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: