The Honorable Heman Atkins sat in the library of his Washington home, before a snapping log fire, reading a letter. Mr. Atkins had, as he would have expressed it, “served his people” in Congress for so many years that he had long since passed the hotel stage of living at the Capital. He rented a furnished house on an eminently respectable street, and the polished doorplate bore his name in uncompromising characters.
The library furniture was solid and dignified. Its businesslike appearance impressed the stray excursionist from the Atkins district, when he or she visited the great man in whose affairs we felt such a personal interest. Particularly impressive and significant was a map of the district hanging over the congressman's desk, and an oil painting of the Atkins mansion at Bayport, which, with the iron dogs and urns conspicuous in its foreground, occupied the middle of the largest wall space.
The cheery fire was very comforting on a night like this, for the sleet was driving against the windowpanes, the sidewalks were ankle deep in slush, and the wet, cold wind from the Potomac was whistling down the street. Somewhere about the house an unfastened shutter slammed in the gusts. Mr. Atkins should have been extremely comfortable as he sat there by the fire. He had spent many comfortable winters in that room. But now there was a frown on his face as he read the letter in his hand. It was from Simpson, and stated, among other things, that Cyrus Whittaker had been absent from Bayport for over two weeks, and that no one seemed to know where he had gone. “The idea seems to be that he started for Washington,” wrote Tad; “but if that is so, it is queer you haven't seen him. I am suspicious that he is up to something about that harbor business. I should keep my eye peeled if I was you.”
Alicia, the Atkins hopeful, rustled into the room.
“Papa,” she said, “I've come to kiss you good night.”
Her father performed the ceremony in a perfunctory way.
“All right, all right,” he said. “Now run along to bed and don't bother me, there's a good girl. I wish,” he added testily to the housekeeper who had followed Alicia into the room, “I wish you'd see to that loose blind. It makes me nervous. Such things as that should be attended to without specific orders from me.”
The housekeeper promised to attend to the blind. She and the girl left the library. Heman reread the Simpson letter. Then he dropped it in his lap and sat thinking and twirling his eyeglasses at the end of their black cord. His thoughts seemed to be not of the pleasantest. The lines about his mouth had deepened during the last few months. He looked older.
The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Atkins came out of his reverie with a start, arose and walked across the room to the wall where the instrument hung. It was before the days of the convenient desk 'phone. He took the receiver from its hook and spoke into the transmitter.
“Hello!” he said. “Hello! Yes, yes! stop ringing. What is it?”
The wire buzzed and purred in the storm. “Hello!” said a voice. “Hello, there! Is this Mr. Atkins's house?”
“Yes; it is. What do you want?”
“Hey? Is this where the Honorable Heman Atkins lives?”
“Yes, yes, I tell you! This is Mr. Atkins speaking. What do you want?”
“Oh! is that you, Heman? This is Whittaker—Cy Whittaker. Understand?”
Mr. Atkins understood. Yet for an instant he did not reply. He had been thinking, as he sat by the fire, of certain persons and certain ugly, though remote, possibilities. Now, from a mysterious somewhere, one of those persons was speaking to him. The hand holding the receiver shook momentarily.
“Hello! I say, Heman, do you understand? This is Whittaker talkin'.”
“I—er—understand,” said the congressman, slowly. “Well, sir?”
“I'm here in Washin'ton.”
“I have been informed that you were in the city. Well, sir?”
“Oh! knew I was here, did you? Is that so? Who told you? Tad wrote, I suppose, hey?”
The congressman did not reply immediately. This man, whom he disliked more than anyone else in the world, had an irritating faculty of putting his finger on the truth. And the flippancy in the tone was maddening. Mr. Atkins was not used to flippancy.
“I believe I am not called upon to disclose my source of information,” he said with chilling dignity. “It appears to have been trustworthy. I presume you have 'phoned me concerning the appropriation matter. I do not recognize your right to intrude in that affair, and I shall decline to discuss it. Yes, sir. To my people, to those who have a right to question, I am and shall always be willing to explain my position. Good night.”
“Wait! Hello! Hold on a minute. Don't get mad, Heman. I only wanted to say just a word. You'll let me say a word, won't you?”
This was more like it. This was more nearly the tone in which Mr. Atkins was wont to be addressed. It was possible that the man, recognizing the uselessness of further opposition, desired to surrender.
“I cannot,” declared the Honorable, “understand why you should wish to speak with me. We have very little in common, very little, I'm thankful to say. However, I will hear you briefly. Go on.”
“Much obliged. Well, Heman, I only wanted to say that I thought maybe you'd better have a little talk with me. I'm here at the hotel, the Regent. You know where 'tis, I presume likely. I guess you'd better come right down and see me.”
Heman gasped, actually gasped, with astonishment.
“Ihad better come and see YOU? I—! Well, sir! WELL! I am not accustomed—”
“I know, but I think you'd better. It's dirty weather, and I've got cold somehow or other. I ain't feelin' quite up to the mark, so I cal'late I'll stay in port much as I can. You come right down. I'll be in my room, and the hotel folks 'll tell you where 'tis. I'll be waitin' for you.”
Mr. Atkins breathed hard. In his present frame of mind he would have liked to deliver a blast into that transmitter which would cause the person at the other end of the line to shrivel under its heat. But he was a politician of long training, and he knew that such blasts were sometimes expensive treats. It might be well to hear what his enemy had to say. But as to going to see him—that was out of the question.
“I do not,” he thundered, “I do not care to continue this conversation. If—if you wish to see me, after what has taken place between us, I am willing, in spite of personal repugnance, to grant you a brief interview. My servants will admit you here at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. But I tell you now, that your interference with this appropriation matter is as useless as it is ridiculous and impudent. It is of a piece with the rest of your conduct.”
“All right, Heman, all right,” was the calm answer. “I don't say you've got to come. I only say I guess you'd better. I'm goin' back to Bayport tomorrer, early. And if I was you I'd come and see me to-night.”
“I have no wish to see you. Nor do I care to talk with you further. That appropriation—”
“Maybe it ain't all appropriation.”
“Then I cannot understand—”
“I know, butIunderstand. I've come to understand consider'ble many things in the last fortni't. There! I can't holler into this machine any longer. I've been clear out to 'Frisco and back in eleven days, and I got cold in those blessed sleepin' cars. I—”
The receiver fell from the congressman's hand. It was a difficult object to pick up again. Heman groped for it in a blind, strangely inadequate way. Yet he wished to recover it very much.
“Wait! wait!” he shouted anxiously. “I—I—I dropped the—Are you there, Whittaker? Are you—Oh! yes! I didn't—Did you say—er—'Frisco?”
“Yes, San Francisco, California. I've been West on a little cruise. Had an interestin' time. It's an interestin' place; don't you think so? Well, I'm sorry you can't come. Good night.”
“Wait!” faltered the great man. “I—I—let me think, Cyrus. I do not wish to seem—er—arrogant in this matter. It is not usual for me to visit my constituents, but—but—I have no engagement this evening, and you are not well, and—Hello! are you there? Hello! Why, under the circumstances, I think—Yes, I will come. I'll come—er—at once.”
The telephone enables one to procure a cab in a short time. Yet, to Heman Atkins, that cab was years in coming. He paced the library floor, his hand to his forehead and his brain whirling. It couldn't be! It must be a coincidence! He had been an idiot to display his agitation and surrender so weakly. And yet—and yet—
The ride through the storm to the Regent Hotel gave him opportunity for more thought. But he gained little comfort from thinking. If it was a coincidence, well and good. If not—
A bell boy conducted him to the Whittaker room “on the saloon deck.” It was a small room, very different from the Atkins library, and Captain Cy, in a cane-seated chair, was huddled close to the steam radiator. He looked far from well.
“Evenin', Heman,” he said as the congressman entered. “Pretty dirty night, ain't it? What we'd call a gray no'theaster back home. Sit down. Don't mind my not gettin' up. This heatin' arrangement feels mighty comf'table just now. If I get too far away from it I shiver my deck planks loose. Take off your things.”
Mr. Atkins did not remove his overcoat. His hat he tossed on the bed. He glanced fearfully at his companion. The latter's greeting had been so casual and everyday that he took courage. And the captain looked anything but formidable as he hugged the radiator. Perhaps things were not so bad as he had feared. He resolved not to seem alarmed, at all events.
“Have a cigar, Heman?” said Captain Cy. “No? Well, all right; I will, if you don't mind.”
He lit the cigar. The congressman cleared his throat.
“Cyrus,” he said, “I am not accustomed to run at the beck and call of my—er—acquaintances, but, even though we have disagreed of late, even though to me your conduct seems quite unjustifiable, still, for the sake of our boyhood friendship, and, because you are not well, I—er—came.”
Captain Cy coughed spasmodically, a cough that seemed to be tearing him to pieces. He looked at his cigar regretfully, and laid it on the top of the radiator.
“Too bad,” he observed. “Tobacco gen'rally iles up my talkin' machinery, but just now it seems to make me bark like a ship's dog shut up in the hold. Why, yes, Heman, I see you've come. Much obliged to you.”
This politeness was still more encouraging. Atkins leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“I presume,” he said, “that you wish to ask concerning the appropriation. I regret—”
“You needn't. I guess we'll get the appropriation.”
Heman's condescension vanished. He leaned forward and uncrossed his legs.
“Indeed?” he said slowly, his eyes fixed on the captain's placid face.
“Yes—indeed.”
“Whittaker, what are you talking about? Do you suppose that I have been the representative of my people in Congress all these years without knowing whereof I speak? They left the matter in my hands, and your interference—”
“I ain't goin' to interfere. I'M goin' to leave it in your hands, too. And I cal'late you'll be able to find a way to get it. Um—hum, I guess likely you will.”
The visitor rose to his feet. The time had come for another blast from Olympus. He raised the mighty right arm. But Captain Cy spoke first.
“Sit down, Heman,” said the captain quietly. “Sit down. This ain't town meetin'. Never mind the appropriation now. There's other matters to be talked about first. Sit down, I tell you.”
Mr. Atkins was purple in the face, but he sat down. The captain coughed again.
“Heman,” he began when the spasm was over, “I asked you to come here to-night for—well, blessed if I know exactly. It didn't make much difference to me whether you came or not.”
“Then, sir, I must say that, of all the impudent—”
“S-s-h-h! for the land sakes! Speechmakin' must be as bad as the rum habit, when a feller's got it chronic as you have. No, it didn't make much difference to me whether you came or not. But, honest, you've got to be a kind of Bunker Hill monument to the folks back home. They kneel down at your foundations and look up at you, and tell each other how many foot high you are, and what it cost to build you, and how you stand for patriotism and purity, till—well,Icouldn't see you tumble down without givin' you a chance. I couldn't; 'twould be like blowin' up a church.”
The purple had left the Atkins face, but the speechmaking habit is not likely to be broken.
“Cyrus Whittaker,” he stammered, “have you been drinking? Your language to me is abominable. Why I permit myself to remain here and listen to such—”
“If you'll keep still I'll tell you why. And, if I was you, I wouldn't be too anxious to find out. This everlastin' cold don't make me over 'n' above good-tempered, and when I think of what you've done to that little girl, or what you tried to do, I have to hold myself down tight, TIGHT, and don't you forget it! Now, you keep quiet and listen. It'll be best for you, Heman. Your cards ain't under the table any longer. I've seen your hand, and I know why you've been playin' it. I know the whole game. I've been West, and Everdean and I have had a talk.”
Mr. Atkins had again risen from the chair. Now he fell heavily back into it. His lips moved as if he meant to speak, but he did not. At the mention of the Everdean name he made a queer, choking sound in his throat.
“I know the whole business, Heman,” went on the captain. “I know why you was so knocked over when you learned who Bos'n was, the night of the party. I know why you took up with that blackguard, Thomas, and why you've spent your good money hirin' lawyers for him. I know about the mine. I know the whole thing from first to last. Shall I tell you? Do you want to hear it?”
The great man did not answer. A drop of perspiration shone on his high forehead, and the veins of his big, white hands stood out as he clutched the arms of his chair. The monument was tottering on its base.
“It's a dirty mess, the whole of it,” continued Captain Cy. “And yet, I can see—I suppose I can see some excuse for you at the beginnin'. When old man Everdean and his crowd bought you and John Thayer out, 'way back there in '54, after John died, and all the money was put into your hands, I cal'late you was honest then. I wouldn't wonder if you MEANT to hand over the thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars to your partner's widow. But 'twas harder and more risky to send money East in them days than 'tis now, and so you waited, thinkin' maybe that you'd fetch it to Emily when you come yourself. But you didn't come home for some years; you went tradin' down along the Feejees and around that way. That's how I reasoned it out these last few days on the train. I give you credit for bein' honest first along.
“But never mind whether you was or not, you haven't been since. You never paid over a cent of that poor feller's money—honest money, that belonged to his heirs, and belongs to 'em now. You've hung onto it, stole it, used it for yours. And Emily worked and scratched for a livin' and died poor. And Mary, she died, after bein' abused and deserted by that cussed husband of hers. And you thought you was safe, I cal'late. And then Bos'n turns up right in your own town, right acrost the road from you! By the big dipper! it's enough to make a feller believe that the Almighty does take a hand in straightenin' out such things, when us humans bungle 'em—it is so!
“Course I ain't sure, Heman, what you meant to do when you found that the child you'd stole that money from was goin' to be under your face and eyes till you or she died. I cal'late you was afraid I'd find somethin' out, wan't you? I presume likely you thought that I, not havin' quite the reverence for you that the rest of the Bayporters have, might be sharp enough or lucky enough to smell a rat. Perhaps you suspicioned that I knew the Everdeans. Anyhow, you wanted to get the child as fur out of your sight and out of my hands as you could—ain't that so? And when her dad turned up, you thought you saw your chance. Heman, you answer me this: Ain't it part of your bargain with Thomas that when he gets his little girl, he shall take her and clear out, away off somewheres, for good? Ain't it, now—what?”
The monument was swaying, was swinging from side to side, but it did not quite fall—not then. The congressman's cheeks hung flabby, his forehead was wet, and he shook from head to foot; but he clenched his jaws and made one last attempt at defiance.
“I—I don't know what you mean,” he declared. “You—you seem to be accusing me of something. Of stealing, I believe. Do you understand who I am? I have some influence and reputation, and it is dangerous to—to try to frighten me. Proofs are required in law, and—”
“S-s-h-h! You know I've got the proofs. They were easy enough to get, once I happened on the track of 'em. Lord sakes, Heman, I ain't a fool! What's the use of your pretendin' to be one? There's the deed out in 'Frisco, with yours and John's name on it. There's the records to prove the sale. There's the receipt for the seventy-five thousand signed by you, on behalf of yourself and your partner's widow. There's old man Everdean alive and competent to testify. There's John Thayer's will on file over to Orham. Proofs! Why, you THIEF! if it's proofs you want, I've got enough to send you to state's prison for the rest of your life. Don't you dare say 'proofs' to me again! Heman Atkins, you owe me, as Bos'n's guardian, thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars, with interest since 1854. What you goin' to do about it?”
Here was one ray, a feeble ray, of light.
“You're not her guardian,” cried Atkins. “The courts have thrown you out. And your appeal won't stand, either. If any money is due, it belongs to her father. She isn't of age! No, sir! her father—”
Captain Cy's patience had been giving way. Now he lost it altogether. He strode across the room and shook his forefinger in his victim's face.
“So!” he cried. “That's your tack, is it? By the big dipper! You GO to her father—just you go to him and tell him! Just hint to him that you owe his daughter thirty-odd thousand dollars, and see what he'll do. Good heavens above! he was ready to sell her out to me for fifty dollars' wuth of sand bank in Orham. Almost ready, he was, till you offered a higher price to him to fight. Why, he'll have your hide nailed up on the barn door! If you don't pay him every red copper, down on the nail, he'll wring you dry. And then he'll blackmail you forever and ever, amen! Unless, of course,Igo home and stop the blackmail by printing my story in the Breeze. I've a precious good mind to do it. By the Almighty, I WILL do it! unless you come off that high horse of yours and talk like a man.”
And then the monument fell, fell prostrate, with a sickly, pitiful crash. If we of Bayport could have seen our congressman then! The great man, great no longer, broke down completely. He cried like a baby. It was all true—all true. He had not meant to steal, at first. He had been led into using the money in his business. Then he had meant to send it to the heirs, but he didn't know their whereabouts. Captain Cy smiled at this excuse. And now he couldn't pay—he COULDN'T. He had hardly that sum in the world. He had lost money in stocks, his property in the South had gone to the bad! He would be ruined. He would have to go to prison. He was getting to be an old man. And there was Alicia, his daughter! Think of her! Think of the disgrace! And so on, over and over, with the one recurring burden—what was the captain going to do? what was he going to do? It was a miserable, dreadful exhibition, and Captain Cy could feel no pride in his triumph.
“There! there!” he said at last. “Stop it, man; stop it, for goodness sakes! Pull yourself together. I guess we can fix it up somehow. I ain't goin' to be too hard on you. If it wan't for your meanness in bein' willin' to let Bos'n suffer her life long with that drunken beast of a dad of hers, I'd feel almost like tellin' you to get up and forget it. But THAT'S got to be stopped. Now, you listen to me.”
Heman listened. He was on his knees beside the bed, his face buried in his arms, and his gray hair, the leonine Atkins hair, which he was wont to toss backward in the heated periods of his eloquence, tumbled and draggled. Captain Cy looked down at him.
“This whole business about Bos'n must be stopped,” he said, “and stopped right off. You tell your lawyers to drop the case. Her dad is only hangin' around because you pay him to. He don't want her; he don't care what becomes of her. If you pay him enough, he'll go, won't he? and not come back?”
The congressman raised his head.
“Why, yes,” he faltered; “I think he will. Yes, I think I could arrange that. But, Cyrus—”
The captain held up his hand.
“I intend to look out for Bos'n,” he said. “She cares for me more'n anyone else in the world. She's as much to me as my own child ever could be, and I'll see that she is happy and provided for. I'm religious enough to believe she was sent to me, and I intend to stick to my trust. As for the money—”
“Yes, yes! The money?”
“Well, I won't be too hard on you that way, either. We'll talk that over later on. Maybe we can arrange for you to pay it a little at a time. You can sign a paper showin' that you owe it, and we'll fix the payin' to suit all hands. 'Tain't as if the child was in want. I've got some money of my own, and what's mine's hers. I think we needn't worry about the money part.”
“God bless you, Cyrus! I—”
“Yes, all right. I'm sure your askin' for the blessin' 'll be a great help. Now, you do your part, and I'll do mine. No one knows of this business but me. I didn't tell Everdean a word. He don't know why I hustled out there and back, nor why I asked so many questions. And he ain't the kind to pry into what don't concern him. So you're pretty safe, I cal'late. Now, if you don't mind, I wish you'd run along home. I'm—I'm used up, sort of.”
Mr. Atkins arose from his knees. Even then, broken as he was—he looked ten years older than when he entered the room—he could hardly believe what he had just heard.
“You mean,” he faltered, “Cyrus, do you mean that—that you're not going to reveal this—this—”
“That I'm not goin' to tell on you? Yup; that's what I mean. You get rid of Thomas and squelch that law case, and I'll keep mum. You can trust me for that.”
“But—but, Cyrus, the people at home? Your story in the Breeze? You're not—”
“No, they needn't know, either. It'll be between you and me.”
“God bless you! I'll never forget—”
“That's right. You mustn't. Forgettin' is the one thing you mustn't do. And, see here, you're boss of the political fleet in Bayport; you steer the school committee now. Phoebe Dawes ain't too popular with that committee; I'd see that she was popularized.”
“Yes, yes; she shall be. She shall not be disturbed. Is there anything else I can do?”
“Why, yes, I guess there is. Speakin' of popularity made me think of it. That harbor appropriation had better go through.”
A very faint tinge of color came into the congressman's chalky face. He hesitated in his reply.
“I—I don't know about that, Cyrus,” he said. “The bill will probably be voted on in a few days. It is made up and—”
“Then I'd strain a p'int and make it over. I'd work real hard on it. I'm sorry about that sugar river, but I cal'late Bayport 'll have to come first. Yes, it'll have to, Heman; it sartin will.”
The reference to the “sugar river” was the final straw. Evidently this man knew everything.
“I—I'll try my best,” affirmed Heman. “Thank you, Cyrus. You have been more merciful than I had a right to expect.”
“Yes, I guess I have. Why do I do it?” He smiled and shook his head. “Well, I don't know. For two reasons, maybe. First, I'd hate to be responsible for tippin' over such a sky-towerin' idol as you've been to make ruins for Angie Phinney and the other blackbirds to peck at and caw over. And second—well, it does sound presumin', don't it, but I kind of pity you. Say, Heman,” he added with a chuckle, “that's a kind of distinction, in a way, ain't it? A good many folks have hurrahed over you and worshipped you—some of 'em, I guess likely, have envied you; but, by the big dipper! I do believe I'm the only one in this round world that ever PITIED you. Good-by. The elevator's right down the hall.”
It required some resolution for the Honorable Atkins to walk down that corridor and press the elevator button. But he did it, somehow. A guest came out of one of the rooms and approached him as he stood there. It was a man he knew. Heman squared his shoulders and set every nerve and muscle.
“Good evening, Mr. Atkins,” said the man. “A miserable night, isn't it?”
“Miserable, indeed,” replied the congressman. The strength in his voice surprised him. The man passed on. Heman descended in the elevator, walked steadily through the crowded lobby and out to the curb where his cab was waiting. The driver noticed nothing strange in his fare's appearance. He noticed nothing strange when the Atkins residence was reached and its tenant mounted the stone steps and opened the door with his latchkey. But, if he had seen the dignified form collapse in a library chair and moan and rock back and forth until the morning hours, he would have wondered very much indeed.
Meanwhile Captain Cy, coughing and shivering by the radiator, had been summoned from that warm haven by a knock at his door. A bell boy stood at the threshold, holding a brown envelope in his hand.
“The clerk sent this up to you, sir,” he said. “It came a week ago. When you went away, you didn't leave any address, and whatever letters came for you were sent back to Bayport, Massachusetts. The clerk says you registered from there, sir. But he kept this telegram. It was in your box, and the day clerk forgot to give it to you this afternoon.”
The captain tore open the envelope. The telegram was from his lawyer, Mr. Peabody. It was dated a week before, and read as follows:
“Come home at once. Important.”
The blizzard began that night. Bayport has a generous allowance of storms and gales during a winter, although, as a usual thing, there is more rain than snow and more wind than either. But we can count with certainty on at least one blizzard between November and April, and about the time when Captain Cy, feverish and ill, the delayed telegram in his pocket and a great fear in his heart, boarded the sleeper of the East-bound train at Washington, snow was beginning to fall in our village.
Next morning, when Georgianna came downstairs to prepare Bos'n's breakfast—the housekeeper had ceased to “go home nights” since the captain's absence—the world outside was a tumbled, driving whirl of white. The woodshed and barn, dimly seen through the smother, were but gray shapes, emerging now and then only to be wiped from the vision as by a great flapping cloth wielded by the mighty hand of the wind. The old house shook in the blasts, the windowpanes rattled as if handfuls of small shot were being thrown against them, and the carpet on the floor of the dining room puffed up in miniature billows.
School was out of the question, and Bos'n, her breakfast eaten, prepared to put in a cozy day with her dolls and Christmas playthings.
“When DO you s'pose Uncle Cyrus will get home?” she asked of the housekeeper. She had asked the same thing at least three times a day during the fortnight, and Georgianna's answer was always just as unsatisfactory:
“I don't know, dearie, I'm sure. He'll be here pretty soon, though, don't you fret.”
“Oh, I ain't going to fret. I know he'll come. He said he would, and Uncle Cy always does what he says he will.”
About twelve Asaph made his appearance, a white statue.
“Godfrey scissors!” he panted, shaking his snow-plastered cap over the coal hod. “Say, this is one of 'em, ain't it? Don't know's I ever see more of a one. Drift out by the front fence pretty nigh up to my waist. This 'll be a nasty night along the Orham beach. The lifesavers 'll have their hands full. Whew! I'm about tuckered out.”
“Been to the post office?” asked Georgianna in a low tone.
“Yup. I been there. Mornin' mail just this minute sorted. Train's two hours late. Gabe says more'n likely the evenin' train won't be able to get through at all, if this keeps up.”
“Was there anything from—”
Mr. Tidditt glanced at Bos'n and shook his head.
“Not a word,” he said. “Funny, ain't it? It don't seem a bit like him. And he can't be to Washin'ton, because all them letters came back. I—I swan to man, I'm beginnin' to get worried.”
“Worried? I'm pretty nigh crazy! What does Phoebe Dawes say?”
“She don't say much. It's pretty tough, when everything else is workin' out so fine, thanks to her, to have this happen. No, she don't say much, but she acts pretty solemn.”
“Say, Mr. Tidditt?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“You don't s'pose anything that happened betwixt her and Cap'n Whittaker that afternoon is responsible for—for his stayin' away so, do you? You know what he told me to tell her—about her not comin' here?”
Asaph fidgeted with the wet cap.
“Aw, that ain't nothin',” he stammered. “That is, I hope it ain't. I did say somethin' to him that—but Phoebe understands. She's a smart woman.”
“You haven't told them boardin' house tattletales about the—Emmie, you go fetch me a card of matches from the kitchen, won't you—of what's been found out about that Thomas thing?”
“Course I ain't. Didn't Peabody say not to tell a soul till we was sure? S'pose I'd tell Keturah and Angie? Might's well paint it on a sign and be done with it. No, no! I've kept mum and you do the same. Well, I must be goin'. Hope to goodness we hear some good news from Whit by to-morrer.”
But when to-morrow came news of any kind was unobtainable. No trains could get through, and the telephone and telegraph wires were out of commission, owing to the great storm. Bayport was buried under a white coverlet, three feet thick on a level, which shone in the winter sun as if powdered with diamond dust. The street-shoveling brigade, meaning most of the active male citizens, was busy with plows and shovels. Simmons's was deserted in the evenings, for most of the regular habitues went to bed after supper, tired out.
Two days of this. Then Gabe Lumley, his depot wagon replaced by a sleigh, drove the panting Daniel into the yard of the Cy Whittaker place. Gabe was much excited. He had news of importance to communicate and was puffed up in consequence.
“The wire's all right again, Georgianna,” he said to the housekeeper, who had hurried to the door to meet him. “Fust message just come through. Guess who it's for?”
“Stop your foolishness, Gabe Lumley!” ordered Miss Taylor. “Hand over that telegram this minute. Don't you stop to talk! Hand it over!”
Gabe didn't intend to be “corked” thus peremptorily.
“It's pretty important news, Georgianna,” he declared. “Kind of bad news, too. I think I'd ought to prepare you for it, sort of. When Cap'n Obed Pepper died, I—”
“DIED! For the land sakes! WHAT are you sayin'? Give me that, you foolhead! Give it to me!”
She snatched the telegram from him and tore it open. It was not as bad as might have been, but it was bad enough. Lawyer Peabody wired that Captain Cyrus Whittaker was at his home in Ostable, sick in bed, and threatened with pneumonia.
Captain Cy, hurrying homeward in response to the attorney's former telegram, had reached Boston the day of the blizzard. He had taken the train for Bayport that afternoon. The train had reached Ostable after nine o'clock that night, but could get no farther. The captain, burning with fever and torn by chills, had wallowed through the drifts to his lawyer's home and collapsed on his doorstep. Now he was very ill and, at times, delirious.
For two weeks he lay, fighting off the threatened attack of pneumonia. But he won the fight, and, at last, word came to the anxious ones at Bayport that he was past the danger point and would pull through. There was rejoicing at the Cy Whittaker place. The Board of Strategy came and performed an impromptu war dance around the dining-room table.
“Whe-e-e!” shouted Bailey Bangs, tossing Bos'n above his head. “Your Uncle Cy's weathered the Horn and is bound for clear water now. Three cheers for our side! Won't we give him a reception when we get him back here!”
“Won't we?” crowed Asaph. “Well, I just guess we will! You ought to hear Angie and the rest of 'em chant hymns of glory about him. A body'd think they always knew he was the salt of the earth. Maybe I don't rub it in a little, hey? Oh, no, maybe not!”
“And Heman!” chimed in Mr. Bangs. “And Heman! Would you ever believe HE'D change so all of a sudden? Bully old Whit! I can mention his name now without Ketury's landin' onto me like a snowslide. Whee! I say, wh-e-e-e!”
He continued to say it; and Georgianna and Asaph said what amounted to the same thing. A change had come over our Bayport social atmosphere, a marvelous change. And at Simmons's and—more wonderful still—at Tad Simpson's barber' shop, plans were being made and perfected for proceedings in which Cyrus Whittaker was to play the most prominent part.
Meanwhile the convalescence went on at a rapid rate. As soon as he was permitted to talk, Captain Cy began to question his lawyer. How about the appeal? Had Atkins done anything further? The answers were satisfactory. The case had been dropped: the Honorable Heman had announced its withdrawal. He had said that he had changed his mind and should not continue to espouse the Thomas cause. In fact, he seemed to have whirled completely about on his pedestal and, like a compass, now pointed only in one direction—toward his “boyhood friend” and present neighbor, Cyrus Whittaker.
“It's perfectly astounding,” commented Peabody. “What in the world, captain, did you do to him while you were in Washington?”
“Oh! nothin' much,” was the rather disinterested answer. “Him and me had a talk, and he saw the error of his ways, I cal'late. How's Bos'n to-day? Did you give her my love when you 'phoned?”
“So far as the case is concerned,” went on the lawyer, “I think we should have won that, anyway. It's a curious thing. Thomas has disappeared. How he got word, or who he got it from,Idon't know; but he must have, and he's gone somewhere, no one knows where. And yet I'm not certain that we were on the right trail. It seemed certain a week ago, but now—”
The captain had not been listening. He was thinking. Thomas had gone, had he! Good! Heman was living up to his promises. And Bos'n, God bless her, was free from that danger.
“Have you heard from Emmie, I asked you?” he repeated.
He would not listen to anything further concerning Thomas, either then or later. He was sick of the whole business, he declared, and now that everything was all right, didn't wish to talk about it again. He asked nothing about the appropriation, and the lawyer, acting under strict orders, did not mention it.
Only once did Captain Cy inquire concerning a person in his home town who was not a member of his household.
“How is—er—how's the teacher?” he inquired one morning.
“How's who?”
“Why—Phoebe Dawes, the school-teacher. Smart, is she?”
“Yes, indeed! Why, she has been the most—”
The doctor came in just then and the interview terminated. It was not resumed, because that afternoon Mr. Peabody started for Boston on a business trip, to be gone some time.
And at last came the great day, the day when Captain Cy was to be taken home. He was up and about, had been out for several short walks, and was very nearly his own self again. He was in good spirits, too, at times, but had fits of seeming depression which, under the circumstances, were unexplainable. The doctor thought they were due to his recent illness and forbade questioning.
The original plan had been for the captain to go to Bayport in the train, but the morning set for his departure was such a beautiful one that Mr. Peabody, who had the day before returned from the city, suggested driving over. So the open carriage, drawn by the Peabody “span,” was brought around to the front steps, and the captain, bundled up until, as he said, he felt like a wharf rat inside a cotton bale, emerged from the house which had sheltered him for a weary month and climbed to the back seat. The attorney got in beside him.
“All ashore that's goin' ashore,” observed Captain Cy. Then to the driver, who stood by the horses' heads, he added: “Stand by to get ship under way, commodore. I'm homeward bound, and there's a little messmate of mine waitin' on the dock already, I wouldn't wonder. So don't hang around these waters no longer'n you can help.”
But Mr. Peabody smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Just a minute, captain,” he said. “We've got another passenger. She came to the house last evening, but Dr. Cole thought this would be an exciting day for you, and you must sleep in preparation for it. So we kept her in the background. It was something of a job but—Hurrah! here she is!”
Mrs. Peabody, the lawyer's wife, opened the front door. She was laughing. The next moment a small figure shot past her, down the steps, and into the carriage like a red-hooded bombshell.
“Uncle Cyrus!” she screamed joyously. “Uncle Cyrus, it's me! Here I am!”
And Captain Cy, springing up and shedding wraps and robes, received the bombshell with open arms and hugged it tight.
“Bos'n!” he shouted. “By the big dipper! BOS'N! Why, you little—you—you—”
That was a wonderful ride. Emily sat in the captain's lap—he positively refused to let her sit beside him on the seat, although Peabody urged it, fearing the child might tire him—and her tongue rattled like a sewing machine. She had a thousand things to tell, about her school, about Georgianna, about her dolls, about Lonesome, the cat, and how many mice he had caught, about the big snowstorm.
“Georgianna wanted me to stay at home and wait for you, Uncle Cy,” she said, “but I teased and teased and finally they said I could come over. I came yesterday on the train. Mr. Tidditt went with me to the depot. Mrs. Peabody let me peek into your room last night and I saw you eating supper. You didn't know I was there, did you?”
“You bet I didn't! There'd have been a mutiny right then if I'd caught sight of you. You little sculpin! Playin' it on your Uncle Cy, was you? I didn't know you could keep a secret so well.”
“Oh, yes I can! Why, I know an ever so much bigger secret, too. It is—Why! I 'most forgot. You just wait.”
The captain laughingly begged her to divulge the big secret, but she shook her small head and refused. The horses trotted on at a lively pace, and the miles separating Ostable and Bayport were subtracted one by one. It was magnificent winter weather. The snow had disappeared from the road, except in widely separated spots, but the big drifts still heaped the fields and shone and sparkled in the sunshine. Against their whiteness the pitch pines and cedars stood darkly green and the skeleton scrub oaks and bushes cast delicate blue-penciled shadows. The bay, seen over the flooded, frozen salt meadows and distant dunes, was in its winter dress of the deepest sapphire, trimmed with whitecaps and fringed with stranded ice cakes. There was a snap and tang in the breeze which braced one like a tonic. The party in the carriage was a gay one.
“Getting tired, captain?” asked Peabody.
“Who? Me? Well, I guess not. 'Most home, Bos'n. There's the salt works ahead there.”
They passed the abandoned salt works, the crumbling ruins of a dead industry, and the boundary stone, now half hidden in a drift, marking the beginning of Bayport township. Then, from the pine grove at the curve farther on, appeared two capped and coated figures, performing a crazy fandango.
“Who's them two lunatics,” inquired Captain Cy, “whoopin' and carryin' on in the middle of the road? Has anybody up this way had a jug come by express or—Hey! WHAT? Why, you old idiots you! COME here and let me get a hold of you!”
The Board of Strategy swooped down upon the carriage like Trumet mosquitoes on a summer boarder. They swarmed into the vehicle, Bailey on the front seat and Asaph in the rear, where, somehow or other, they made room for him. There were handshakings and thumps on the back.
“What you doin' 'way up here in the west end of nowhere?” demanded Captain Cy. “By the big dipper, I'm glad to see you! How'd you get here?”
“Walked,” cackled Bailey. “Frogged it all the way. Soon's Mrs. Peabody wired you was goin' to ride, me and Ase started to meet you. Wan't you surprised?”
“We wanted to be the fust to say howdy, old man,” explained Asaph. “Wanted to welcome you back, you know.”
The captain was immensely pleased.
“Well, I'm glad I've got so much popularity, anyhow,” he said. “Guess 'twill be different when I get down street, hey? Don't cal'late Tad and Angie 'll shed the joyous tear over me. Never mind; long's my friends are glad I don't care about the rest.”
The Board looked at each other.
“Tad?” repeated Bailey. “And Angie? What you talkin' about? Why, they—Ugh!”
The last exclamation was the result of a tremendous dig in the ribs from the Tidditt fist. Asaph, who had leaned forward to administer it, was frowning and shaking his head. Mr. Bangs relapsed into a grinning silence.
West Bayport seemed to be deserted. At one or two houses, however, feminine heads appeared at the windows. One old lady shook a calico apron at the carriage. A child beside her cried: “Hurrah!”
“Aunt Hepsy h'istin' colors by mistake,” laughed the captain. “She ain't got her specs, I guess, and thinks I'm Heman. That comes of ridin' astern of a span, Peabody.”
But as they drew near the Center flags were flying from front-yard poles. Some of the houses were decorated.
“What in the world—” began Captain Cy. “Land sakes! look at the schoolhouse. And Simmons's! And—and Simpson's!”
The schoolhouse flag was flapping in the wind. The scarred wooden pillars of its portico were hidden with bunting. Simmons's front displayed a row of little banners, each bearing a letter—the letters spelled “Welcome Home.” Tad's barber shop was more or less artistically wreathed in colored tissue paper. There, too, a flag was draped over the front door. Yet not a single person was in sight.
“For goodness' sake!” cried the bewildered captain. “What's all this mean? And where is everybody. Have all hands—”
He stopped in the middle of the sentence. They were at the foot of Whittaker's Hill. Its top, between the Atkins's gate and the Whittaker fence, was black with people. Children pranced about the outskirts of the crowd. A shout came down the wind. The horses, not in the least fatigued by their long canter, trotted up the slope. The shouting grew louder. A wave of youngsters came racing to meet the equipage.
“What—what in time?” gasped Captain Cy. “What's up? I—”
And then the town clerk seized him by the arm. Peabody shook his other hand. Bos'n threw her arms about his neck. Bailey stood up and waved his hat.
“It's you, you old critter!” whooped Asaph. “It's YOU, d'you understand?”
“The appropriation has gone through,” explained the lawyer, “and this is the celebration in consequence. And you are the star attraction because, you see, everyone knows you are responsible for it.”
“That's what!” howled the excited Bangs. “And we're goin' to show you what we think of you for doin' it. We've been plannin' this for over a fortni't.”
“And I knew it all the time,” squealed Bos'n, “and I didn't tell a word, did I?”
“Three cheers for Captain Whittaker!” bellowed a person in the crowd. This person—wonder of wonders!—was Tad Simpson.
The cheering was, considering the size of the crowd, tremendous. Bewildered and amazed, Captain Cy was assisted from the carriage and escorted to his front door. Amidst the handkerchief-waving, applauding people he saw Keturah Bangs and Alpheus Smalley and Angeline Phinney and Captain Salters—even Alonzo Snow, his recent opponent in town meeting. Josiah Dimick was there, too, apparently having a fit.
On the doorstep stood Georgianna and—and—yes, it was true—beside her, grandly extending a welcoming hand, the majestic form of the Honorable Heman Atkins. Some one else was there also, some one who hurriedly slipped back into the crowd as the owner of the Cy Whittaker place came up the path between the hedges.
Mr. Atkins shook the captain's hand and then, turning toward the people, held up his own for silence. To all outward appearance, he was still the great Heman, our district idol, philanthropist, and leader. His silk hat glistened as of old, his chest swelled in the old manner, his whiskers were just as dignified and awe-inspiring. For an instant, as he met the captain's eye, his own faltered and fell, and there was a pleading expression in his face, the lines of which had deepened just a little. But only for an instant; then he began to speak.
“Cyrus,” he said, “it is my pleasant duty, on behalf of your neighbors and friends here assembled, to welcome you to your—er—ancestral home after your trying illness. I do it heartily, sincerely, gladly. And it is the more pleasing to me to perform this duty, because, as I have explained publicly to my fellow-townspeople, all disagreement between us is ended. I was wrong—again I publicly admit it. A scheming blackleg, posing in the guise of a loving father, imposed upon me. I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you. Of you and of the little girl with you I ask pardon—I entreat forgiveness.”
He paused. Captain Cy, the shadow of a smile at the corner of his mouth, nodded, and said briefly:
“All right, Heman. I forgive you.” Few heard him: the majority were applauding the congressman. Sylvanus Cahoon, whispering in the ear of “Uncle Bedny,” expressed as his opinion that “that was about as magnaminious a thing as ever I heard said. Yes, sir! mag-na-min-ious—that's whatIcall it.”
“But,” continued the great Atkins, “I have said all this to you before. What I have to say now—what I left my duties in Washington expressly to come here and say—is that Bayport thanks you,Ithank you, for your tremendous assistance in obtaining the appropriation which is to make our harbor a busy port where our gallant fishing fleet may ride at anchor and unload its catch, instead of transferring it in dories as heretofore. Friends, I have already told you how this man”—laying a hand on the captain's shoulder—“came to the Capital and used his influence among his acquaintances in high places, with the result that the thirty thousand dollars, which I had despaired of getting, was added to the bill. I had the pleasure of voting for that bill. It passed. I am proud of that vote.”
Tremendous applause. Then some one called for three cheers for Mr. Atkins. They were given. But the recipient merely bowed.
“No, no,” he said deprecatingly. “No, no! not for me, my friends, much as I appreciate your gratitude. My days of public service are nearly at an end. As I have intimated to some of you already, I am seriously considering retiring from political life in the near future. But that is irrelevant; it is not material at present. To-day we meet, not to say farewell to the setting, but to greet the rising sun.Icall for three cheers for our committee of one—Captain Cyrus Whittaker.”
When the uproar had at last subsided, there were demands for a speech from Captain Cy. But the captain, facing them, his arms about the delighted Bos'n, positively declined to orate.
“I—I'm ever so much obliged to you, folks,” he stammered. “I am so. But you'll have to excuse me from speechmaking. They—they didn't teach it afore the mast, where I went to college. Thank you, just the same. And do come and see me, everybody. Me and this little girl,” drawing Emily nearer to him, “will be real glad to have you.”
After the handshaking and congratulating were over, the crowd dispersed. It was a great occasion; all agreed to that, but the majority considered it a divided triumph. The captain had done a lot for the town, of course, but the Honorable Atkins had made another splendid impression by his address of welcome. Most people thought it as fine as his memorable effort at town meeting. Unlike that one, however, in this instance it is safe to say that none, not even the adoring and praise-chanting Miss Phinney, derived quite the enjoyment from the congressman's speech that Captain Cy did. It tickled his sense of humor.
“Ase,” he observed irrelevantly when the five—Tidditt, Georgianna, Bailey, Bos'n, and himself were at last alone again in the sitting room, “it DON'T pay to tip over a monument, does it—not out in public, I mean. You wouldn't want to see me blow up Bunker Hill, would you?”
“Blow up Bunker Hill!” repeated Asaph in alarmed amazement. “Godfrey scissors! I believe you're goin' loony. This day's been too much for you. What are you talkin' about?”
“Oh, nothin',” with a quiet chuckle. “I was thinkin' out loud, that's all. Did you ever notice them imitation stone pillars on Heman's house? They're holler inside, but you'd never guess it. And, long as you do know they're holler, you can keep a watch on 'em. And there's one thing sure,” he added, “they ARE ornamental.”