“Town meeting” was called for the twenty-first of November.
With the summer boarders gone, the cranberry picking finished, state election over, school begun and under way, and real winter not yet upon us, Bayport, in the late fall, distinctly needs something to enliven it. The Shakespeare Reading Society and the sewing circle continue, of course, to interest the “women folks,” there is the usual every evening gathering at Simmons's, and the young people are looking forward to the “Grand Ball” on Thanksgiving eve. But for the men, on week days, there is little to do except to “putter” about the house, banking its foundations with dry seaweed as a precaution against searching no'theasters, whitewashing the barns and outbuildings, or fixing things in the vegetable cellar where the sticks of smoked herring hang in rows above the barrels of cabbages, potatoes, and turnips. The fish weirs, most of them, are taken up, lest the ice, which will be driven into the bay later on, tear the nets to pieces. Even the hens grow lazy and lay less frequently. Therefore, away back in the “airly days,” some far-sighted board of selectmen arranged that “town meeting” should be held during this lackadaisical season. A town meeting—and particularly a Bayport town meeting, where everything from personal affairs to religion is likely to be discussed—can stir up excitement when nothing else can.
This year there were several questions to be talked over and settled at town meeting. Two selectmen, whose terms expired, were candidates for re-election. Lem Myrick had resigned from the school committee, not waiting until spring, as he had announced that he should do. Then there was the usual sentiment in favor of better roads and the usual opposition to it. Also there was the ever-present hope of the government appropriation for harbor improvement.
Mr. Tidditt was one of the selectmen whose terms expired. In his dual capacity as selectman and town clerk Asaph felt himself to be a very important personage. To elect some one else in his place would be, he was certain, a calamity which would stagger the township. Therefore he was a busy man and made many calls upon his fellow citizens, not to influence their votes—he was careful to explain that—but just, as he said, “to see how they was gettin' along,” and because he “thought consider'ble of 'em” and “took a real personal interest, you understand,” in their affairs.
To Captain Cy he came, naturally, for encouragement and help, being—as was his habit at such times—in a state of gloom and hopeless despair.
“No use, Whit,” he groaned. “'Tain't no use at all. I'm licked. I'm gettin' old and they don't want me no more. I guess I'd better get right up afore the votin' begins and tell 'em my health ain't strong enough to be town clerk no longer. It's better to do that than to be licked. Don't you think so?”
“Sure thing!” replied his friend, with sarcasm. “If I was you I'd be toted in on a bed so they can see you're all ready for the funeral. Might have the doctor walkin' ahead, wipin' his eyes, and the joyful undertaker trottin' along astern. What's the particular disease that's got you by the collar just now—facial paralysis?”
“No. What made you think of that?”
“Oh, nothin'! Only I heard you stopped in at ten houses up to the west end of the town yesterday, and talked three quarters of an hour steady at everyone. That would fit me for the scrap heap inside of a week, and you've been goin' it ever since September nearly. What does ail you—anything?”
“Why, no; nothin' special that way. Only there don't seem to be any enthusiasm for me, somehow. I just hint at my bein' a candidate and folks say, 'Yes, indeed. Looks like rain, don't it?' and that's about all.”
“Well, that hadn't ought to surprise you. If anybody came to me and says, 'The sun's goin' to rise to-morrer mornin',' I shouldn't dance on my hat and crow hallelujahs. Enthusiasm! Why, Ase, you've been a candidate every two years since Noah got the ark off the ways, or along there. And there ain't been any opposition to you yet, except that time when Uncle 'Bial Stickney woke up in the wrong place and hollered 'No,' out of principle, thinkin' he was to home with his wife. If I was you I'd go and take a nap. You'll read the minutes at selectmen's meetings for another fifty year, more or less; take my word for it. As for the school committee, that's different. I ain't made up my mind about that.”
There had been much discussion concerning the school committee. Who should be chosen to replace Mr. Myrick on the board was the gravest question to come before the meeting. Many names had been proposed at Simmons's and elsewhere, but some of those named had refused to run, and others had not, after further consideration, seemed the proper persons for the office. In the absence of Mr. Atkins, Tad Simpson was our leader in the political arena. But Tad so far had been mute.
“Wait a while,” he said. “There's some weeks afore town meetin' day. This is a serious business. We can't have no more—I mean no unsuitable man to fill such an important place as that. The welfare of our posterity,” he added, and we all recognized the quotation, “depends upon the choice that's to be made.”
A choice was made, however, on the very next day but one after this declaration. A candidate announced himself. Asaph and Bailey hurried to the Cy Whittaker place with the news. Captain Cy was in the woodshed building a doll house for Bos'n. “Just for my own amusement,” he hastily explained. “Somethin' for her to take along when she goes out West to Betsy.”
Mr. Tidditt was all smiles.
“What do you think, Cy?” he cried. “The new school committee man's as good as elected. 'Lonzo Snow's goin' to take it.”
The captain laid down his plane.
“'Lonzo Snow!” he repeated. “You don't say! Humph! Well, well!”
“Yes, sir!” exclaimed Bailey. “He's come forward and says it's his duty to do so. He—”
“Humph! His duty, hey? I wonder who pointed it out to him?”
“Well, I don't know. But even Tad Simpson's glad; he says that he knows Heman will be pleased with THAT kind of a candidate and so he won't have to do any more huntin'. He thinks 'Lonzo's comin' out by himself this way is a kind of special Providence.”
“Yes, yes! I shouldn't wonder. Did you ever notice how dead sure Tad and his kind are that Providence is workin' with 'em? Seems to me 'twould be more satisfactory if we could get a sight of the other partner's signature to the deed.”
“What's the matter with you?” demanded Asaph. “You ain't findin' fault with 'Lonzo, are you? Ain't he a good man?”
“Good! Sure thing he's good! Nobody can say he isn't and tell the truth.”
No one could truthfully speak ill of Alonzo Snow, that was a fact. He lived at the lower end of the village, was well to do, a leading cranberry grower, and very prominent in the church. A mild, easygoing person was Mr. Snow, with an almost too keen fear of doing the wrong thing and therefore prone to be guided by the opinion of others. He was distinctly not a politician.
“Then what ails you?” asked Asaph hotly.
“Why, nothin', maybe. Only I'm always suspicious when Tad pats Providence on the back. I generally figure that I can see through a doughnut, when there's a light behind the hole. Who is 'Lonzo's best friend in this town? Who does he chum with most of anybody?”
“Why, Darius Ellis, I guess. You know it.”
“Um—hum. And Darius is on the committee—why?”
“Well, I s'pose 'cause Heman Atkins thought he'd be a good feller to have there. But—”
“Yes, and 'Lonzo's pew in church is right under the Atkins memorial window. The light from it makes a kind of halo round his bald head every Sunday.”
“Well, what of it? Heman, nor nobody else, could buy 'Lonzo Snow.”
“Buy him? Indeed they couldn't. But there are some things you get without buyin'—the measles, for instance. And the one that's catchin' 'em don't know he's in danger till the speckles break out. Fellers, this committee voted in Phoebe Dawes by just two votes to one, and one of the two was Lem Myrick. Darius was against her. Now with Tad and his 'Providence' puttin' in 'Lonzo Snow, and Heman Atkins settin' behind the screen workin' his Normal School music box so's they can hear the tune—well, Phoebe MAY stay this term out, but how about next?”
“Hey? Why, I don't know. Anyhow, you're down on Phoebe as a thousand of brick. I don't see why you worry about HER. After the way she treated poor Bos'n and all.”
Captain Cy stirred uneasily and kicked a chip across the floor.
“Well,” he said, “well, I—I don't know's that's—That is, right's right and wrong's wrong. I've seen bullfights down yonder—” jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of Buenos Ayres, “and every time my sympathy's been with the bull. Not that I loved the critter for his own sake, but because all Greaserdom was out to down him. From what I hear, this Phoebe Dawes—for all her pesky down-East stubbornness—is teachin' pretty well, and anyhow she's one little woman against Tad Simpson and Heman Atkins and—and Tad's special brand of Providence. She deserves a fair shake and, by the big dipper, she's goin' to have it! Look here, you two! how would I look on the school committee?”
“You?” repeated the pair in concert. “YOU?”
“Yes, me. I ain't a Solomon for wisdom, but I cal'late I'd be as near the top of the barrel as Darius Ellis, and only one or two layers under Eben Salters or 'Lonzo Snow. I'm a candidate—see?”
“But—but, Whit,” gasped the town clerk, “are you popular enough? Could you get elected?”
“I don't know, but I can find out. You and Bailey 'll vote for me, won't you?”
“Course we will, but—”
“All right. There's two votes. A hundred and odd more'll put me in. Here goes for politics and popularity. I may be president yet; you can't tell. And say! this town meetin' won't be DULL, whichever way the cat jumps.”
This last was a safe prophecy. All dullness disappeared from Bayport the moment it became known that Captain Cyrus Whittaker was “out” for the school committee. The captain began his electioneering at once. That very afternoon he called upon three people—Eben Salters, Josiah Dimick, and Lemuel Myrick.
Captain Salters was chairman of selectmen as well as chairman of the committee. He was a hard-headed old salt, who had made money in the Australian packet service. He had common sense, independence, and considerable influence in the town. Next to Congressman Atkins he was, perhaps, our leading citizen. And, more than all, he was not afraid, when he thought it necessary, to oppose the great Heman.
“Well,” he said reflectively, after listening to Captain Cy's brief statement of his candidacy, “I cal'late I'll stand in with you, Cy. I ain't got anything against 'Lonzo, but—but—well, consarn it! maybe that's the trouble. Maybe he's so darned good it makes me jealous. Anyhow, I'll do what I can for you.”
Joe Dimick laughed aloud. He was an iconoclast, seldom went to church, and was entirely lacking in reverence. Also he really liked the captain.
“Ho, ho!” he crowed. “Whit, do you realize that you're underminin' this town's constitution? Oh, sartin, I'm with you, if it's only to see the fur fly! I do love a scrap.”
With Lem Myrick Captain Cy's policy was different. He gently reminded that gentleman of the painting contract, intimated that other favors might be forthcoming, and then, as a clincher, spoke of Tad Simpson's comment when Mr. Myrick voted for Phoebe Dawes.
“Of course,” he added, “if you think Tad's got a right to boss all hands and the cook, why, I ain't complainin'. Only, ifIwas a painter doin' a good, high-class trade, and a one-hoss barber tried to dictate to me, I shouldn't bow down and tell him to kick easy as he could. Seems to me I'd kick first. But I'M no boss; I mustn't influence you.”
Lemuel was indignant.
“No barber runs me,” he declared. “You stand up for me when that townhall paintin's to be done and I'll work hard for you now, Cap'n Whittaker. 'Lonzo Snow's an elder and all that, but I can't help it. Anyway, his place was all fixed up a year ago and I didn't get the job. A feller has to look after himself these days.”
With these division commanders to lead their forces into the enemy's country and with Asaph and Bailey doing what they could to help, Captain Cy's campaign soon became worthy of respectful consideration. For a while Tad Simpson scoffed at the opposition; then he began to work openly for Mr. Snow. Later he marshaled his trusted officers around the pool table in the back room of the barber shop and confided to them that it was anybody's fight and that he was worried.
“It's past bein' a joke,” he said. “It's mighty serious. We've got to hustle, we have. Heman trusted me in this job, and if I fall down it 'll be bad for me and for you fellers, too. I wish he was home to run things himself, but he's got business down South there—some property he owns or somethin'—and says he can't leave. But we must win! By mighty! we've GOT to. So get every vote you can. Never mind how; just get 'em, that's all.”
Captain Cy was thoroughly enjoying himself. The struggle suited him to perfection. He was young, in spite of his fifty-five years, and this tussle against odds, reminding him of other tussles during his first seasons in business, aroused his energies and, as he expressed it, “stirred up his vitals and made him hop round like a dose of 'pain killer.'”
He did not, however, forget Bos'n. He and she had their walks and their pleasant evenings together in spite of politics. He took the child into his confidence and told her of the daily gain, or loss, in votes, as if she were his own age. She understood a little of all this, and tried hard to understand the rest, preaching between times to Georgianna how “the bad men were trying to beat Uncle Cyrus because he was gooder than they, but they couldn't, 'cause everybody loved him so.” Georgianna had some doubts, but she kept them to herself.
Among the things in Bos'n's “box” was a long envelope, sealed with wax and with a lawyer's name printed in one corner. The captain opened it, at Emily's suggestion, and was astonished to find that the inclosure was a will, dated some years back, in which Mrs. Mary Thomas, the child's mother, left to her daughter all her personal property and also the land in Orham, Massachusetts, which had been willed to her by her own mother. There was a note with the will in which Mrs. Thomas stated that no one save herself had known of this land, not even her husband. She had not told him because she feared that, like everything else, it would be sold and the money wasted in dissipation. “He suspected something of the sort,” she added, “but he did not find out the secret, although he—” She had evidently scratched out what followed, but Captain Cy mentally filled in the blank with details of abuse and cruelty. “If anything happens to me,” concluded the widow, “I want the land sold and the money used for Emily's maintenance as long as it lasts.”
The captain went over to Orham and looked up the land. It was a strip along the shore, almost worthless, and unsalable at present. The taxes had been regularly paid each year by Mary Thomas, who had sent money orders from Concord. The self-denial represented by these orders was not a little.
“Never mind, Bos'n,” said Captain Cy, when he returned from the Orham trip. “Your ancestral estates ain't much now but a sand-flea menagerie. However, if this section ever does get to be the big summer resort folks are prophesying for it, you may sell out to some millionaire and you and me'll go to Europe. Meantime, we'll try to keep afloat, if the Harniss Bank don't spring a leak.”
On the day following this conversation he took a flying trip to Ostable, the county seat, returning the same evening, and saying nothing to anyone about his reasons for going nor what he had done while there.
Bos'n's birthday was the eighteenth of November. The captain, in spite of the warmth of his struggle for committee honors, determined to have a small celebration on the afternoon and evening of that day. It was to be a surprise for Emily, and, after school was over, some of her particular friends among the scholars were to come in, there was to be a cake with eight candles on it, and a supper at which ice cream—lemon and vanilla, prepared by Mrs. Cahoon—was to be the principal feature. Also there would be games and all sorts of fun.
Captain Cy was tremendously interested in the party. He spent hours with Georgianna and the Board of Strategy, preparing the list of guests. His cunning in ascertaining from the unsuspecting child who, among her schoolmates, she would like to invite, was deep and guileful.
“Now, Bos'n,” he would say, “suppose you was goin' to clear out and leave this town for a spell, who—”
“But, Uncle Cyrus—” Bos'n's eyes grew frightened and moist in a moment, “I ain't going, am I? I don't want to go.”
“No, no! Course you ain't goin'—that is, not for a long while, anyhow,” with a sidelong look at the members of the “Board,” then present. “But just suppose you and me was startin' on that Europe trip. Who'd you want to say good-by to most of all?”
Each name given by the child was surreptitiously penciled by Bailey on a scrap of paper. The list was a long one and, when the great afternoon came, the Whittaker house was crowded.
The supper was a brilliant success. So was the cake, brought in with candles ablaze, by the grinning Georgianna. Beside the children there were some older people present, Bailey and Asaph, of course, and the “regulars” from the perfect boarding house, who had been invited because it was fairly certain that Mr. Bangs wouldn't be allowed to attend if his wife did not. Miss Dawes had also been asked, at Bos'n's well-understood partiality, but she had declined.
Toward the end of the meal, when the hilarity at the long table was at its height, an unexpected guest made his appearance. There was a knock at the dining-room door, and Georgianna, opening it, was petrified to behold, standing upon the step, no less a personage than the Honorable Heman Atkins, supposed by most of us to be then somewhere in that wide stretch of territory vaguely termed “the South.”
“Good evening, all,” said the illustrious one, removing his silk hat and stepping into the room. “What a charming scene! I trust I do not intrude.”
Georgianna was still speechless, in which unwonted condition she was not alone, Messrs. Bangs and Tidditt being also stricken dumb. But Captain Cy rose to the occasion grandly.
“Intrude?” he repeated. “Not a mite of it! Mighty glad to see you, Heman. Here, give us your hat. Pull up to the table. When did you get back? Thought you was in the orange groves somewheres.”
“Ahem! I was. Yes, I was in that neighborhood. But it is hard to stay away from dear old Bayport. Home ties, you know, home ties. I came down on the morning train, but I stopped over at Harniss on business and drove across. Ahem! Yes. The housekeeper informed me that my daughter was here, and, seeing the lights and hearing the laughter, I couldn't resist making this impromptu call. I'm sure as an old friend and neighbor, Cyrus, you will pardon me. Alicia, darling, come and kiss papa.”
Darling Alicia accepted the invitation with a rustle of silk and an ecstatic squeal of delight. During this affecting scene Asaph whispered to Bailey that he “cal'lated” Heman had had a hurry-up distress signal from Simpson; to which sage observation Mr. Bangs replied with a vigorous nod, showing that Captain Cy's example had had its effect, in that they no longer stood in such awe of their representative at Washington.
However true Asaph's calculation might have been, Mr. Atkins made no mention of politics. He was urbanity itself. He drew up to the table, partook of the ice cream and cake, and greeted his friends and neighbors with charming benignity.
“Wan't it sweet of him to come?” whispered Miss Phinney to Keturah. “And him so nice and everyday and sociable. And when Cap'n Whittaker's runnin' against his friend, as you might say.”
Keturah replied with a dubious shake of the head.
“I think Captain Cyrus is goin' to get into trouble,” she said. “I've preached to Bailey more 'n a little about keepin' clear, but he won't.”
“Games in t'other room now,” ordered Captain Cy. But Mr. Atkins held up his hand.
“Pardon me, just a moment, Cyrus, if you please,” he said. “I feel that on this happy occasion, it is my duty and pleasure to propose a toast.” He held his lemonade glass aloft. “Permit me,” he proclaimed, “to wish many happy birthdays and long life to Miss—I beg pardon, Cyrus, but what is your little friend's name?”
“Emily Richards Thayer,” replied the captain, carried away by enthusiasm and off his guard for once.
“To Em—” began Heman. Then he paused and for the first time in his public life seemed at a loss for words. “What?” he asked, and his hand shook. “I fear I didn't catch the name.”
“No wonder,” laughed Mr. Tidditt. “Cy's so crazy to-night he'd forget his own name. Know what you said, Cy? You said she was Emily Richards THAYER! Haw! haw! She ain't a Thayer, Heman; her last name's Thomas. She's Emily Richards Thayer's granddaughter though. Her granddad was John Thayer, over to Orham. Good land! I forgot. Well, what of it, Cy? 'Twould have to be known some time.”
Everyone looked at Captain Cy then. No one observed Mr. Atkins for the moment. When they did turn their gaze upon the great man he had sunk back in his chair, the glass of lemonade was upset upon the cloth before him, and he, with a very white face, was staring at Emily Richards Thomas.
“What's the matter, Heman?” asked the captain anxiously. “Ain't sick, are you?”
The congressman started.
“Oh, no!” he said hurriedly. “Oh, no! but I'm afraid I've soiled your cloth. It was awkward of me. I—I really, I apologize—I—”
He wiped his face with his handkerchief. Captain Cy laughed.
“Oh, never mind the tablecloth,” he said. “I cal'late it's too soiled already to be hurt by a bath, even a lemon one. Well, you've all heard the toast. Full glasses, now. Here's TO you, Bos'n! Drink hearty, all hands, and give the ship a good name.”
If the heartiness with which they drank is a criterion, the good name of the ship was established. Then the assembly adjourned to the sitting room and—yes, even the front parlor. Not since the days when that sacred apartment had been desecrated by the irreverent city boarders, during the Howes regime, had its walls echoed to such whoops and shouts of laughter. The children played “Post Office” and “Copenhagen” and “Clap in, Clap out,” while the grown folks looked on.
“Ain't they havin' a fine time, Cap?” gushed Miss Phinney. “Don't it make you wish you was young again?”
“Angie,” replied Captain Cy solemnly, “don't tempt me; don't! If they keep on playin' that Copenhagen and you stand right alongside of me, there's no tellin' what 'll happen.”
Angeline declared that he was “turrible,” but she faced the threatened danger nevertheless, and bravely remained where she was.
Mr. Atkins went home early in the evening, taking Alicia with him. He explained that his long railroad journey had—er—somewhat fatigued him and, though he hated to leave such a—er—delightful gathering, he really felt that, under the circumstances, his departure would be forgiven. Captain Cy opened the door for him and stood watching as, holding his daughter by the hand, he marched majestically down the path.
“Hum!” mused the captain aloud. “I guess he has been travelin' nights. Thought he ought to be here quick, I shouldn't wonder. He does look tired, that's a fact, and kind of pale, seemed to me.”
“Well, there, now!” exclaimed Mrs. Tripp, who was looking over his shoulder. “Did you see that?”
“No; what was it?”
“Why, when he went to open his gate, one of them arbor vity bushes he set out this spring knocked his hat off. And he never seemed to notice, but went right on. If 'Licia hadn't picked it up, that nice new hat would have been layin' there yet. That's the most undignified thing ever I see Heman Atkins do. He MUST be tired out, poor man!”
“Whit,” asked Asaph next day, “wan't you surprised to see Heman last night?”
Captain Cy nodded. He was once more busy with the doll house, the construction of which had progressed slowly of late, owing to the demands which the party and politics made upon its builder's time.
“Yup,” he said, “I sartinly was. Pretty good sign, I shouldn't wonder. Looks as if friend Tad had found the tide settin' too strong against him and had whistled for a tug. All right; the more scared the other side get, the better for us.”
“But what in the world made Heman come over and have supper? He never so much as stepped foot in the house afore, did he? That's the biggest conundrum of all.”
“Well, I guess I've got the answer. Strikes me that Heman's sociableness is the best sign yet. Heman's a slick article, and when he sees there's danger of losin' the frostin' on the cake he takes care to scrape the burnt part off the bottom. I may be school committeeman after town meetin'. He'll move all creation to stop me, of course—in his quiet, round-the-corner way—but, if I do win out, he wants to be in a position to take me one side and tell me that he's glad of it; he felt all along I was the right feller for the job, and if there's anything he can do to make things easier for me just call on him. That's the way I size it up, anyhow.”
“Cy, I never see anybody like you. You're dead set against Heman, and have been right along. And he's never done anything to you, fur's I see. He's given a lot to the town, and he's always been the most looked-up-to man we've got. Joe Dimick and two or three more chronic growls have been the only ones to sling out hints against him, till you come. Course I'm working for you, tooth and nail, and I will say that you seem to be gettin' the votes some way or other. But if Heman SHOULD step right out and say: 'Feller citizens, I'm behind Tad Simpson in this fight, and as a favor to me and 'cause I think it's right and best, I want 'Lonzo Snow elected'—well,Idon't believe you'd have more'n one jack and a ten spot to count for game.”
“Probably not, Ase; I presume likely not. But you take a day off some time and see if you can remember that Heman EVER stepped right out and said things. Blame it! that's just it. As for WHY he riles me up and makes me stubborn as a balky mule, I don't know exactly. All I'm sure is that he does. Maybe it's 'cause I don't like the way he wears his whiskers. Maybe it's because he's so top-lofty and condescendin'. A feller can whistle to me and say: 'Come on, Bill,' and I'll trot at his heels all day. But when he pats me on the head and says: 'There there! nice doggie. Go under the bed and lay down,' my back bristles up and I commence to growl right off. There's consider'ble Whittaker in me, as I've told you before.”
The town clerk pondered over this rather unsatisfactory line of reasoning for some minutes. His companion fitted a wooden chimney on the doll house, found it a trifle out of plumb, and proceeded to whittle a shaving off the lower edge. Then Asaph sighed, as one who gives up a perplexing riddle, put his hand in his pocket, and produced a bundle of papers.
“I made out a list of fellers down to the east'ard that I'm goin' to see this afternoon,” he said. “Some of 'em I guess 'll vote for you, but most of 'em are pretty sartin' for 'Lonzo. However, I—Where is that list? I had it somewhere's. And—well, I swan! I come pretty near forgettin' it myself. I'm 'most as bad as Bailey.”
From the bundle of papers he produced a crumpled envelope.
“That Bailey,” he observed, “must be in love, I cal'late, though I don't know who with. Ketury, I s'pose, 'cordin' to law and order, but—Well, anyhow, he's gettin' more absent-minded all the time. Here's a letter for you, Cy, that he got at the post-office a week ago Monday. 'Twas the night of the church sociable, and he had on his Sunday cutaway, and he ain't worn it sence, till the party yesterday. When he took off the coat, goin' to bed, the letter fell out of it. I guess he was ashamed to fetch it round himself, so he asked me to do it. Better late than never, hey? Here's that list at last.”
He produced the list and handed it to the captain for inspection. The latter looked it over, made a few comments and suggestions, and told his friend to heave ahead and land as many of the listed as possible. This Mr. Tidditt promised to do, and, replacing the papers in his pocket, started for the gate.
“Oh! Say, Ase!”
The town clerk, his hand on the gate latch, turned.
“Well, what is it?” he asked. “Don't keep me no longer'n you can help. I got work to do, I have.”
“All right, I won't stop you. Only fallin' in love is kind of epidemic down at the boardin' house, I guess. Who is it that's got you in tow—Matildy?”
“What are you talkin' about? Didn't I tell you to quit namin' me with Matildy Tripp? I like a joke as well as most folks, but when it's wore into the ground I—”
“Sho, sho! Don't get mad. It's your own fault. You said that absent-mindedness was a love symptom, so I just got to thinkin', that's all. That letter that Bailey forgot—you haven't given it to me yet.”
Asaph turned red and hastily snatched the papers from his pocket. He strode back to the door of the woodshed, handed his friend the crumpled envelope, and stalked off without another word. The captain chuckled, laid the letter on the bench beside him and went on with his work. It was perhaps ten minutes later when, happening to glance at the postmark on the envelope, he saw that it was “Concord, N. H.”
Asaph's vote-gathering trip “to the east'ard” made a full day for him. He returned to the perfect boarding house just at supper time. During the meal he realized that Mr. Bangs seemed to be trying to attract his attention. Whenever he glanced in that gentleman's direction his glance was met by winks and mystifying shakes of the head. Losing patience at last, he demanded to know what was the matter.
“Want to say somethin' to me, do you?” he inquired briskly. “If you do, out with it! Don't set there workin' your face as if 'twas wound up, like a clockwork image.”
This remark had the effect of turning all the other faces toward Bailey's. He was very much upset.
“No, no!” he stammered. “No, no! I don't want you for nothin'. Was I makin' my face go? I—I didn't know it. I've been washin' carriages and cleanin' up the barn all day and I cal'late I've overdone. I'm gettin' old, and hard work's likely to bring on shakin' palsy to old folks.”
His wife tartly observed that, if WORK was the cause of it, she guessed he was safe from palsy for quite a spell yet. At any rate, a marked recovery set in and he signaled no more during the meal. But when it was over, and his task as dish-wiper completed, he hurried out of doors and found Mr. Tidditt, shivering in the November wind, on the front porch.
“Now what is it?” asked Asaph sharply. “I know there's somethin' and I've froze to death by sections waitin' to hear it.”
“Have you seen Cy?” whispered Bailey, glancing fearfully over his shoulder at the lighted windows of the house.
“No, not sence mornin'. Why?”
“Well, there's somethin' the matter with him. Somethin' serious. I was swabbin' decks in the barn about eleven o'clock, when he come postin' in, white and shaky, and so nervous he couldn't stand still. Looked as if he had had a stroke almost. I—”
“Godfrey scissors! You don't s'pose Heman's comin' back has knocked out his chances for the committee, do you?”
“No, sir-ee! 'twan't that. Cy's anxious to be elected and all, but you know his politics are more of a joke with him than anything else. And any rap Heman or Tad could give him would only make him fight harder. And he wouldn't talk politics at all; didn't seem to give a durn about 'em, one way or t'other. No, 'twas somethin' about that letter, the one I forgot so long. He wanted to know why in time I hadn't given it to him when it fust come. He was real ugly about it, for him, and kept pacin' up and down the barn floor and layin' into me, till I begun to think he was crazy. I guess he see my feelin's were hurt, 'cause, just afore he left, he held out his hand and said I mustn't mind his talk; he'd been knocked on his beam ends, he said, and wan't really responsible.”
“Wouldn't he say what had knocked him?”
“No, couldn't get nothin' out of him. And when he quit he went off toward home, slappin' his fists together and actin' as if he didn't see the road across his bows. Now, you know how cool and easy goin' Whit generally is. I swan to man, Ase! he made me so sorry for him I didn't know what to do.”
“Ain't you been up to see him sence?”
“No, Ketury was sot on havin' the barn cleaned, and she stood over me with a rope's end, as you might say. I couldn't get away a minute, though I made up more'n a dozen errands at Simmons's and the like of that. You hold on till I sneak into the entry and get my cap and we'll put for there now. I won't be but a jiffy. I'm worried.”
They entered the yard of the Cy Whittaker place together and approached the side door. As they stood on the steps Asaph touched his chum on the arm and pointed to the window beside them. The shade was half drawn and beneath it they had a clear view of the interior of the sitting room. Captain Cy was in the rocker before the stove, holding Bos'n in his arms. The child was sound asleep, her yellow braid hanging over the captain's broad shoulder. He was gazing down into her face with a look which was so full of yearning and love that it brought a choke into the throats of the pair who saw it.
They entered the dining room. The captain sprang from his chair and, still holding the little girl close against his breast, met them at the sitting-room door. When he saw who the visitors were, he caught his breath, almost with a sob, and seemed relieved.
“S-s-h-h!” he whispered warningly. “She's asleep.”
The members of the Board of Strategy nodded understandingly and sat down upon the sofa. Captain Cy tiptoed to the bedroom, turned back the bedclothes with one hand and laid Bos'n down. They saw him tuck her carefully in and then stoop and kiss her. He returned to the sitting room and closed the door behind him.
“We see she was asleep afore we come in,” explained Asaph. “We see you and her through the window.”
The captain looked hurriedly at the window indicated. Then he stepped over and pulled the shade down to the sill, doing the same with the curtains of the other two windows.
“What's the matter?” inquired Bailey, trying to be facetious. “'Fraid of 'Lonzo's crowd spyin' on us?”
Captain Cy did not reply. He did not even sit down, but remained standing, his back to the stove.
“Well?” he asked shortly. “Did you fellers want to see me for anything 'special?”
“Wanted to see what had struck you all to once,” replied Mr. Tidditt. “Bailey says you scared him half to death this forenoon. And you look now as if somebody's ghost had riz and hollered 'Boo!' at you. For the land sakes, Whit, what IS it?”
The captain drew his hand across his forehead.
“Ghost?” he repeated absently. “No, I haven't SEEN a ghost. There! there! don't mind me. I ain't real well to-day, I guess.” He smiled crookedly.
“Don't you want to hear about my vote-grabbin' cruise?” asked Tidditt. “I was flatterin' myself you'd be tickled to hear I'd done so well. Why, even Marcellus Parker says he may vote for you—if he makes up his mind that way.”
Marcellus was a next-door neighbor of Alonzo Snow's. But Captain Cy didn't seem to care.
“Hey?” he murmured. “Yes. Well?”
“WELL! Is that all you've got to say? Are you really sick, Cy? Or is Bos'n sick?”
“No!” was the answer, almost fierce in its utterance. “She isn't sick. Don't be a fool.”
“What's foolish about that? I didn't know but she might be. There's mumps in town and—”
“She's all right; so shut up, will you! There, Ase!” he added. “I'm the fool myself. Don't mind my barkin'; I don't mean it. I am about sick, I cal'late. Be better to-morrer, maybe.”
“What's got into you? Was that letter of Bailey's—”
“Hush!” The captain held up his hand. “I thought I heard a team.”
“Depot wagon, most likely,” said Bailey. “About time for it! Humph! seems to be stoppin', don't it? Was you expectin' anybody? Shall I go and—”
“No! Set still.”
The pair on the sofa sat still. Captain Cy stood like a statue in the middle of the floor. He squared his shoulders and jammed his clenched fists into his pockets. Steps crunched the gravel of the walk. There came a knock at the door of the dining room.
Walking steadily, but with a face set as the figurehead on one of his own ships, the captain went to answer the knock. They heard the door open, and then a man's voice asked:
“Is this Cap'n Whittaker?”
“Yes,” was the short answer.
“Well, Cap, I guess you don't know me, though maybe you know some of my family. Ha, ha! Don't understand that, hey? Well, you let me in and I'll explain the joke.”
The captain's reply was calm and deliberate.
“I shouldn't wonder if I understood it,” he said. “Come in. Don't—” The remainder of the sentence was whispered and the listeners on the sofa could not hear it. A moment later Captain Cy entered the sitting room, followed by his caller.
The latter was a stranger. He was a broad-shouldered man of medium height, with a yellowish mustache and brown hair. He was dressed in rather shabby clothes, without an overcoat, and he had a soft felt hat in his hand. The most noticeable thing about him was a slight hesitancy in his walk. He was not lame, he did not limp, yet his left foot seemed to halt for an instant as he brought it forward in the step. They learned afterwards that it had been hurt in a mine cave-in. He carried himself with a swagger, and, after his entrance, there was a perceptible aroma of alcohol in the room.
He stared at the Board of Strategy and the stare was returned in full measure. Bailey and Asaph were wildly curious. They, of course, connected the stranger's arrival with the mysterious letter and the captain's perturbation of the day.
But their curiosity was not to be satisfied, at least not then.
“How are you, gents?” hailed the newcomer cheerfully. “Like the looks of me, do you?”
Captain Cy cut off further conversation.
“Ase,” he said, “this—er—gentleman and I have got some business to talk over. I know you're good enough friends of mine not to mind if I ask you to clear out. You'll understand. You WILL understand, boys, won't you?” he added, almost entreatingly.
“Sartin sure!” replied Mr. Tidditt, rising hurriedly. “Don't say another word, Whit.” And the mystified Bangs concurred with a “Yes, yes! Why, of course! Didn't have nothin' that amounts to nothin' to stay for anyhow. See you to-morrer, Cy.”
Outside and at the gate they stopped and looked at each other.
“Well!” exclaimed Asaph. “If that ain't the strangest thing! Who was that feller? Where'd he come from? Did you notice how Cy acted? Seemed to be holdin' himself in by main strength.”
“Did you smell the rum on him?” returned Bailey. “On that t'other chap, I mean? Didn't he look like a reg'lar no-account to you? And say, Ase, didn't he remind you of somebody you'd seen somewheres—kind of, in a way?”
They walked home in a dazed state, asking unanswerable questions and making profitless guesses. But Asaph's final remark seemed to sum up the situation.
“There's trouble comin' of this, Bailey,” he declared. “And it's trouble for Cy Whittaker, I'm afraid. Poor old Cy! Well, WE'LL stand by him, anyhow. I don't believe he'll sleep much to-night. Didn't look as though he would, did he? Who IS that feller?”
If he had seen Captain Cy, at two o'clock the next morning, sitting by Bos'n's bedside and gazing hopelessly at the child, he would have realized that, if his former predictions were wiped off the slate and he could be judged by the one concerning the captain's sleepless night, he might thereafter pose as a true prophet.