course, different, and they differed in other minor particulars, but in the main they were exactly alike. And each one of them ended with an invitation to dinner.
The members of the club looked at each other in amazement. Higgins was the first to speak.
“Godfrey mighty!” he exclaimed. “Say, this is funny, ain't it? It's more'n funny; it's queer! By jimmy, it's more'n that—it's serious! Look here, fellers; is there anybody in this crowd that the Major's paid for anything any time?”
They waited. No one spoke. Then, with one impulse, every face swung about and looked up to where, upon the wall, hung the life-size photograph of the Major, dignified, gracious, and gilt-framed. It had been presented to the club two months before by Cuthbertson Scott Hardee, himself.
“Ike—Ike Peters,” said Higgins. “Say, Ike—has he ever paid you for havin' that took?”
Mr. Peters, who was the town photographer, reddened, hesitated, and then stammered, “Why, no, he ain't, yet.”
“Humph!” grunted Higgins. No one else said anything. One or two took out pocket memorandum books and went over some figures entered therein. Judging by their faces the results of these calculations were not pleasing. Obed was the first to break the painful silence:
“Well!” he exclaimed, sarcastically; “ain't nobody got nothin' to say? If they ain't, I have. Or, at any rate, I've got somethin' to do.” And he rose and started to put on his coat.
“Hi! hold on a minute, Obed, you loon!” cried Higgins. “Where are you goin'?”
“I'm goin' to put my bill in Squire Baker's hands for c'lection, and I'm goin' to do it tonight, too.”
He was on his way to the door, but two or three ran to stop him.
“Don't be a fool, Obed,” said Higgins. “Don't go off ha'f cocked. Maybe we're gittin' scared about nothin'. We don't know but we'll get every cent that's owed us.”
“Don't KNOW! Well, I ain't goin' to wait to find out. What makes me b'ilin' is to think how we've set still and let a man that we never saw afore last March, and don't know one blessed thing about, run up bills and RUN 'em up. How we come to be such everlastin' fools I don't see! What did we let him have the stuff for? Why didn't we make him pay? I—”
“Now see here, Obed Gott,” broke in Weeks, the butcher, “you know why just as well as we do. Why, blast it!” he added earnestly, “if he was to come into my shop to-morrow and tip that old high hat of his, and smile and say 'twas a fine mornin and 'How's the good lady to-day?' and all that, he'd get ha'f the meat there was in the place, and I wouldn't say 'Boo'! I jest couldn't, that's all.”
This frank statement was received with approving nods and a chorus of muttered “That's so's.”
“It looks to me this way,” declared Higgins. “If the Major's all right, he's a mighty good customer for all of us. If he ain't all right, we've got to find it out, but we're in too deep to run resks of gettin' him mad 'fore we know for sure. Let's think it over for a week. Inside of that time some of us'll hint to him, polite but firm, you understand, that we've got to have something on account. A week from to-night we'll meet in the back room of my store, talk it over and decide what to do. What do you say?”
Everybody but Obed agreed. He declared that he had lost money enough and wasn't going to be a fool any longer. The others argued with him patiently for a while and then Leadbetter, the livery stable keeper, said sharply:
“See here, Obe! You ain't the only one in this. How much does the Major owe you?”
“Pretty nigh twenty dollars.”
“Humph! You're lucky. He owes me over thirty, and I guess Higgins is worse off than any of us. Ain't that so, Beriah?”
“About seventy, even money,” answered the grocer, shortly. “No use, Obed, we've got to hang together. Wait a week and then see. And, fellers,” he added, “don't tell a soul about this business, 'specially the women folks. There ain't a woman nor girl in this town that don't think Major Hardee's an A1, gold-plated saint, and twouldn't be safe to break the spell on a guess.”
Obed reached home even more disgruntled than when he left it. He sat up until after twelve, thinking and smoking, and when he went to bed he had a brilliant idea. The next morning he wrote a letter and posted it.
The morning train for Boston, at that season of the year, reached East Harniss at five minutes to six, an “ungodly hour,” according to the irascible Mr. Ogden Williams, who, in company with some of his wealthy friends, the summer residents, was petitioning the railroad company for a change in the time-table. When Captain Sol Berry, the depot master, walked briskly down Main Street the morning following Mr. Gott's eventful evening at the club, the hands of the clock on the Methodist church tower indicated that the time was twenty minutes to six.
Issy McKay was already at the depot, the doors of which were open. Captain Sol entered the waiting room and unlocked the ticket rack and the little safe. Issy, languidly toying with the broom on the front platform, paused in his pretense of sweeping and awaited permission to go home for breakfast. It came, in characteristic fashion.
“How's the salt air affectin' your appetite, Is?” asked the Captain, casually.
Issy, who, being intensely serious by nature, was uneasy when he suspected the presence of a joke, confusedly stammered that he cal'lated his appetite was all right.
“Payin' for the Major's glass ain't kept you awake worryin', has it?”
“No-o, sir. I—”
“P'r'aps you thought he was the one to 'do the worryin', hey?”
“I—I don't know.”
“Well, what's your folks goin' to have to eat this mornin'?”
Issy admitted his belief that fried clams were to be the breakfast.
“So? Clams? Is, did you ever read the soap advertisement about not bein' a clam?”
“I—I don't know's I ever did. No, sir.”
“All right; I only called your attention to it as a warnin', that's all. When anybody eats as many clams as you do there's a fair chance of his turnin' into one. Now clear out, and don't stay so long at breakfast that you can't get back in time for dinner. Trot!”
Issy trotted. The depot master seated himself by the door of the ticket office and fell into a reverie. It was interrupted by the entrance of Hiram Baker. Captain Hiram was an ex-fishing skipper, fifty-five years of age, who, with his wife, Sophronia, and their infant son, Hiram Joash Baker, lived in a small, old-fashioned house at the other end of the village, near the shore. Captain Hiram, having retired from the sea, got his living, such as it was, from his string of fish traps, or “weirs.”
The depot master hailed the new arrival heartily.
“Hello, there, Hiram!” he cried, rising from his chair. “Glad to see you once in a while. Ain't goin' to leave us, are you? Not goin' abroad for your health, or anything of that kind, hey?”
Captain Baker laughed.
“No,” he answered. “No further abroad than Hyannis. And I'll be back from there tonight, if the Lord's willin' and the cars don't get off the track. Give me a round trip ticket, will you, Sol?”
The depot master retired to the office, returning with the desired ticket. Captain Hiram counted out the price from a confused mass of coppers and silver, emptied into his hand from a blackened leather purse, tied with a string.
“How's Sophrony?” asked the depot master. “Pretty smart, I hope.”
“Yup, she's smart. Has to be to keep up with the rest of the family—'specially the youngest.”
He chuckled. His friend laughed in sympathy.
“The youngest is the most important of all, I s'pose,” he observed. “How IS the junior partner of H. Baker and Son?”
“He ain't a silent partner, I'll swear to that. Honest, Sol, I b'lieve my 'Dusenberry' is the cutest young one outside of a show. I said so only yesterday to Mr. Hilton, the minister. I did, and I meant it.”
“Well, we're all gettin' ready to celebrate his birthday. Ho, ho!”
This was a standard joke and was so recognized and honored. A baby born on the Fourth of July is sure of a national celebration of his birthday. And to Captain Baker and his wife, no celebration, however widespread, could do justice to the importance of the occasion. When, to answer the heart longings of the child-loving couple married many years, the baby came, he was accepted as a special dispensation of Providence and valued accordingly.
“He's got a real nice voice, Hiram,” said Sophronia, gazing proudly at the prodigy, who, clutched gingerly in his father's big hands, was screaming his little red face black. “I shouldn't wonder if he grew up to sing in the choir.”
“That's the kind of voice to make a fo'mast hand step lively!” declared Hiram. “You'll see this boy on the quarter deck of a clipper one of these days.”
Naming him was a portentous proceeding and one not to be lightly gone about. Sophronia, who was a Methodist by descent and early confirmation, was of the opinion that the child should have a Bible name.
The Captain respected his wife's wishes, but put in an ardent plea for his own name, Hiram.
“There's been a Hiram Baker in our family ever since Noah h'isted the main-r'yal on the ark,” he declared. “I'd kinder like to keep the procession a-goin'.”
They compromised by agreeing to make the baby's Christian name Hiram and to add a middle name selected at random from the Scriptures. The big, rickety family Bible was taken from the center table and opened with shaking fingers by Mrs. Baker. She read aloud the first sentence that met her eye: “The son of Joash.”
“Joash!” sneered her husband. “You ain't goin' to cruelize him with that name, be you?”
“Hiram Baker, do you dare to fly in the face of Scriptur'?”
“All right! Have it your own way. Go to sleep now, Hiram Joash, while I sing 'Storm along, John,' to you.”
Little Hiram Joash punched the minister's face with his fat fist when he was christened, to the great scandal of his mother and the ill-concealed delight of his father.
“Can't blame the child none,” declared the Captain. “I'd punch anybody that christened a middle name like that onto me.”
But, in spite of his name, the baby grew and prospered. He fell out of his crib, of course, the moment that he was able, and barked his shins over the big shells by the what-not in the parlor the first time that he essayed to creep. He teethed with more or less tribulation, and once upset the household by an attack of the croup.
They gave up calling him by his first name, because of the Captain's invariably answering when the baby was wanted and not answering when he himself was wanted. Sophronia would have liked to call him Joash, but her husband wouldn't hear of it. At length the father took to calling him “Dusenberry,” and this nickname was adopted under protest.
Captain Hiram sang the baby to sleep every night. There were three songs in the Captain's repertoire. The first was a chanty with a chorus of
John, storm along, storm along, John,
Ain't I glad my day's work's done.
The second was the “Bowline Song.”
Haul on the bowline, the 'Phrony is a-rollin',
Haul on the bowline! the bowline HAUL!
At the “haul!” the Captain's foot would come down with a thump. Almost the first word little Hiram Joash learned was “haul!” He used to shout it and kick his father vigorously in the vest.
These were fair-weather songs. Captain Hiram sang them when everything was going smoothly. The “Bowline Song” indicated that he was feeling particularly jubilant. He had another that he sang when he was worried. It was a lugubrious ditty, with a refrain beginning:
Oh, sailor boy, sailor boy, 'neath the wild billow,
Thy grave is yawnin' and waitin' for thee.
He sang this during the worst of the teething period, and, later, when the junior partner wrestled with the whooping cough. You could always tell the state of the baby's health by the Captain's choice of songs.
Meanwhile Dusenberry grew and prospered. He learned to walk and to talk, after his own peculiar fashion, and, at the mature age of two years and six months, formally shipped as first mate aboard his father's dory. His duties in this responsible position were to sit in the stern, securely fastened by a strap, while the Captain and his two assistants rowed out over the bar to haul the nets of the deep water fish weir.
The first mate gave the orders, “All hands on deck! 'Tand by to det ship under way!” There was no “sogerin'” aboard the Hiram Junior—that was the dory's name—while the first officer had command.
Captain Hiram, always ready to talk of the wonderful baby, told the depot master of the youngster's latest achievement, which was to get the cover off the butter firkin in the pantry and cover himself with butter from head to heel.
“Ho, ho, ho!” he roared, delightedly, “when Sophrony caught him at it, what do you s'pose he said? Said he was playin' he was a slice of bread and was spreadin' himself. Haw! haw!”
Captain Sol laughed in sympathy.
“But he didn't mean no harm by it,” explained the proud father. “He's got the tenderest little heart in the world. When he found his ma felt bad he bust out cryin' and said he'd scrape it all off again and when it come prayer time he'd tell God who did it, so He'd know 'twa'n't mother that wasted the nice butter. What do you think of that?”
“No use talkin', Hiram,” said the depot master, “that's the kind of boy to have.”
“You bet you! Hello! here's the train. On time, for a wonder. See you later, Sol. You take my advice, get married and have a boy of your own. Nothin' like one for solid comfort.”
The train was coming and they went out to meet it. The only passenger to alight was Mr. Barzilla Wingate, whose arrival had been foretold by Bailey Stitt the previous evening. Barzilla was part owner of a good-sized summer hotel at Wellmouth Neck. He and the depot master were old friends.
After the train had gone Wingate and Captain Sol entered the station together. The Captain had insisted that his friend come home with him to breakfast, instead of going to the hotel. After some persuasion Barzilla agreed. So they sat down to await Issy's arrival. The depot master could not leave the station until the “assistant” arrived.
“Well, Barzilla,” asked Captain Sol, “what's the newest craze over to the hotel?”
“The newest,” said Wingate, with a grin, “is automobiles.”
“Automobiles? Why, I thought 'twas baseball.”
“Baseball was last summer. We had a championship team then. Yes, sir, we won out, though for a spell it looked pretty dubious. But baseball's an old story. We've had football since, and now—”
“Wait a minute! Football? Why, now I do remember. You had a football team there and—and wa'n't there somethin' queer, some sort of a—a robbery, or stealin', or swindlin' connected with it? Seems's if I'd heard somethin' like that.”
Mr. Wingate looked his friend over, winked, and asked a question.
“Sol,” he said, “you ain't forgot how to keep a secret?”
The depot master smiled. “I guess not,” he said.
“Well, then, I'm goin' to trust you with one. I'm goin' to tell you the whole business about that robbin'. It's all mixed up with football and millionaires and things—and it's a dead secret, the truth of it. So when I tell you it mustn't go no further.
“You see,” he went on, “it was late into August when Peter T. was took down with the inspiration. Not that there was anything 'specially new in his bein' took. He was subject to them seizures, Peter was, and every time they broke out in a fresh place. The Old Home House itself was one of his inspirations, so was the hirin' of college waiters, the openin' of the two 'Annex' cottages, the South Shore Weather Bureau, and a whole lot more. Sometimes, as in the weather-bureau foolishness, the disease left him and t'other two patients—meanin' me and Cap'n Jonadab—pretty weak in the courage, and wasted in the pocketbook; but gen'rally they turned out good, and our systems and bank accounts was more healthy than normal. One of Peter T.'s inspirations was consider'ble like typhoid fever—if you did get over it, you felt better for havin' had it.
“This time the attack was in the shape of a 'supplementary season.' 'Twas Peter's idea that shuttin' up the Old Home the fust week in September was altogether too soon.
“'What's the use of quittin',' says he, 'while there's bait left and the fish are bitin'? Why not keep her goin' through September and October? Two or three ads—MY ads—in the papers, hintin' that the ducks and wild geese are beginnin' to keep the boarders awake by roostin' in the back yard and hollerin' at night—two or three of them, and we'll have gunners here by the regiment. Other summer hotels do it, the Wapatomac House and the rest, so why not us? It hurts my conscience to see good money gettin' past the door 'count of the “Not at Home” sign hung on the knob. What d'you say, partners?' says he.
“Well, we had consider'ble to say, partic'lar Cap'n Jonadab. 'Twas too risky and too expensive. Gunnin' was all right except for one thing—that is, that there wa'n't none wuth mentionin'.
“'Ducks are scurser round here than Democrats in a Vermont town-meetin',' growled the Cap'n. 'And as for geese! How long has it been since you see a goose, Barzilla?'
“'Land knows!' says I. 'I can remember as fur back as the fust time Washy Sparrow left off workin', but I can't—'
“Brown told us to shut up. Did we cal'late he didn't know what he was talkin' about?
“'I can see two geese right now,' he snaps; 'but they're so old and leather-headed you couldn't shoot an idea into their brains with a cannon. Gunnin' ain't the whole thing. My makin' a noise like a duck is only to get the would-be Teddy Roosevelts headed for this neck of the woods. After they get here, it's up to us to keep 'em. And I can think of as many ways to do that as the Cap'n can of savin' a quarter. Our baseball team's been a success, ain't it? Sure thing! Then why not a football team? Parker says he'll get it together, and coach and cap'n it, too. And Robinson and his daughter have agreed to stay till October fifteenth. So there's a start, anyhow.'
“'Twas a start, and a pretty good one. The Robinsons had come to the Old Home about the fust of August, and they was our star boarders. 'G. W. Robinson' was the old man's name as entered on the hotel log, and his daughter answered to the hail of 'Grace'—that is, when she took a notion to answer at all. The Robinsons was what Peter T. called 'exclusive.' They didn't mix much with the rest of the bunch, but kept to themselves in their rooms, partic'lar when a fresh net full of boarders was hauled aboard. Then they seemed to take an observation of every arrival afore they mingled; questioned the pedigree and statistics of all hands, and acted mighty suspicious.
“The only thing that really stirred Papa Robinson up and got him excited and friendly was baseball and boat racin'. He was an old sport, that was plain, the only real plain thing about him; the rest was mystery. As for Grace, she wa'n't plain by a good sight, bein' what Brown called a 'peach.' She could have had every single male in tow if she'd wanted 'em. Apparently she didn't want em, preferrin' to be lonesome and sad and interestin'. Yes, sir, there was a mystery about them Robinsons, and even Peter T. give in to that.
“'If 'twas anybody else,' says he, 'I'd say the old man was a crook, down here hidin' from the police. But he's too rich for that, and always has been. He ain't any fly-by-night. I can tell the real article without lookin' for the “sterlin'” mark on the handle. But I'll bet all the cold-storage eggs in the hotel against the henyard—and that's big odds—that he wa'n't christened Robinson. And his face is familiar to me. I've seen it somewhere, either in print or in person. I wish I knew where.'
“So if the Robinsons had agreed to stay—them and their two servants—that was a big help, as Brown said. And Parker would help, too, though we agreed there wa'n't no mystery about him. He was a big, broad-shouldered young feller just out of college somewheres, who had drifted our way the fortni't after the Robinsons came, with a reputation for athletics and a leanin' toward cigarettes and Miss Grace. She leaned a little, too, but hers wa'n't so much of a bend as his was. He was dead gone on her, and if she'd have decided to stay under water, he'd have ducked likewise. 'Twas easy enough to see why HE believed in a 'supplementary season.'
“Me and Jonadab argued it out with Peter, and finally we met halfway, so's to speak. We wouldn't keep the whole shebang open, but we'd shut up everything but one Annex cottage, and advertise that as a Gunner's Retreat. So we done it.
“And it worked. Heavens to Betsy—yes! It worked so well that by the second week in September we had to open t'other Annex. The gunnin' was bad, but Peter's ads fetched the would-be's, and his 'excursions' and picnics and the football team held 'em. The football team especial. Parker cap'ned that, and, from the gunnin' crew and the waiters and some fishermen in the village, he dug up an eleven that showed symptoms of playin' the game. We played the Trumet High School, and beat it, thanks to Parker, and that tickled Pa Robinson so that he bought a two-handled silver soup tureen—'lovin' cup,' he called it—and agreed to give it to the team round about that won the most of the series. So the series was arranged, the Old Home House crowd and the Wapatomac House eleven and three high-school gangs bein' in it. And 'twas practice, practice, practice, from then on.
“When we opened the second Annex, the question of help got serious. Most of our college waiters had gone back to school, and we was pretty shy of servants. So we put some extry advertisin' in the Cape weeklies, and trusted in Providence.
“The evenin' followin' the ad in the weeklies, I was settin' smokin' on the back piazza of the shut-up main hotel, when I heard the gate click and somebody crunchin' along the clam-shell path. I sung out: 'Ahoy, there!' and the cruncher, whoever he was, come my way. Then I made out that he was a tall young chap, with his hands in his pockets.
“'Good evenin',' says he. 'Is this Mr. Brown?'
“'Thankin' you for the compliment, it ain't,' I says. 'My name's Wingate.'
“'Oh!' says he. 'Is that so? I've heard father speak of you, Mr. Wingate. He is Solomon Bearse, of West Ostable. I think you know him slightly.'
“Know him? Everybody on the Cape knows Sol Bearse; by reputation, anyhow. He's the richest, meanest old cranberry grower and coastin'-fleet owner in these parts.
“'Is Sol Bearse your dad?' I asks, astonished. 'Why, then, you must be Gus?'
“'No,' he says. 'I'm the other one—Fred.'
“'Oh, the college one. The one who's goin' to be a lawyer.'
“'Well, yes—and no,' says he. 'I WAS the college one, as you call it, but I'm not goin' to be a lawyer. Father and I have had some talk on that subject, and I think we've settled it. I—well, just at present, I'm not sure what I'm goin' to be. That's what I've come to you for. I saw your ad in the Item, and—I want a job.'
“I was set all aback, and left with my canvas flappin', as you might say. Sol Bearse's boy huntin' a job in a hotel kitchen! Soon's I could fetch a whole breath, I wanted partic'lars. He give 'em to me.
“Seems he'd been sent out to one of the colleges in the Middle West by his dad, who was dead set on havin' a lawyer in the family. But the more he studied, the less he hankered for law. What he wanted to be was a literature—a book-agent or a poet, or some such foolishness. Old Sol, havin' no more use for a poet than he had for a poor relation, was red hot in a minute. Was this what he'd been droppin' good money in the education collection box for? Was this—etcetery and so on. He'd be—what the church folks say he will be—if Fred don't go in for law. Fred, he comes back that he'll be the same if he does. So they disowned each other by mutual consent, as the Irishman said, and the boy marches out of the front door, bag and baggage. And, as the poetry market seemed to be sort of overly supplied at the present time, he decided he must do somethin' to earn a dollar, and, seein' our ad, he comes to Wellmouth Port and the Old Home.
“'But look here,' says I, 'we ain't got no job for a literary. We need fellers to pass pie and wash dishes. And THAT ain't no poem.'
“Well, he thought perhaps he could help make up advertisin'.
“'You can't,' I told him. 'One time, when Peter T. Brown was away, me and Cap'n Jonadab cal'lated that a poetry advertisement would be a good idee and we managed to shake out ten lines or so. It begun:
“When you're feelin' tired and pale
To the Old Home House you ought to come without fail.”
“'We thought 'twas pretty slick, but we never got but one answer, and that was a circular from one of them correspondence schools of authors, sayin' they'd let us in on a course at cut rates. And the next thing we knew we see that poem in the joke page of a Boston paper. I never—'
“He laughed, quiet and sorrowful. He had the quietest way of speakin', anyhow, and his voice was a lovely tenor. To hear it purrin' out of his big, tall body was as unexpected as a hymn tune in a cent-in-the-slot talkin' machine.
“'Too bad,' he says. 'As a waiter, I'm afraid—'
“Just then the door of one of the Annex houses opened sudden, and there stood Grace Robinson. The light behind her showed her up plain as could be. I heard Fred Bearse make a kind of gaspin' noise in his throat.
“'What a lovely night!' she says, half to herself. Then she calls: 'Papa, dear, you really ought to see the stars.'
“Old man Robinson, who I judged was in the settin' room, snarled out somethin' which wa'n't no compliment to the stars. Then he ordered her to come in afore she catched cold. She sighed and obeyed orders, shuttin' the door astern of her. Next thing I knew that literary tenor grabbed my arm—'twa'n't no canary-bird grip, neither.
“'Who was that?' he whispers, eager.
“I told him. 'That's the name they give,' says I, 'but we have doubts about its bein' the real one. You see, there's some mystery about them Robinsons, and—'
“'I'll take that waiter's place,' he says, quick. 'Shall I go right in and begin now? Don't stop to argue, man; I say I'll take it.'
“And he did take it by main strength, pretty nigh. Every time I'd open my mouth he'd shut it up, and at last I give in, and showed him where he could sleep.
“'You turn out at five sharp,' I told him. 'And you needn't bother to write no poems while you're dressin', neither.'
“'Good night,' he answers, brisk. 'Go, will you, please? I want to think.'
“I went. 'Tain't until an hour later that I remembered he hadn't asked one word concernin' the wages. And next mornin' he comes to me and suggests that perhaps 'twould be as well if I didn't tell his real name. He was pretty sure he'd been away schoolin' so long that he wouldn't be recognized. 'And incognitos seem to be fashionable here,' he purrs, soft and gentle.
“I wouldn't know an incognito if I stepped on one, but the tenor voice of him kind of made me sick.
“'All right,' I snaps, sarcastic. 'Suppose I call you “Willie.” How'll that do?'
“'Do as well as anything, I guess,' he says. Didn't make no odds to him. If I'd have called him 'Maud,' he'd have been satisfied.
“He waited in Annex Number Two, which was skippered by Cap'n Jonadab. And, for a poet, he done pretty well, so the Cap'n said.
“'But say, Barzilla,' asks Jonadab, 'does that Willie thing know the Robinsons?'
“'Guess not,' I says. But, thinkin' of the way he'd acted when the girl come to the door: 'Why?'
“'Oh, nothin' much. Only when he come in with the doughnuts the fust mornin' at breakfast, I thought Grace sort of jumped and looked funny. Anyhow, she didn't eat nothin' after that. P'r'aps that was on account of her bein' out sailin' the day afore, though.'
“I said I cal'lated that was it, but all the same I was interested. And when, a day or so later, I see Grace and Willie talkin' together earnest, out back of the kitchen, I was more so. But I never said nothin'. I've been seafarin' long enough to know when to keep my main hatch closed.
“The supplementary season dragged along, but it wa'n't quite the success it looked like at the start. The gunnin' that year was even worse than usual, and excursions and picnics in late September ain't all joy, by no manner of means. We shut up the second Annex at the end of the month, and transferred the help to Number One. Precious few new boarders come, and a good many of the old ones quit. Them that did stay, stayed on account of the football. We was edgin' up toward the end of the series, and our team and the Wapatomac crowd was neck and neck. It looked as if the final game between them and us, over on their grounds, would settle who'd have the soup tureen.
“Pa Robinson and Parker had been quite interested in Willie when he fust come. They thought he might play with the eleven, you see. But he wouldn't. Set his foot right down.
“'I don't care for athletics,' he says, mild but firm. 'They used to interest me somewhat, but not now.'
“The old man was crazy. He'd heard about Willie's literature leanin's, and he give out that he'd never see a writer yet that wa'n't a 'sissy.' Wanted us to fire Bearse right off, but we kept him, thanks to me. If he'd seen the 'sissy' kick the ball once, same as I did, it might have changed his mind some. He was passin' along the end of the field when the gang was practicin', and the ball come his way. He caught it on the fly, and sent it back with his toe. It went a mile, seemed so, whirlin' and whizzin'. Willie never even looked to see where it went; just kept on his course for the kitchen.
“The big sensation hit us on the fifth of October, right after supper. Me and Peter T. and Jonadab was in the office, when down comes Henry, old Robinson's man servant, white as a sheet and wringin' his hands distracted.
“'Oh, I say, Mr. Brown!' says he, shakin' all over like a quicksand. 'Oh, Mr. Brown, sir! Will you come right up to Mr. Sterz—I mean Mr. Robinson's room, please, sir! 'E wants to see you gentlemen special. 'Urry, please! 'Urry!'
“So we ''urried,' wonderin' what on earth was the matter. And when we got to the Robinson rooms, there was Grace, lookin' awful pale, and the old man himself ragin' up and down like a horse mack'rel in a fish weir.
“Soon as papa sees us, he jumped up in the air, so's to speak, and when he lit 'twas right on our necks. His daughter, who seemed to be the sanest one in the lot, run and shut the door.
“'Look here, you!' raved the old gent, shakin' both fists under Peter T.'s nose. 'Didn't you tell me this was a respectable hotel? And ain't we payin' for respectability?'
“Peter admitted it, bein' too much set back to argue, I cal'late.
“'Yes!' rages Robinson. 'We pay enough for all the respectability in this state. And yet, by the livin' Moses! I can't go out of my room to spoil my digestion with your cussed dried-apple pie, but what I'm robbed!'
“'Robbed!' the three of us gurgles in chorus.
“'Yes, sir! Robbed! Robbed! ROBBED! What do you think I came here for? And why do I stay here all this time? 'Cause I LIKE it? 'Cause I can't afford a better place? No, sir! By the great horn spoon! I come here because I thought in this forsaken hole I could get lost and be safe. And now—'
“He tore around like a water spout, Grace trying to calm him, and Henry and Suzette, the maid, groanin' and sobbin' accompaniments in the corner. I looked at the dresser. There was silver-backed brushes and all sorts of expensive doodads spread out loose, and Miss Robinson's watch and a di'mond ring, and a few other knickknacks. I couldn't imagine a thief's leavin' all that truck, and I said so.
“'Them?' sputters Pa, frantic. 'What the brimstone blazes do you think I care for them? I could buy that sort of stuff by the car-load, if I wanted to. But what's been stole is—Oh, get out and leave me alone! You're no good, the lot of you!'
“'Father has had a valuable paper stolen from him,' explains Grace. 'A very valuable paper.'
“'Valuable!' howls her dad. 'VALUABLE! Why, if Gordon and his gang get that paper, they've got ME, that's all. Their suit's as good as won, and I know it. And to think that I've kept it safe up to within a month of the trial, and now—Grace Sterzer, you stop pattin' my head. I'm no pussy-cat! By the—' And so on, indefinite.
“When he called his daughter Sterzer, instead of Robinson, I cal'lated he was loony, sure enough. But Peter T. slapped his leg.
“'Oh!' he says, as if he'd seen a light all to once. 'Ah, NOW I begin to get wise. I knew your face was—See here, Mr. Sterzer—Mr. Gabriel Sterzer—don't you think we'd better have a real, plain talk on this matter? Let's get down to tacks. Was the paper you lost something to do with the Sterzer-Gordon lawsuit? The Aluminum Trust case, you know?'
“The old man stopped dancin', stared at him hard, and then set down and wiped his forehead.
“'Something to DO with it?' he groans. 'Why, you idiot, it was IT! If Gordon's lawyers get that paper—and they've been after it for a year—then the fat's all in the fire. There's nothin' left for me to do but compromise.'
“When Peter T. mentioned the name of Gabriel Sterzer, me and Jonadab begun to see a light, too. 'Course you remember the bust-up of the Aluminum Trust—everybody does. The papers was full of it. There'd been a row among the two leadin' stockholders, Gabe Sterzer and 'Major' Gordon. Them two double-back-action millionaires practically owned the trust, and the state 'twas in, and the politics of that state, and all the politicians. Each of 'em run three or four banks of their own, and a couple of newspapers, and other things, till you couldn't rest. Then they had the row, and Gabe had took his playthings and gone home, as you might say. Among the playthings was a majority of the stock, and the Major had sued for it. The suit, with pictures of the leadin' characters and the lawyers and all, had been spread-eagled in the papers everywheres. No wonder 'Robinson's' face was familiar.
“But it seemed that Sterzer had held the trump card in the shape of the original agreement between him and Gordon. And he hung on to it like the Old Scratch to a fiddler. Gordon and his crowd had done everything, short of murder, to get it; hired folks to steal it, and so on, because, once they DID get it, Gabe hadn't a leg to stand on—he'd have to divide equal, which wa'n't his desires, by a good sight. The Sterzer lawyers had wanted him to leave it in their charge, but no—he knew too much for that. The pig-headed old fool had carted it with him wherever he went, and him and his daughter had come to the Old Home House because he figgered nobody would think of their bein' in such an out-of-the-way place as that. But they HAD thought of it. Anyhow, the paper was gone.
“'But Mr. Robinzer—Sterson, I mean—' cut in Cap'n Jonadab, 'you could have 'em took up for stealin', couldn't you? They wouldn't dare—'
“''Course they'd dare! S'pose they don't know I wouldn't have that agreement get in the papers? Dare! They'd dare anything. If they get away with it, by hook or crook, all I can do is haul in my horns and compromise. If they've got that paper, the suit never comes to trial.'
“'Well, they ain't got it yet,' says Peter, decided. 'Whoever stole the thing is right here in this boardin'-house, and it's up to us to see that they stay here. Barzilla, you take care of the mail. No letters must go out to-night. Jonadab, you set up and watch all hands, help and all. Nobody must leave this place, if we have to tie em. And I'll keep a gen'ral overseein' of the whole thing, till we get a detective. And—if you'll stand the waybill, Mr. Sterzer—we'll have the best Pinkerton in Boston down here in three hours by special train. By the way, are you sure the thing IS lifted? Where was it?'
“Old Gabe kind of colored up, and give in that 'twas under his pillow. He always kept it there after the beds was made.
“'Humph!' grunts Brown. 'Why didn't you hang it on the door-knob? Under the pillow! If I was a sneak thief, the first place I'd look would be under the pillow; after that I'd tackle the jewelry box and the safe.'
“There was consider'ble more talk. Seems the Sterzers had left Henry on guard, same as they always done, when they went to supper. They could trust him and Suzette absolute, they said. But Henry had gone down the hall after a drink of water, and when he had got back everything apparently was all right. 'Twa'n't till Gabe himself come up that he found the paper gone. I judged he'd made it interestin' for Henry; the poor critter looked that way.
“All hands agreed to keep mum for the present and to watch. Peter hustled to the office and called up the Pinkertons over the long distance.”
Mr. Wingate paused. Captain Sol was impatient.
“Go on,” he said. “Don't stop now, I'm gettin' anxious.”
Barzilla rose to his feet. “Here's your McKay man back again,” he said. “Let's go up to your house and have breakfast. We can talk while we're eatin'. I'm empty as a poorhouse boarder's pocketbook.”
Breakfast at Capt. Sol Berry's was a bountiful meal. The depot master employed a middle-aged woman who came in each day, cooked his meals and did the housework, returning to her own home at night. After Mr. Wingate had mowed a clean swath through ham and eggs, cornbread and coffee, and had reached the cooky and doughnut stage, he condescended to speak further concerning the stolen paper.
“Well,” he said, “Brown give me and Jonadab a serious talkin' to when he got us alone.”
“'Now, fellers,' he says, 'we know what we've got to do. Nothin'll be too good for this shebang and us if we get that agreement back. Fust place, the thing was done a few minutes after the supper-bell rung. That is, unless that 'Enry is in on the deal, which ain't unlikely, considerin' the price he could get from the Gordon gang. Was anybody late at the tables?'
“Why, yes; there were quite a few late. Two of the 'gunners,' who'd been on a forlorn-hope duck hunt; and a minister and his wife, out walkin' for their health; and Parker and two fellers from the football team, who'd been practicin'.
“'Any of the waiters or the chambermaids?' asked Peter.
“I'd been expectin' he'd ask that, and I hated to answer.
“'One of the waiters was a little late,' says I. 'Willie wa'n't on hand immediate. Said he went to wash his hands.'
“Now the help gen'rally washed in the fo'castle—the servants' quarters, I mean—but there was a wash room on the floor where the Sterzer-Robinsons roomed. Peter looked at Jonadab, and the two of 'em at me. And I had to own up that Willie had come downstairs from that wash room a few minutes after the bell rung.
“'Hum!' says Peter T. 'Hum!' he says. 'Look here, Barzilla, didn't you tell me you knew that feller's real name, and that he had been studying law?'
“'No,' says I, emphatic. 'I said 'twas law he was tryin' to get away from. His tastes run large to literation and poetry.'
“'Hum!' says Peter again. 'All papers are more or less literary—even trust agreements. Hum!'
“'All the same,' says I, 'I'll bet my Sunday beaver that HE never took it.'
“They didn't answer, but looked solemn. Then the three of us went on watch.
“Nobody made a move to go out that evenin'. I kept whatever mail was handed in, but there was nothin' that looked like any agreements, and nothin' addressed to Gordon or his lawyers. At twelve or so, the detective come. Peter drove up to the depot to meet the special. He told the whole yarn on the way down.
“The detective was a nice enough chap, and we agreed he should be 'Mr. Snow,' of New York, gunnin' for health and ducks. He said the watch must be kept up all night, and in the mornin' he'd make his fust move. So said, so done.
“And afore breakfast that next mornin' we called everybody into the dinin' room, boarders, help, stable hands, every last one. And Peter made a little speech. He said that a very valuable paper had been taken out of Mr. Robinson's room, and 'twas plain that it must be on the premises somewhere. 'Course, nobody was suspicioned, but, speakin' for himself, he'd feel better if his clothes and his room was searched through. How'd the rest feel about it?
“Well, they felt diff'rent ways, but Parker spoke up like a brick, and said he wouldn't rest easy till HIS belongin's was pawed over, and then the rest fell in line. We went through everybody and every room on the place. Found nothin', of course. Snow—the detective—said he didn't expect to. But I tell you there was some talkin' goin' on, just the same. The minister, he hinted that he had some doubts about them dissipated gunners; and the gunners cal'lated they never see a parson yet wouldn't bear watchin'. As for me, I felt like a pickpocket, and, judgin' from Jonadab's face, he felt the same.
“The detective man swooped around quiet, bobbin' up in unexpected places, like a porpoise, and askin' questions once in a while. He asked about most everybody, but about Willie, especial. I judged Peter T. had dropped a hint to him and to Gabe. Anyhow, the old critter give out that he wouldn't trust a poet with the silver handles on his grandmarm's coffin. As for Grace, she acted dreadful nervous and worried. Once I caught her swabbin' her eyes, as if she'd been cryin'; but I'd never seen her and Willie together but the one time I told you of.
“Four days and nights crawled by. No symptoms yet. The Pinkertons was watchin' the Gordon lawyers' office in New York, and they reported that nothin' like that agreement had reached there. And our own man—Snow—said he'd go bail it hadn't been smuggled off the premises sense HE struck port. So 'twas safe so far; but where was it, and who had it?
“The final football game, the one with Wapatomac, was to be played over on their grounds on the afternoon of the fifth day. Parker, cap'n of the eleven, give out that, considerin' everything, he didn't know but we'd better call it off. Old Robinson—Sterzer, of course—wouldn't hear of it.
“'Not much,' says he. 'I wouldn't chance your losin' that game for forty papers. You sail in and lick 'em!' or words to that effect.
“So the eleven was to cruise across the bay in the Greased Lightnin', Peter's little motor launch, and the rooters was to go by train later on. 'Twas Parker's idee, goin' in the launch. 'Twould be more quiet, less strain on the nerves of his men, and they could talk over plays and signals on the v'yage.
“So at nine o'clock in the forenoon they was ready, the whole team—three waiters, two fishermen, one carpenter from up to Wellmouth Center, a stable hand, and Parker and three reg'lar boarders. These last three was friends of Parker's that he'd had come down some time afore. He knew they could play football, he said, and they'd come to oblige him.
“The eleven gathered on the front porch, all in togs and sweaters, principally provided and paid for by Sterzer. Cap'n Parker had the ball under his arm, and the launch was waitin' ready at the landin'. All the boarders—except Grace, who was upstairs in her room—and most of the help was standin' round to say good luck and good-by.
“Snow, the detective, was there, and I whispered in his ear.
“'Say,' I says, 'do you realize that for the fust time since the robbery here's a lot of folks leavin' the house? How do you know but what—'
“He winked and nodded brisk. 'I'll attend to that,' he says.
“But he didn't have to. Parker spoke fust, and took the wind out of his sails.
“'Gentlemen,' says he, 'I don't know how the rest of you feel, but, as for me, I don't start without clear skirts. I suggest that Mr. Brown and Mr. Wingate here search each one of us, thoroughly. Who knows,' says he, laughin', 'but what I've got that precious stolen paper tucked inside my sweater? Ha! ha! Come on, fellers! I'll be first.'
“He tossed the ball into a chair and marched into the office, the rest of the players after him, takin' it as a big joke. And there the searchin' was done, and done thorough, 'cause Peter asked Mr. Snow to help, and he knew how. One thing was sure; Pa Gabe's agreement wa'n't hid about the persons of that football team. Everybody laughed—that is, all but the old man and the detective. Seemed to me that Snow was kind of disappointed, and I couldn't see why. 'Twa'n't likely any of THEM was thieves.
“Cap'n Parker picked up his football and started off for the launch. He'd got about ha'fway to the shore when Willie—who'd been stand-in' with the rest of the help, lookin' on—stepped for'ard pretty brisk and whispered in the ear of the Pinkerton man. The detective jumped, sort of, and looked surprised and mighty interested.
“'By George!' says he. 'I never thought of that.' Then he run to the edge of the piazza and called.
“'Mr. Parker!' he sings out. 'Oh, Mr. Parker!'
“Parker was at the top of the little rise that slopes away down to the landin'. The rest of the eleven was scattered from the shore to the hotel steps. He turns, without stoppin', and answers.
“'What is it?' he sings out, kind of impatient.
“'There's just one thing we forgot to look at,' shouts Snow. 'Merely a matter of form, but just bring that—Hey! Stop him! Stop him!'
“For Parker, instead of comin' back, had turned and was leggin' it for the launch as fast as he could, and that was some.
“'Stop!' roars the Pinkerton man, jumpin' down the steps. 'Stop, or—'
“'Hold him, Jim!' screeched Parker, over his shoulder. One of the biggest men on the eleven—one of the three 'friends' who'd been so obligin' as to come down on purpose to play football—made a dive, caught the detective around the waist, and threw him flat.
“'Go on, Ed!' he shouts. 'I've got him, all right.'
“Ed—meanin' Parker—was goin' on, and goin' fast. All hands seemed to be frozen stiff, me and Jonadab and Peter T. included. As for me, I couldn't make head nor tail of the doin's; things was comin' too quick for MY understandin'.
“But there was one on that piazza who wa'n't froze. Fur from it! Willie, the poet waiter, made a jump, swung his long legs over the porch-rail, hit the ground, and took after that Parker man like a cat after a field mouse.
“Run! I never see such runnin'! He fairly flashed across that lawn and over the rise. Parker was almost to the landin'; two more jumps and he'd been aboard the launch. If he'd once got aboard, a turn of the switch and that electric craft would have had him out of danger in a shake. But them two jumps was two too many. Willie riz off the ground like a flyin' machine, turned his feet up and his head down, and lapped his arms around Parker's knees. Down the pair of 'em went 'Ker-wallop!' and the football flew out of Parker's arms.
“In an eyewink that poet was up, grabs the ball, and comes tearin' back toward us.
“'Stop him!' shrieks Parker from astern.
“'Head him off! Tackle him!' bellers the big chap who was hangin' onto the detective.
“They tell me that discipline and obeyin' orders is as much in football as 'tis aboard ship. If that's so, every one of the Old Home House eleven was onto their jobs. There was five men between Willie and the hotel, and they all bore down on him like bats on a June bug.
“'Get him!' howls Parker, racin' to help.
“'Down him!' chimes in big Jim, his knee in poor Snow's back.
“'Run, Bearse! Run!' whoops the Pinkerton man, liftin' his mouth out of the sand.
“He run—don't you worry about that! Likewise he dodged. One chap swooped at him, and he ducked under his arms. Another made a dive, and he jumped over him. The third one he pushed one side with his hand. 'Pushed!' did I say? 'Knocked' would be better, for the feller—the carpenter 'twas—went over and over like a barrel rollin' down hill. But there was two more left, and one of 'em was bound to have him.
“Then a window upstairs banged open.
“'Oh, Mr. Bearse!' screamed a voice—Grace Sterzer's voice. 'Don't let them get you!'
“We all heard her, in spite of the shoutin' and racket. Willie heard her, too. The two fellers, one at each side, was almost on him, when he stopped, looked up, jumped back, and, as cool as a rain barrel in January, he dropped that ball and kicked it.
“I can see that picture now, like a tableau at a church sociable. The fellers that was runnin', the others on the ground, and that literary pie passer with his foot swung up to his chin.
“And the ball! It sailed up and up in a long curve, began to drop, passed over the piazza roof, and out of sight.
“'Lock your door, Miss Sterzer,' sung out Fred Bearse—'Willie' for short. 'Lock your door and keep that ball. I think your father's paper is inside it.'
“As sure as my name is Barzilla Wingate, he had kicked that football straight through the open window into old Gabe's room.”
The depot master whooped and slapped his knee. Mr. Wingate grinned delightedly and continued:
“There!” he went on, “the cat's out of the bag, and there ain't much more to tell. Everybody made a bolt for the room, old Gabe and Peter T. in the lead. Grace let her dad in, and the ball was ripped open in a hurry. Sure enough! Inside, between the leather and the rubber, was the missin' agreement. Among the jubilations and praise services nobody thought of much else until Snow, the Pinkerton man, come upstairs, his clothes tore and his eyes and nose full of sand.
“'Humph!' says he. 'You've got it, hey? Good! Well, you haven't got friend Parker. Look!'
“Such of us as could looked out of the window. There was the launch, with Parker and his three 'friends' in it, headin' two-forty for blue water.
“'Let 'em go,' says old Gabe, contented. 'I wouldn't arrest 'em if I could. This is no police-station job.'
“It come out afterwards that Parker was a young chap just from law school, who had gone to work for the firm of shysters who was attendin' to the Gordon interests. They had tracked Sterzer to the Old Home House, and had put their new hand on the job of gettin' that agreement. Fust he'd tried to shine up to Grace, but the shine—her part of it—had wore off. Then he decided to steal it; and he done it, just how nobody knows. Snow, the detective, says he cal'lates Henry, the servant, is wiser'n most folks thinks, fur's that's concerned.
“Snow had found out about Parker inside of two days. Soon's he got the report as to who he was, he was morally sartin that he was the thief. He'd looked up Willie's record, too, and that was clear. In fact, Willie helped him consider'ble. 'Twas him that recognized Parker, havin' seen him play on a law-school team. Also 'twas Willie who thought of the paper bein' in the football.
“Land of love! What a hero they made of that waiter!
“'By the livin' Moses!' bubbles old Gabe, shakin' both the boy's hands. 'That was the finest run and tackle and the finest kick I ever saw anywhere. I've seen every big game for ten years, and I never saw anything half so good.'
“The Pinkerton man laughed. 'There's only one chap on earth who can kick like that. Here he is,' layin' his hand on 'Willie's' shoulder. Bearse, the All-American half-back last year.'
“Gabe's mouth fell open. 'Not “Bung” Bearse, of Yarvard!' he sings out. 'Why! WHY!'
“'Of course, father!' purrs his daughter, smilin' and happy. 'I knew him at once. He and I were—er—slightly acquainted when I was at Highcliffe.'
“'But—but “Bung” Bearse!' gasps the old gent. 'Why, you rascal! I saw you kick the goal that beat Haleton. Your reputation is worldwide.'
“Willie—Fred Bearse, that is—shook his head, sad and regretful.
“'Thank you, Mr. Sterzer,' says he, in his gentle tenor. 'I have no desire to be famous in athletics. My aspirations now are entirely literary.'
“Well, he's got his literary job at last, bein' engaged as sportin' editor on one of Gabe's papers. His dad, old Sol Bearse, seems to be pretty well satisfied, partic'lar as another engagement between the Bearse family and the Sterzers has just been given out.”
Barzilla helped himself to another doughnut. His host leaned back in his chair and laughed uproariously.
“Well, by the great and mighty!” he exclaimed, “that Willie chap certainly did fool you, didn't he. You can't always tell about these college critters. Sometimes they break out unexpected, like chickenpox in the 'Old Men's Home.' Ha! ha! Say, do you know Nate Scudder?”
“Know him? Course I know him! The meanest man on the Cape, and livin' right in my own town, too! Well, if I didn't know him I might trust him, and that would be the beginnin' of the end—for me.”
“It sartin would. But what made me think of him was what he told me about his nephew, who was a college chap, consider'ble like your 'Willie,' I jedge. Nate and this nephew, Augustus Tolliver, was mixed up in that flyin'-machine business, you remember.”
“I know they was. Mixed up with that Professor Dixland the papers are makin' such a fuss over. Wellmouth's been crazy over it all, but it happened a year ago and nobody that I know of has got the straight inside facts about it yet. Nate won't talk at all. Whenever you ask him he busts out swearin' and walks off. His wife's got such a temper that nobody dared ask her, except the minister. He tried it, and ain't been the same man since.”
“Well,” the depot master smilingly scratched his chin, “I cal'late I've got those inside facts.”
“You HAVE?”
“Yes. Nate gave 'em to me, under protest. You see, I know Nate pretty well. I know some things about him that . . . but never mind that part. I asked him and, at last, he told me. I'll have to tell you in his words, 'cause half the fun was the way he told it and the way he looked at the whole business. So you can imagine I'm Nate, and—”
“'Twill be a big strain on my imagination to b'lieve you're Nate Scudder, Sol Berry.”
“Thanks. However, you'll have to do it for a spell. Well, Nate said that it really begun when the Professor and Olivia landed at the Wellmouth depot with the freight car full of junk. Of course, the actual beginnin' was further back than that, when that Harmon man come on from Philadelphy and hunted him up, makin' proclamation that a friend of his, a Mr. Van Brunt of New York, had said that Scudder had a nice quiet island to let and maybe he could hire it.
“Course Nate had an island—that little sun-dried sandbank a mile or so off shore, abreast his house, which we used to call 'Horsefoot Bar.' That crazy Van Brunt and his chum, Hartley, who lived there along with Sol Pratt a year or so ago, re-christened it 'Ozone Island,' you remember. Nate was willin' to let it. He'd let Tophet, if he owned it, and a fool come along who wanted to hire it and could pay for the rent and heat.
“So Nate and this Harmon feller rowed over to the Bar—to Ozone Island, I mean—and the desolation and loneliness of it seemed to suit him to perfection. So did the old house and big barn and all the tumbledown buildin's stuck there in the beach-grass and sand. Afore they'd left they made a dicker. He wa'n't the principal in it. He was the private secretary and fust mate of Mr. Professor Ansel Hobart Dixland, the scientist—perhaps Scudder'd heard of him?
“Perhaps he had, but if so, Nate forgot it, though he didn't tell him that. Harmon ordered a fifteen-foot-high board fence built all around the house and barn, and made Nate swear not to tell a soul who was comin' nor anything. Dixland might want the island two months, he said, or he might want it two years. Nate didn't care. He was in for good pickin's, and begun to pick by slicin' a liberal commission off that fencebuildin' job. There was a whole passel of letters back and forth between Nate and Harmon, and finally Nate got word to meet the victims at the depot.
“There was the professor himself, an old dried-up relic with whiskers and a temper; and there was Miss Olivia Dixland, his niece and housekeeper, a slim, plain lookin' girl, who wore eyeglasses and a straight up and down dress. And there was a freight car full of crates and boxes and land knows what all. But nary sign was there of a private secretary and assistant. The professor told Nate that Mr. Harmon's health had suddenly broke down and he'd had to be sent South.
“'It's a calamity,' says he; 'a real calamity! Harmon has been with me in my work from the beginnin'; and now, just as it is approachin' completion, he is taken away. They say he may die. It is very annoyin'.'
“'Humph!' says Nate. 'Well, maybe it annoys HIM some, too; you can't tell. What you goin' to do for a secretary?'
“'I understand,' says the professor, 'that there is a person of consider'ble scientific attainment residin' with you, Mr. Scudder, at present. Harmon met him while he was here; they were in the same class at college. Harmon recommended him highly. Olivia,' he says to the niece, 'what was the name of the young man whom Harmon recommended?'
“'Tolliver, Uncle Ansel,' answers the girl, lookin' kind of disdainful at Nate. Somehow he had the notion that she didn't take to him fust rate.
“'Hey?' sings out Nate. 'Tolliver? Why, that's Augustus! AUGUSTUS! well, I'll be switched!'
“Augustus Tolliver was Nate's nephew from up Boston way. Him and Nate was livin' together at that time. Huldy Ann, Mrs. Scudder, was out West, in Omaha, takin' care of a cousin of hers who was a chronic invalid and, what's more to the purpose, owned a lot of stock in copper mines.
“Augustus was a freckle-faced, spindle-shanked little critter, with spectacles and a soft, polite way of speakin' that made you want to build a fire under him to see if he could swear like a Christian. He had a big head with consider'ble hair on the top of it and nothin' underneath but what he called 'science' and 'sociology.' His science wa'n't nothin' but tommy-rot to Nate, and the 'sociology' was some kind of drivel about everybody bein' equal to everybody else, or better. 'Seemed to think 'twas wrong to get a good price for a thing when you found a feller soft enough to pay it. Did you ever hear the beat of that in your life?' says Nate.
“However, Augustus had soaked so much science and sociology into that weak noddle of his that they kind of made him drunk, as you might say, and the doctor had sent him down to board with the Scudders and sleep it off. 'Nervous prostration' was the way he had his symptoms labeled, and the nerve part was all right, for if a hen flew at him he'd holler and run. Scart! you never see such a scart cat in your born days. Scart of a boat, scart of being seasick, scart of a gun, scart of everything! Most special he was scart of Uncle Nate. The said uncle kept him that way so's he wouldn't dast to kick at the grub him and Huldy Ann give him, I guess.
“'Augustus Tolliver,' says old Dixland, noddin'. 'Yes, that is the name. Has he had a sound scientific trainin'?'
“'Scientific trainin'!' says Nate. 'Scientific trainin'? Why, you bet he's had it! That's the only kind of trainin' he HAS had. He'll be just the feller for you, Mr. Dixland.'
“So that was settled, all but notifyin' Augustus. But Scudder sighted another speculation in the offin', and hove alongside of it.
“'Mr. Harmon, when he was here,' says he, 'he mentioned you needin' a nice, dependable man to live on the island and be sort of general roustabout. My wife bein' away just now, and all, it struck me that I might as well be that man. Maybe my terms'll seem a little high, at fust mention, but—'
“'Very good,' says the professor, 'very good. I'm sure you'll be satisfactory. Now please see to the unloading of that car. And be careful, VERY careful.'
“Nate broke the news to Augustus that afternoon. He had his nose stuck in a book, as usual, and never heard, so Nate yelled at him like a mate on a tramp steamer, just to keep in trainin'.
“'Who? Who? Who? What? What?' squeals Augustus, jumpin' out of the chair as if there was pins in it. 'What is it? Who did it? Oh, my poor nerves!'
“'Drat your poor nerves!' Nate says. 'I've got a good promisin' job for you. Listen to this.'
“Then he told about the professor's wantin' Gus to be assistant and help do what the old man called 'experiments.'
“'Dixland?' says Gus, 'Ansel Hobart Dixland, the great scientist! And I'm to be HIS assistant? Assistant to the man who discovered DIXIUM and invented—'
“'Oh, belay there!' snorts Nate, impatient. Tell me this—he's awful rich, ain't he?'
“'Why, I believe—yes, Harmon said he was. But to think of MY bein'—'
“'Now, nephew,' Nate cut in, 'let me talk to you a minute. Me and your Aunt Huldy Ann have been mighty kind to you sence you've been here, and here's your chance to do us a good turn. You stick close to science and the professor and let me attend to the finances. If this family ain't well off pretty soon it won't be your Uncle Nate's fault. Only don't you put your oar in where 'tain't needed.'
“Lord love you, Gus didn't care about finances. He was so full of joy at bein' made assistant to the great Ansel Whiskers Dixland that he forgot everything else, nerves and all.
“So in another day the four of 'em was landed on Ozone Island and so was the freight-car load of crates and boxes. Grub and necessaries was to be provided by Scudder—for salary as stated and commission understood.
“It took Nate less than a week to find out what old Dixland was up to. When he learned it, he set down in the sand and fairly snorted disgust. The old idiot was cal'latin' to FLY. Seems that for years he'd been experimentin' with what he called 'aeroplanes,' and now he'd reached the stage where he b'lieved he could flap his wings and soar. 'Thinks I,' says Nate, 'your life work's cut out for you, Nate Scudder. You'll spend the rest of your days as gen'ral provider for the Ozone private asylum.' Well, Scudder wa'n't complainin' none at the outlook. He couldn't make a good livin' no easier.
“The aeroplane was in sections in them boxes and crates. Nate and Augustus and the professor got out the sections and fitted 'em together. The buildin's on Ozone was all joined together—first the house, then the ell, then the wash-rooms and big sheds, and, finally, the barn. There was doors connectin', and you could go from house to barn, both downstairs and up, without steppin' outside once.
“'Twas in the barn that they built what Whiskers called the 'flyin' stage.' 'Twas a long chute arrangement on trestles, and the idea was that the aeroplane was to get her start by slidin' down the chute, out through the big doors and off by the atmosphere route to glory. I say that was the IDEA. In practice she worked different.
“Twice the professor made proclamations that everything was ready, and twice they started that flyin' machine goin'. The fust time Dixland was at the helm, and him and the aeroplane dropped headfust into the sandbank just outside the barn. The machine was underneath, and the pieces of it acted as a fender, so all the professor fractured was his temper. But it took ten days to get the contraption ready for the next fizzle. Then poor, shaky, scart Augustus was pilot, and he went so deep into the bank that Nate says he wondered whether 'twas wuth while doin' anything but orderin' the gravestone. But they dug him out at last, whole, but frightened blue, and his nerves was worse than ever after that.
“Then old Dixland announces that he has discovered somethin' wrong in the principle of the thing, and they had to wait while he ordered some new fittin's from Boston.
“Meanwhile there was other complications settin' in. Scudder was kept busy providin' grub and such like and helpin' the niece, Olivia, with the housework. Likewise he had his hands full keepin' the folks alongshore from findin' out what was goin' on. All this flyin' foolishness had to be a dead secret.
“But, busy as he was, he found time to notice the thick acquaintance that was developin' between Augustus and Olivia. Them two was what the minister calls 'kindred sperrits.' Seems she was sufferin' from science same as he was and, more'n that, she was loaded to the gunwale with 'social reform.' To hear the pair of 'em go on about helpin' the poor and 'settlement work' and such was enough, accordin' to Nate, to make you leave the table. But there! He couldn't complain. Olivia was her uncle's only heir, and Nate could see a rainbow of promise ahead for the Scudder family.
“The niece was a nice, quiet girl. The only thing Nate had against her, outside of the sociology craziness and her not seemin' to take a shine to him, was her confounded pets. Nate said he never had no use for pets—lazy critters, eatin' up the victuals and costin' money—but Olivia was dead gone on 'em. She adopted an old reprobate of a tom-cat, which she labeled 'Galileo,' after an Eyetalian who invented spyglasses or somethin' similar, and a great big ugly dog that answered to the hail of 'Phillips Brooks'; she named him that because she said the original Phillips was a distinguished parson and a great philanthropist.
“That dog was a healthy philanthropist. When Nate kicked him the first time, he chased him the whole length of the barn. After that they had to keep him chained up. He was just pinin' for a chance to swaller Scudder whole, and he showed it.
“Well, as time went on, Olivia and Augustus got chummier and chummier. Nate give 'em all the chance possible to be together, and as for old Professor Whiskers, all he thought of, anyway, was his blessed flyin' machine. So things was shapin' themselves well, 'cordin' to Scudder's notion.
“One afternoon Nate come, unexpected, to the top of a sand hill at t'other end of the island, and there, below, set Olivia and Augustus. He had a clove hitch 'round her waist, and they was lookin' into each other's spectacles as if they was windows in the pearly gates. Thinks Nate: 'They've signed articles,' and he tiptoed away, feelin' that life wa'n't altogether an empty dream.
“They was lively hours, them that followed. To begin with, when Nate got back to the barn he found the professor layin' on the floor, under the flyin' stage, groanin' soulful but dismal. He'd slipped off one of the braces of the trestles and sprained both wrists and bruised himself till he wa'n't much more than one big lump. He hadn't bruised his tongue none to speak of, though, and his language wa'n't sprained so that you'd notice it. What broke him up most of all was that he'd got his aeroplane ready to 'fly' again, and now he was knocked out so's he couldn't be aboard when she went off the ways.
“'It is the irony of fate,' says he.
“'I got it off the blacksmith over to Wellmouth Centre,' Nate told him; 'but HE might have got it from Fate, or whoever you mean. 'Twas slippery iron, I know that, and I warned you against steppin' on it yesterday.'
“The professor more'n hinted that Nate was a dunderhead idiot, and then he commenced to holler for Tolliver; he wanted to see Tolliver right off. Scudder thought he'd ought to see a doctor, but he wouldn't, so Nate plastered him up best he could, got him into the big chair in the front room, and went huntin' Augustus. Him and Olivia was still camped in the sand bank. Gus's right arm had got tired by this time, I cal'late, but he had a new hitch with his left. Likewise they was still starin' into each other's specs.
“'Excuse me for interruptin' the mesmerism,' says Nate, 'but the professor wants to see you.'
“They jumped and broke away. But it took more'n that to bring 'em down out of the clouds. They'd been flyin' a good sight higher than the old aeroplane had yet.
“'Uncle Nathan,' says Augustus, gettin' up and shakin' hands, 'I have the most wonderful news for you. It's hardly believable. You'll never guess it.'
“'Give me three guesses and I'll win on the fust,' says Nate. 'You two are engaged.'
“They looked at him as if he'd done somethin' wonderful. 'But, Uncle,' says Gus, shakin' hands again, 'just think! she's actually consented to marry me.'
“'Well, that's gen'rally understood to be a part of engagin', ain't it?' says Nate. 'I'm glad to hear it. Miss Dixland, I congratulate you. You've got a fine, promisin' young man.'
“That, to Nate's notion, was about the biggest lie he ever told, but Olivia swallered it for gospel. She seemed to thaw toward Scudder a little mite, but 'twa'n't at a permanent melt, by no means.
“'Thank you, Mr. Scudder,' says she, still pretty frosty. 'I am full aware of Mr. Tolliver's merits. I'm glad to learn that YOU recognize them. He has told some things concernin' his stay at your home which—'
“'Yes, yes,' says Nate, kind of hurried. 'Well, I'm sorry to dump bad news into a puddle of happiness like this, but your Uncle Ansel, Miss Dixland, has been tryin' to fly without his machine, and he's sorry for it.'
“Then he told what had happened to the professor, and Olivia started on the run for the house. Augustus was goin', too, but Nate held him back.
“'Wait a minute, Gus,' says he. 'Walk along with me; I want to talk with you. Now, as an older man, your nighest relation, and one that's come to love you like a son—yes, sir, like a son—I think it's my duty just now to say a word of advice. You're goin' to marry a nice girl that's comin' in for a lot of money one of these days. The professor, he's kind of old, his roof leaks consider'ble, and this trouble is likely to hurry the end along.
“'Now, then,' Nate goes on, 'Augustus, my boy, what are you and that simple, childlike girl goin' to do with all that money? How are you goin' to take care of it? You and 'Livia—you mustn't mind my callin' her that 'cause she's goin' to be one of the family so soon—you'll want to be fussin' with science and such, and you won't have no time to attend to the finances. You'll need a good, safe person to be your financial manager. Well, you know me and you know your Aunt Huldy Ann. WE know all about financin'; WE'VE had experience. You just let us handle the bonds and coupons and them trifles. We'll invest 'em for you. We'll be yours and 'Livia's financial managers. As for our wages, maybe they'll seem a little high, but that's easy arranged. And—'
“Gus interrupted then. 'Oh, that's all settled,' he says. 'Olivia and I have planned all that. When we're married we shall devote our lives to social work—to settlement work. All the money we ever get we shall use to help the poor. WE don't want any of it. We shall live AMONG the poor, live just as frugally as they do. Our money we shall give—every cent of it—to charity and—'
“'Lord sakes!' yells Nate, 'DON'T talk that way! Don't! Be you crazy, too? Why—'
“But Gus went on, talkin' a steady streak about livin' in a little tenement in what he called the 'slums' and chuckin' the money to this tramp and that, till Nate's head was whirlin'. 'Twa'n't no joke. He meant it and so did she, and they was just the pair of loons to do it, too.
“Afore Nate had a chance to think up anything sensible to say, Olivia comes hollerin' for Gus to hurry. Off he went, and Nate followed along, holdin' his head and staggerin' like a voter comin' home from a political candidate's picnic. All he could think of was: 'THIS the end of all my plannin'! What—WHAT'LL Huldy Ann say to THIS?'
“Nate found the professor bolstered up in his chair, with the other two standin' alongside. He was layin' down the law about that blessed aeroplane.
“'No! no! NO! I tell you!' he roars, 'I'll see no doctor. My invention is ready at last, and, if I'm goin' to die, I'll die successful. Tolliver, you've been a faithful worker with me, and yours shall be the privilege of makin' the first flight. Wheel me to the window, Olivia, and let me see my triumph.'
“But Olivia didn't move. Instead, she looked at Augustus and he at her. 'Wheel me to the window!' yells Dixland. 'Tolliver, what are you waitin' for? The doors are open, the aeroplane is ready. Go this instant and fly.'
“Augustus was a bird all right, 'cordin' to Nate's opinion, but he didn't seem anxious to spread his wings. He was white, and them nerves of his was all in a twitter. If ever there was a scart critter, 'twas him then.
“'Go out and fly,' says Nate to him, pretty average ugly. 'Don't you hear the boss's order? Here, professor, I'll push you to the window.'
“'Thank you, Scudder,' says Dixland. And then turnin' to Gus: 'Well, sir, may I ask why you wait?'
“'Twas Olivia that answered. 'Uncle Ansel,' says she, 'I must tell you somethin'. I should have preferred tellin' you privately,' she puts in, glarin' at Nate, 'but it seems I can't. Mr. Tolliver and I are engaged to be married.'
“Old Whiskers didn't seem to care a continental. All he had in his addled head was that flyin' contraption.
“'All right, all right,' he snaps, fretty, 'I'm satisfied. He appears to be a decent young man enough. But now I want him to start my aeroplane.'
“'No, Uncle Ansel,' goes on Olivia, 'I cannot permit him to risk his life in that way. His nerves are not strong and neither is his heart. Besides, the aeroplane has failed twice. Luckily no one was killed in the other trials, but the chances are that the third time may prove fatal.'
“'Fatal, you imbecile!' shrieks the professor. 'It's perfected, I tell you! I—'
“'It makes no difference. No, uncle, Augustus and I have made up our minds. His life and health are too precious; he must be spared for the grand work that we are to do together. No, Uncle Ansel, he shall NOT fly.'
“Did you ever see a cat in a fit? That was the professor just then, so Nate said. He tried to wave his sprained wrists and couldn't; tried to stamp his foot and found it too lame. But his eyeglasses flashed sparks and his tongue spit fire.
“'Are you goin' to start that machine?' he screams at the blue-white, shaky Augustus.
“'No, Professor Dixland,' stammers Gus. 'No, sir, I'm sorry, but—'
“'Why don't you ask Mr. Scudder to make the experiment, uncle?' suggests that confounded niece, smilin' the spitefullest smile.
“'Scudder,' says the professor, 'I'll give you five thousand dollars cash to start in that aeroplane this moment.'
“For a jiffy Nate was staggered. Five thousand dollars CASH—whew! But then he thought of how deep Gus had been shoved into that sandbank. And there was a new and more powerful motor aboard the thing now. Five thousand dollars ain't much good to a telescoped corpse. He fetched a long breath.
“'Well, now, Mr. Dixland,' he says, 'I'd like to, fust rate, but you see I don't know nothin' about mechanics.'
“'Professor—' begins Augustus. 'Twas the final straw. Old Whiskers jumped out of the chair, lameness and all.
“'Out of this house, you ingrate!' he bellers. 'Out this instant! I discharge you. Go! go!'
“He was actually frothin' at the mouth. I cal'late Olivia thought he was goin' to die, for she run to him.
“'You'd better go, I think,' says she to her shakin' beau. 'Go, dear, now. I must stay with him for the present, but we will see each other soon. Go now, and trust me.'
“'I disown you, you ungrateful girl,' foams her uncle. 'Scudder, I order you to put that—that creature off this island.'
“'Yes, sir,' says Nate, polite; 'in about two shakes of a heifer's tail.'
“He started for Augustus, and Gus started for the door. I guess Olivia might have interfered, but just then the professor keels over in a kind of faint and she had to tend to him. Gus darts out of the door with Nate after him. Scudder reached the beach just as his nephew was shovin' off in the boat, bound for the mainland.
“'Consarn your empty head!' Nate yelled after him. 'See what you get by not mindin' me, don't you? I'm runnin' things on this island after this. I'm boss here; understand? When you're ready to sign a paper deedin' over ha'f that money your wife's goin' to get to me and Huldy Ann, maybe I'll let you come back. And perhaps then I'll square things for you with Dixland. But if you dare to set foot on these premises until then I'll murder you; I'll drown you; I'll cut you up for bait; I'll feed you to the dog.'
“He sculled off, his oars rattlin' 'Hark from the tomb' in the rowlocks. He b'lieved Nate meant it all. Oh, Scudder had HIM trained all right.”
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