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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Portygee, by Joseph Crosby Lincoln
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Portygee
+
+Author: Joseph Crosby Lincoln
+
+Release Date: May 30, 2006 [EBook #3263]
+Last Updated: March 5, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PORTYGEE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Donald Lainson
+
+
+
+
+
+THE PORTYGEE
+
+
+By Joseph Crosby Lincoln
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+Overhead the clouds cloaked the sky; a ragged cloak it was, and, here
+and there, a star shone through a hole, to be obscured almost instantly
+as more cloud tatters were hurled across the rent. The pines threshed on
+the hill tops. The bare branches of the wild-cherry and silverleaf trees
+scraped and rattled and tossed. And the wind, the raw, chilling December
+wind, driven in, wet and salty, from the sea, tore over the dunes and
+brown uplands and across the frozen salt-meadows, screamed through
+the telegraph wires, and made the platform of the dismal South Harniss
+railway station the lonesomest, coldest, darkest and most miserable spot
+on the face of the earth.
+
+At least that was the opinion of the seventeen-year-old boy whom the
+down train--on time for once and a wonder--had just deposited upon that
+platform. He would not have discounted the statement one iota. The South
+Harniss station platform WAS the most miserable spot on earth and he was
+the most miserable human being upon it. And this last was probably true,
+for there were but three other humans upon that platform and, judging by
+externals, they seemed happy enough. One was the station agent, who was
+just entering the building preparatory to locking up for the night,
+and the others were Jim Young, driver of the “depot wagon,” and Doctor
+Holliday, the South Harniss “homeopath,” who had been up to a Boston
+hospital with a patient and was returning home. Jim was whistling
+“Silver Bells,” a tune much in vogue the previous summer, and Doctor
+Holliday was puffing at a cigar and knocking his feet together to keep
+them warm while waiting to get into the depot wagon. These were the only
+people in sight and they were paying no attention whatever to the lonely
+figure at the other end of the platform.
+
+The boy looked about him. The station, with its sickly yellow gleam
+of kerosene lamp behind its dingy windowpane, was apparently the only
+inhabited spot in a barren wilderness. At the edge of the platform
+civilization seemed to end and beyond was nothing but a black earth
+and a black sky, tossing trees and howling wind, and cold--raw, damp,
+penetrating cold. Compared with this even the stuffy plush seats and
+smelly warmth of the car he had just left appeared temptingly homelike
+and luxurious. All the way down from the city he had sneered inwardly at
+a one-horse railroad which ran no Pullmans on its Cape branch in winter
+time. Now he forgot his longing for mahogany veneer and individual
+chairs and would gladly have boarded a freight car, provided there were
+in it a lamp and a stove.
+
+The light in the station was extinguished and the agent came out with
+a jingling bunch of keys and locked the door. “Good-night, Jim,”
+ he shouted, and walked off into the blackness. Jim responded with a
+“good-night” of his own and climbed aboard the wagon, into the dark
+interior of which the doctor had preceded him. The boy at the other end
+of the platform began to be really alarmed. It looked as if all living
+things were abandoning him and he was to be left marooned, to starve or
+freeze, provided he was not blown away first.
+
+He picked up the suitcase--an expensive suitcase it was, elaborately
+strapped and buckled, with a telescope back and gold fittings--and
+hastened toward the wagon. Mr. Young had just picked up the reins.
+
+“Oh,--oh, I say!” faltered the boy. We have called him “the boy” all
+this time, but he did not consider himself a boy, he esteemed himself
+a man, if not full-grown physically, certainly so mentally. A man,
+with all a man's wisdom, and more besides--the great, the all-embracing
+wisdom of his age, or youth.
+
+“Here, I say! Just a minute!” he repeated. Jim Young put his head around
+the edge of the wagon curtain. “Eh?” he queried. “Eh? Who's talkin'? Oh,
+was it you, young feller? Did you want me?”
+
+The young fellow replied that he did. “This is South Harniss, isn't it?”
+ he asked.
+
+Mr. Young chuckled. “Darn sure thing,” he drawled. “I give in that it
+looks consider'ble like Boston, or Providence, R. I., or some of them
+capitols, but it ain't, it's South Harniss, Cape Cod.”
+
+Doctor Holliday, on the back seat of the depot wagon, chuckled. Jim
+did not; he never laughed at his own jokes. And his questioner did not
+chuckle, either.
+
+“Does a--does a Mr. Snow live here?” he asked.
+
+The answer was prompt, if rather indefinite. “Um-hm,” said the driver.
+“No less'n fourteen of him lives here. Which one do you want?”
+
+“A Mr. Z. Snow.”
+
+“Mr. Z. Snow, eh? Humph! I don't seem to recollect any Mr. Z. Snow
+around nowadays. There used to be a Ziba Snow, but he's dead. 'Twan't
+him you wanted, was it?”
+
+“No. The one I want is--is a Captain Snow. Captain--” he paused before
+uttering the name which to his critical metropolitan ear had seemed
+so dreadfully countrified and humiliating; “Captain Zelotes Snow,” he
+blurted, desperately.
+
+Jim Young laughed aloud. “Good land, Doc!” he cried, turning toward his
+passenger; “I swan I clean forgot that Cap'n Lote's name begun with a
+Z. Cap'n Lote Snow? Why, darn sure! I . . . Eh?” He stopped short,
+evidently struck by a new idea. “Sho!” he drawled, slowly. “Why,
+I declare I believe you're . . . Yes, of course! I heard they was
+expectin' you. Doc, you know who 'tis, don't you? Cap'n Lote's grandson;
+Janie's boy.”
+
+He took the lighted lantern from under the wagon seat and held it up so
+that its glow shone upon the face of the youth standing by the wheel.
+
+“Hum,” he mused. “Don't seem to favor Janie much, does he, Doc. Kind of
+got her mouth and chin, though. Remember that sort of good-lookin' set
+to her mouth she had? And SHE got it from old Cap'n Lo himself. This
+boy's face must be more like his pa's, I cal'late. Don't you cal'late
+so, Doc?”
+
+Whether Doctor Holliday cal'lated so or not he did not say. It may be
+that he thought this cool inspection of and discussion concerning a
+stranger, even a juvenile stranger, somewhat embarrassing to its object.
+Or the lantern light may have shown him an ominous pucker between the
+boy's black brows and a flash of temper in the big black eyes beneath
+them. At any rate, instead of replying to Mr. Young, he said, kindly:
+
+“Yes, Captain Snow lives in the village. If you are going to his house
+get right in here. I live close by, myself.”
+
+“Darned sure!” agreed Mr. Young, with enthusiasm. “Hop right in, sonny.”
+
+But the boy hesitated. Then, haughtily ignoring the driver, he said: “I
+thought Captain Snow would be here to meet me. He wrote that he would.”
+
+The irrepressible Jim had no idea of remaining ignored. “Did Cap'n Lote
+write you that he'd be here to the depot?” he demanded. “All right, then
+he'll be here, don't you fret. I presume likely that everlastin' mare
+of his has eat herself sick again; eh, Doc? By godfreys domino, the way
+they pet and stuff that fool horse is a sin and a shame. It ain't Lote's
+fault so much as 'tis his wife's--she's responsible. Don't you fret,
+Bub, the cap'n'll be here for you some time to-night. If he said he'll
+come he'll come, even if he has to hire one of them limmysines. He, he,
+he! All you've got to do is wait, and . . . Hey! . . . Hold on a minute!
+. . . Bub!”
+
+The boy was walking away. And to hail him as “Bub” was, although Jim
+Young did not know it, the one way least likely to bring him back.
+
+“Bub!” shouted Jim again. Receiving no reply he added what he had
+intended saying. “If I run afoul of Cap'n Lote anywheres on the road,”
+ he called, “I'll tell him you're here a-waitin'. So long, Bub. Git dap,
+Chain Lightnin'.”
+
+The horse, thus complimented, pricked up one ear, lifted a foot, and
+jogged off. The depot wagon became merely a shadowy smudge against the
+darkness of the night. For a few minutes the “chock, chock” of the hoofs
+upon the frozen road and the rattle of wheels gave audible evidence of
+its progress. Then these died away and upon the windswept platform of
+the South Harniss station descended the black gloom of lonesomeness
+so complete as to make that which had been before seem, by comparison,
+almost cheerful.
+
+The youth upon that platform turned up his coat collar, thrust his
+gloved hands into his pockets, and shivered. Then, still shivering,
+he took a brisk walk up and down beside the suitcase and, finally,
+circumnavigated the little station. The voyage of discovery was
+unprofitable; there was nothing to discover. So far as he could
+see--which was by no means far--upon each side of the building was
+nothing but bare fields and tossing pines, and wind and cold and
+blackness. He came to anchor once more by the suitcase and drew a long,
+hopeless breath.
+
+He thought of the cheery dining room at the school he had left the day
+before. Dinner would be nearly over by now. The fellows were having
+dessert, or, probably, were filing out into the corridors, the younger
+chaps to go to the study hall and the older ones--the lordly seniors, of
+whom he had been one--on the way to their rooms. The picture of his own
+cheerful, gay room in the senior corridor was before his mind; of that
+room as it was before the telegram came, before the lawyer came with
+the letter, before the end of everything as he knew it and the beginning
+of--this. He had not always loved and longed for that school as he loved
+and longed for it now. There had been times when he referred to it as
+“the old jail,” and professed to hate it. But it had been the only real
+home he had known since he was eight years old and now he looked back
+upon it as a fallen angel might have looked back upon Paradise. He
+sighed again, choked and hastily drew his gloved hand across his eyes.
+At the age of seventeen it is very unmanly to cry, but, at that age
+also, manhood and boyhood are closely intermingled. He choked again
+and then, squaring his shoulders, reached into his coat pocket for the
+silver cigarette case which, as a recent acquisition, was the pride of
+his soul. He had just succeeded in lighting a cigarette when, borne upon
+the wind, he heard once more the sound of hoofs and wheels and saw in
+the distance a speck of light advancing toward the station.
+
+The sounds drew nearer, so did the light. Then an old-fashioned buggy,
+drawn by a plump little sorrel, pulled up by the platform and a hand
+held a lantern aloft.
+
+“Hello!” hailed a voice. “Where are you?”
+
+The hail did not have to be repeated. Before the vehicle reached the
+station the boy had tossed away the cigarette, picked up the suitcase,
+and was waiting. Now he strode into the lantern light.
+
+“Here I am,” he answered, trying hard not to appear too eager. “Were you
+looking for me?”
+
+The holder of the lantern tucked the reins between the whip-socket and
+the dash and climbed out of the buggy. He was a little man, perhaps
+about forty-eight or fifty, with a smooth-shaven face wrinkled at the
+corners of the mouth and eyes. His voice was the most curious thing
+about him; it was high and piping, more like a woman's than a man's. Yet
+his words and manner were masculine enough, and he moved and spoke with
+a nervous, jerky quickness.
+
+He answered the question promptly. “Guess I be, guess I be,” he said
+briskly. “Anyhow, I'm lookin' for a boy name of--name of--My soul to
+heavens, I've forgot it again, I do believe! What did you say your name
+was?”
+
+“Speranza. Albert Speranza.”
+
+“Sartin, sartin! Sper--er--um--yes, yes. Knew it just as well as I did
+my own. Well, well, well! Ye-es, yes, yes. Get right aboard, Alfred. Let
+me take your satchel.”
+
+He picked up the suitcase. The boy, his foot upon the buggy step, still
+hesitated. “Then you're--you're not my grandfather?” he faltered.
+
+“Eh? Who? Your grandfather? Me? He, he, he!” He chuckled shrilly. “No,
+no! No such luck. If I was Cap'n Lote Snow, I'd be some older'n I be now
+and a dum sight richer. Yes, yes. No, I'm Cap'n Lote's bookkeeper over
+at the lumber consarn. He's got a cold, and Olive--that's his wife--she
+said he shouldn't come out to-night. He said he should, and while they
+was Katy-didin' back and forth about it, Rachel--Mrs. Ellis--she's the
+hired housekeeper there--she telephoned me to harness up and come meet
+you up here to the depot. Er--er--little mite late, wan't I?”
+
+“Why, yes, just a little. The other man, the one who drives the mail
+cart--I think that was what it was--said perhaps the horse was sick, or
+something like that.”
+
+“No-o, no, that wan't it this time. I--er--All tucked in and warm
+enough, be you? Ye-es, yes, yes. No, I'm to blame, I shouldn't wonder. I
+stopped at the--at the store a minute and met one or two of the fellers,
+and that kind of held me up. All right now? Ye-es, yes, yes. G'long,
+gal.”
+
+The buggy moved away from the platform. Its passenger, his chilly feet
+and legs tightly wrapped in the robes, drew a breath of relief between
+his chattering teeth. He was actually going somewhere at last; whatever
+happened, morning would not find him propped frozen stiff against the
+scarred and mangy clapboards of the South Harniss station.
+
+“Warm enough, be you?” inquired his driver cheerfully.
+
+“Yes, thank you.”
+
+“That's good, that's good, that's good. Ye-es, yes, yes.
+Well--er--Frederick, how do you think you're goin' to like South
+Harniss?”
+
+The answer was rather non-committal. The boy replied that he had not
+seen very much of it as yet. His companion seemed to find the statement
+highly amusing. He chuckled and slapped his knee.
+
+“Ain't seen much of it, eh? No-o, no, no. I guess you ain't, guess you
+ain't. He, he, he . . . Um . . . Let's see, what was I talkin' about?”
+
+“Why, nothing in particular, I think, Mr.--Mr.--”
+
+“Didn't I tell you my name? Sho, sho! That's funny. My name's
+Keeler--Laban B. Keeler. That's my name and bookkeeper is my station.
+South Harniss is my dwellin' place--and I guess likely you'll have to
+see the minister about the rest of it. He, he, he!”
+
+His passenger, to whom the old schoolbook quatrain was entirely unknown,
+wondered what on earth the man was talking about. However, he smiled
+politely and sniffed with a dawning suspicion. It seemed to him there
+was an unusual scent in the air, a spirituous scent, a--
+
+“Have a peppermint lozenger,” suggested Mr. Keeler, with sudden
+enthusiasm. “Peppermint is good for what ails you, so they tell me.
+Ye-es, yes, yes. Have one. Have two, have a lot.”
+
+He proceeded to have a lot himself, and the buggy was straightway
+reflavored, so to speak. The boy, his suspicions by no means dispelled,
+leaned back in the corner behind the curtains and awaited developments.
+He was warmer, that was a real physical and consequently a slight mental
+comfort, but the feeling of lonesomeness was still acute. So far his
+acquaintanceship with the citizens of South Harniss had not filled him
+with enthusiasm. They were what he, in his former and very recent state
+of existence, would have called “Rubes.” Were the grandparents whom he
+had never met this sort of people? It seemed probable. What sort of
+a place was this to which Fate had consigned him? The sense of utter
+helplessness which had had him in its clutches since the day when he
+received the news of his father's death was as dreadfully real as ever.
+He had not been consulted at all. No one had asked him what he wished to
+do, or where he wished to go. The letter had come from these people, the
+Cape Cod grandparents of whom, up to that time, he had never even
+heard, and he had been shipped to them as though he were a piece of
+merchandise. And what was to become of him now, after he reached his
+destination? What would they expect him to do? Or be? How would he be
+treated?
+
+In his extensive reading--he had been an omnivorous reader--there were
+numerous examples of youths left, like him, to the care of distant
+relatives, or step-parents, or utter strangers. Their experiences,
+generally speaking, had not been cheerful ones. Most of them had run
+away. He might run away; but somehow the idea of running away, with no
+money, to face hardship and poverty and all the rest, did not make an
+alluring appeal. He had been used to comfort and luxury ever since he
+could remember, and his imagination, an unusually active one, visualized
+much more keenly than the average the tribulations and struggles of a
+runaway. David Copperfield, he remembered, had run away, but he did it
+when a kid, not a man like himself. Nicholas Nickleby--no, Nicholas had
+not run away exactly, but his father had died and he had been left to an
+uncle. It would be dreadful if his grandfather should turn out to be a
+man like Ralph Nickleby. Yet Nicholas had gotten on well in spite of his
+wicked relative. Yes, and how gloriously he had defied the old
+rascal, too! He wondered if he would ever be called upon to defy his
+grandfather. He saw himself doing it--quietly, a perfect gentleman
+always, but with the noble determination of one performing a
+disagreeable duty. His chin lifted and his shoulders squared against the
+back of the buggy.
+
+Mr. Keeler, who had apparently forgotten his passenger altogether, broke
+into song,
+
+
+     “She's my darlin' hanky-panky
+        And she wears a number two,
+      Her father keeps a barber shop
+        Way out in Kalamazoo.”
+
+
+He sang the foregoing twice over and then added a chorus, plainly
+improvised, made up of “Di doos” and “Di dums” ad lib. And the buggy
+rolled up and over the slope of a little hill and, in the face of a
+screaming sea wind, descended a long, gentle slope to where, scattered
+along a two-mile water frontage, the lights of South Harniss twinkled
+sparsely.
+
+
+     “Did doo dum, dee dum, doo dum
+       Di doo dum, doo dum dee.”
+
+
+So sang Mr. Keeler. Then he broke off his solo as the little mare turned
+in between a pair of high wooden posts bordering a drive, jogged along
+that drive for perhaps fifty feet, and stopped beside the stone step
+of a white front door. Through the arched window above that door shone
+lamplight warm and yellow.
+
+“Whoa!” commanded Mr. Keeler, most unnecessarily. Then, as if himself a
+bit uncertain as to his exact whereabouts, he peered out at the door and
+the house of which it was a part, afterward settling back to announce
+triumphantly: “And here we be! Yes, sir, here we be!”
+
+Then the door opened. A flood of lamplight poured upon the buggy and its
+occupants. And the boy saw two people standing in the doorway, a man and
+a woman.
+
+It was the woman who spoke first. It was she who had opened the door.
+The man was standing behind her looking over her shoulder--over her head
+really, for he was tall and broad and she short and slender.
+
+“Is it--?” she faltered.
+
+Mr. Keeler answered. “Yes, ma'am,” he declared emphatically, “that's who
+'tis. Here we be--er--er--what's-your-name--Edward. Jump right out.”
+
+His passenger alighted from the buggy. The woman bent forward to look at
+him, her hands clasped.
+
+“It--it's Albert, isn't it?” she asked.
+
+The boy nodded. “Yes,” he said.
+
+The hands unclasped and she held them out toward him. “Oh, Albert,” she
+cried, “I'm your grandmother. I--”
+
+The man interrupted. “Wait till we get him inside, Olive,” he said.
+“Come in, son.” Then, addressing the driver, he ordered: “Labe, take the
+horse and team out to the barn and unharness for me, will you?”
+
+“Ye-es, yes, yes,” replied Mr. Keeler. “Yes indeed, Cap'n. Take her
+right along--right off. Yes indeedy. Git dap!”
+
+He drove off toward the end of the yard, where a large building,
+presumably a barn, loomed black against the dark sky. He sang as
+he drove and the big man on the step looked after him and sniffed
+suspiciously.
+
+Meanwhile the boy had followed the little woman into the house through
+a small front hall, from which a narrow flight of stairs shot aloft with
+almost unbelievable steepness, and into a large room. Albert had a
+swift impression of big windows full of plants, of pictures of ships and
+schooners on the walls, of a table set for four.
+
+“Take your things right off,” cried his grandmother. “Here, I'll take
+'em. There! now turn 'round and let me look at you. Don't move till I
+get a good look.”
+
+He stood perfectly still while she inspected him from head to foot.
+
+“You've got her mouth,” she said slowly. “Yes, you've got her mouth. Her
+hair and eyes were brown and yours are black, but--but I THINK you look
+like her. Oh, I did so want you to! May I kiss you, Albert? I'm your
+grandmother, you know.”
+
+With embarrassed shyness he leaned forward while she put her arms about
+his neck and kissed him on the cheek. As he straightened again he
+became aware that the big man had entered the room and was regarding him
+intently beneath a pair of shaggy gray eyebrows. Mrs. Snow turned.
+
+“Oh, Zelotes,” she cried, “he's got Janie's mouth, don't you think so?
+And he DOES look like her, doesn't he?”
+
+Her husband shook his head. “Maybe so, Mother,” he said, with a half
+smile. “I ain't a great hand for locatin' who folks look like. How are
+you, boy? Glad to see you. I'm your grandfather, you know.”
+
+They shook hands, while each inspected and made a mental estimate of the
+other. Albert saw a square, bearded jaw, a firm mouth, gray eyes with
+many wrinkles at the corners, and a shock of thick gray hair. The eyes
+had a way of looking straight at you, through you, as if reading your
+thoughts, divining your motives and making a general appraisal of you
+and them.
+
+Captain Zelotes Snow, for his part, saw a tall young fellow, slim and
+straight, with black curly hair, large black eyes and regular features.
+A good-looking boy, a handsome boy--almost too handsome, perhaps, or
+with just a touch of the effeminate in the good looks. The captain's
+glance took in the well-fitting suit of clothes, the expensive tie, the
+gold watch chain.
+
+“Humph!” grunted Captain Zelotes. “Well, your grandma and I are glad
+to have you with us. Let me see, Albert--that's your right name, ain't
+it--Albert?”
+
+Something in his grandfather's looks or tone aroused a curious feeling
+in the youth. It was not a feeling of antagonism, exactly, but more of
+defiance, of obstinacy. He felt as if this big man, regarding him so
+keenly from under the heavy brows, was looking for faults, was expecting
+to find something wrong, might almost be disappointed if he did not find
+it. He met the gaze for a moment, the color rising to his cheeks.
+
+“My name,” he said deliberately, “is Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza.”
+
+Mrs. Snow uttered a little exclamation. “Oh!” she ejaculated. And then
+added: “Why--why, I thought--we--we understood 'twas 'Albert.' We didn't
+know there was--we didn't know there was any more to it. What did you
+say it was?”
+
+Her grandson squared his shoulders. “Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza,”
+ he repeated. “My father”--there was pride in his voice now--“my father's
+name was Miguel Carlos. Of course you knew that.”
+
+He spoke as if all creation must have known it. Mrs. Snow looked
+helplessly at her husband. Captain Zelotes rubbed his chin.
+
+“We--ll,” he drawled dryly, “I guess likely we'll get along with
+'Albert' for a spell. I cal'late 'twill come more handy to us Cape
+folks. We're kind of plain and everyday 'round here. Sapper's ready,
+ain't it, Mother? Al must be hungry. I'm plaguey sure _I_ am.”
+
+“But, Zelotes, maybe he'd like to go up to his bedroom first. He's been
+ridin' a long ways in the cars and maybe he'd like to wash up or change
+his clothes?”
+
+“Change his clothes! Lord sakes, Olive, what would he want to change his
+clothes this time of night for? You don't want to change your clothes,
+do you, boy?”
+
+“No, sir, I guess not.”
+
+“Sartin sure you don't. Want to wash? There's a basin and soap and towel
+right out there in the kitchen.”
+
+He pointed to the kitchen door. At that moment the door was partially
+opened and a brisk feminine voice from behind it inquired: “How about
+eatin'? Are you all ready in there?”
+
+It was Captain Snow who answered.
+
+“You bet we are, Rachel!” he declared. “All ready and then some. Trot
+her out. Sit down, Mother. Sit down, Al. Now then, Rachel, all aboard.”
+
+Rachel, it appeared, was the owner of the brisk feminine voice just
+mentioned. She was brisk herself, as to age about forty, plump, rosy and
+very business-like. She whisked the platter of fried mackerel and the
+dishes of baked potatoes, stewed corn, hot biscuits and all the rest,
+to the table is no time, and then, to Albert's astonishment, sat down at
+that table herself. Mrs. Snow did the honors.
+
+“Albert,” she said, “this is Mrs. Ellis, who helps me keep house.
+Rachel, this is my grandson, Albert--er--Speranza.”
+
+She pronounced the surname in a tone almost apologetic. Mrs. Ellis did
+not attempt to pronounce it. She extended a plump hand and observed: “Is
+that so? Real glad to know you, Albert. How do you think you're goin' to
+like South Harniss?”
+
+Considering that his acquaintance with the village had been so decidedly
+limited, Albert was somewhat puzzled how to reply. His grandfather saved
+him the trouble.
+
+“Lord sakes, Rachel,” he declared, “he ain't seen more'n three square
+foot of it yet. It's darker'n the inside of a nigger's undershirt
+outdoors to-night. Well, Al--Albert, I mean, how are you on mackerel?
+Pretty good stowage room below decks? About so much, eh?”
+
+Mrs. Snow interrupted.
+
+“Zelotes,” she said reprovingly, “ain't you forgettin' somethin'?”
+
+“Eh? Forgettin'? Heavens to Betsy, so I am! Lord, we thank thee for
+these and all other gifts, Amen. What did I do with the fork; swallow
+it?”
+
+As long as he lives Albert Speranza will not forget that first meal in
+the home of his grandparents. It was so strange, so different from
+any other meal he had ever eaten. The food was good and there was an
+abundance of it, but the surroundings were so queer. Instead of the
+well-ordered and sedate school meal, here all the eatables from fish
+to pie were put upon the table at the same time and the servant--or
+housekeeper, which to his mind were one and the same--sat down, not
+only to eat with the family, but to take at least an equal part in the
+conversation. And the conversation itself was so different. Beginning
+with questions concerning his own journey from the New York town where
+the school was located, it at length reached South Harniss and there
+centered about the diminutive person of Laban Keeler, his loquacious and
+tuneful rescuer from the platform of the railway station.
+
+“Where are your things, Albert?” asked Mrs. Snow. “Your trunk or
+travelin' bag, or whatever you had, I mean?”
+
+“My trunks are coming by express,” began the boy. Captain Zelotes
+interrupted him.
+
+“Your trunks?” he repeated. “Got more'n one, have you?”
+
+“Why--why, yes, there are three. Mr. Holden--he is the headmaster, you
+know--”
+
+“Eh? Headmaster? Oh, you mean the boss teacher up there at the school?
+Yes, yes. Um-hm.”
+
+“Yes, sir. Mr. Holden says the trunks should get here in a few days.”
+
+Mrs. Ellis, the housekeeper, made the next remark. “Did I understand you
+to say you had THREE trunks?” she demanded.
+
+“Why, yes.”
+
+“Three trunks for one boy! For mercy sakes, what have you got in 'em?”
+
+“Why--why, my things. My clothes and--and--everything.”
+
+“Everything, or just about, I should say. Goodness gracious me, when
+I go up to Boston I have all I can do to fill up one trunk. And I'm
+bigger'n you are--bigger 'round, anyway.”
+
+There was no doubt about that. Captain Zelotes laughed shortly.
+
+“That statement ain't what I'd call exaggerated, Rachel,” he declared.
+“Every time I see you and Laban out walkin' together he has to keep on
+the sunny side or be in a total eclipse. And, by the way, speakin'
+of Laban--Say, son, how did you and he get along comin' down from the
+depot?”
+
+“All right. It was pretty dark.”
+
+“I'll bet you! Laban wasn't very talkative, was he?”
+
+“Why, yes, sir, he talked a good deal but he sang most of the time.”
+
+This simple statement appeared to cause a most surprising sensation. The
+Snows and their housekeeper looked at each other. Captain Zelotes leaned
+back in his chair and whistled.
+
+“Whew!” he observed. “Hum! Sho! Thunderation!”
+
+“Oh, dear!” exclaimed his wife.
+
+Mrs. Ellis, the housekeeper, drew a long breath. “I might have expected
+it,” she said tartly. “It's past time. He's pretty nigh a month overdue,
+as 'tis.”
+
+Captain Snow rose to his feet. “I was kind of suspicious when he started
+for the barn,” he declared. “Seemed to me he was singin' then. WHAT did
+he sing, boy?” he asked, turning suddenly upon his grandson.
+
+“Why--why, I don't know. I didn't notice particularly. You see, it was
+pretty cold and--”
+
+Mrs. Ellis interrupted. “Did he sing anything about somebody's bein' his
+darlin' hanky-panky and wearin' a number two?” she demanded sharply.
+
+“Why--why, yes, he did.”
+
+Apparently that settled it. Mrs. Snow said, “Oh, dear!” again and the
+housekeeper also rose from the table.
+
+“You'd better go right out to the barn this minute, Cap'n Lote,” she
+said, “and I guess likely I'd better go with you.”
+
+The captain already had his cap on his head.
+
+“No, Rachel,” he said, “I don't need you. Cal'late I can take care
+of 'most anything that's liable to have happened. If he ain't put the
+bridle to bed in the stall and hung the mare up on the harness pegs I
+judge I can handle the job. Wonder how fur along he'd got. Didn't hear
+him singin' anything about 'Hyannis on the Cape,' did you, boy?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“That's some comfort. Now, don't you worry, Mother. I'll be back in a
+few minutes.”
+
+Mrs. Snow clasped her hands. “Oh, I HOPE he hasn't set the barn afire,”
+ she wailed.
+
+“No danger of that, I guess. No, Rachel, you 'tend to your supper. I
+don't need you.”
+
+He tramped out into the hall and the door closed behind him. Mrs. Snow
+turned apologetically to her puzzled grandson, who was entirely at a
+loss to know what the trouble was about.
+
+“You see, Albert,” she hesitatingly explained, “Laban--Mr. Keeler--the
+man who drove you down from the depot--he--he's an awful nice man and
+your grandfather thinks the world and all of him, but--but every once in
+a while he--Oh, dear, I don't know how to say it to you, but--”
+
+Evidently Mrs. Ellis knew how to say it, for she broke into the
+conversation and said it then and there.
+
+“Every once in a while he gets tipsy,” she snapped. “And I only wish I
+had my fingers this minute in the hair of the scamp that gave him the
+liquor.”
+
+A light broke upon Albert's mind. “Oh! Oh, yes!” he exclaimed. “I
+thought he acted a little queer, and once I thought I smelt--Oh, that
+was why he was eating the peppermints!”
+
+Mrs. Snow nodded. There was a moment of silence. Suddenly the
+housekeeper, who had resumed her seat in compliance with Captain
+Zelotes' order, slammed back her chair and stood up.
+
+“I've hated the smell of peppermint for twenty-two year,” she declared,
+and went out into the kitchen. Albert, looking after her, felt his
+grandmother's touch upon his sleeve.
+
+“I wouldn't say any more about it before her,” she whispered. “She's
+awful sensitive.”
+
+Why in the world the housekeeper should be particularly sensitive
+because the man who had driven him from the station ate peppermint was
+quite beyond the boy's comprehension. Nor could he thoroughly understand
+why the suspicion of Mr. Keeler's slight inebriety should cause such a
+sensation in the Snow household. He was inclined to think the tipsiness
+rather funny. Of course alcohol was lectured against often enough
+at school and on one occasion a member of the senior class--a
+twenty-year-old “hold-over” who should have graduated the fall
+before--had been expelled for having beer in his room; but during his
+long summer vacations, spent precariously at hotels or in short visits
+to his father's friends, young Speranza had learned to be tolerant.
+Tolerance was a necessary virtue in the circle surrounding Speranza
+Senior, in his later years. The popping of corks at all hours of the
+night and bottles full, half full or empty, were sounds and sights to
+which Albert had been well accustomed. When one has more than once seen
+his own father overcome by conviviality and the affair treated as a huge
+joke, one is not inclined to be too censorious when others slip. What
+if the queer old Keeler guy was tight? Was that anything to raise such a
+row about?
+
+Plainly, he decided, this was a strange place, this household of his
+grandparents. His premonition that they might be “Rubes” seemed
+likely to have been well founded. What would his father--his great,
+world-famous father--have thought of them? “Bah! these Yankee
+bourgeoisie!” He could almost hear him say it. Miguel Carlos Speranza
+detested--in private--the Yankee bourgeoisie. He took their money and
+he married one of their daughters, but he detested them. During his last
+years, when the money had not flowed his way as copiously, the detest
+grew.
+
+“You won't say anything about Laban before Mrs. Ellis, will you,
+Albert?” persisted Mrs. Snow. “She's dreadful sensitive. I'll explain by
+and by.”
+
+He promised, repressing a condescending smile.
+
+Both the housekeeper and Captain Snow returned in a few minutes. The
+latter reported that the mare was safe and sound in her stall.
+
+“The harness was mostly on the floor, but Jess was all right, thank the
+Lord,” observed the captain.
+
+“Jess is our horse's name, Albert,” explained Mrs. Snow. “That is, her
+name's Jessamine, but Zelotes can't ever seem to say the whole of any
+name. When we first bought Jessamine I named her Magnolia, but he
+called her 'Mag' all the time and I COULDN'T stand that. Have some more
+preserves, Albert, do.”
+
+All through the meal Albert was uneasily conscious that his grandfather
+was looking at him from under the shaggy brows, measuring him,
+estimating him, reading him through and through. He resented the
+scrutiny and the twinkle of sardonic humor which, it seemed to him,
+accompanied it. His way of handling his knife and fork, his clothes, his
+tie, his manner of eating and drinking and speaking, all these Captain
+Zelotes seemed to note and appraise. But whatever the results of his
+scrutiny and appraisal might be he kept them entirely to himself. When
+he addressed his grandson directly, which was not often, his remarks
+were trivial commonplaces and, although pleasant enough, were terse and
+to the point.
+
+Several times Mrs. Snow would have questioned Albert concerning the life
+at school, but each time her husband interfered.
+
+“Not now, not now, Mother,” he said. “The boy ain't goin' to run away
+to-night. He'll be here to-morrow and a good many to-morrows,
+if”--and here again Albert seemed to detect the slight sarcasm and
+the twinkle--“if we old-fashioned 'down easters' ain't too common and
+every-day for a high-toned young chap like him to put up with. No, no,
+don't make him talk to-night. Can't you see he's so sleepy that it's
+only the exercise of openin' his mouth to eat that keeps his eyes from
+shuttin'? How about that, son?”
+
+It was perfectly true. The long train ride, the excitement, the cold
+wait on the station platform and the subsequent warmth of the room, the
+hearty meal, all these combined to make for sleepiness so overpowering
+that several times the boy had caught his nose descending toward his
+plate in a most inelegant nod. But it hurt his pride to think his
+grandfather had noticed his condition.
+
+“Oh, I'm all right,” he said, with dignity.
+
+Somehow the dignity seemed to have little effect upon Captain Zelotes.
+
+“Um--yes, I know,” observed the latter dryly, “but I guess likely you'll
+be more all right in bed. Mother, you'll show Albert where to turn in,
+won't you? There's your suitcase out there in the hall, son. I fetched
+it in from the barn just now.”
+
+Mrs. Snow ventured a protest.
+
+“Oh, Zelotes,” she cried, “ain't we goin' to talk with him at ALL? Why,
+there is so much to say!”
+
+“'Twill say just as well to-morrow mornin', Mother; better, because
+we'll have all day to say it in. Get the lamp.”
+
+Albert looked at his watch.
+
+“Why, it's only half-past nine,” he said.
+
+Captain Zelotes, who also had been looking at the watch, which was a
+very fine and very expensive one, smiled slightly. “Half-past nine some
+nights,” he said, “is equal to half-past twelve others. This is one of
+the some. There, there, son, you're so sleepy this minute that you've
+got a list to starboard. When you and I have that talk that's comin'
+to us we want to be shipshape and on an even keel. Rachel, light that
+lamp.”
+
+The housekeeper brought in and lighted a small hand lamp. Mrs. Snow
+took it and led the way to the hall and the narrow, breakneck flight of
+stairs. Captain Zelotes laid a hand on his grandson's shoulder.
+
+“Good-night, son,” he said quietly.
+
+Albert looked into the gray eyes. Their expression was not unkindly,
+but there was, or he imagined there was, the same quizzical, sardonic
+twinkle. He resented that twinkle more than ever; it made him feel very
+young indeed, and correspondingly obstinate. Something of that obstinacy
+showed in his own eyes as he returned his grandfather's look.
+
+“Good-night--sir,” he said, and for the life of him he could not resist
+hesitating before adding the “sir.” As he climbed the steep stairs
+he fancied he heard a short sniff or chuckle--he was not certain
+which--from the big man in the dining-room.
+
+His bedroom was a good-sized room; that is, it would have been of good
+size if the person who designed it had known what the term “square”
+ meant. Apparently he did not, and had built the apartment on the
+hit-or-miss, higglety-pigglety pattern, with unexpected alcoves cut into
+the walls and closets and chimneys built out from them. There were
+three windows, a big bed, an old-fashioned bureau, a chest of drawers, a
+washstand, and several old-fashioned chairs. Mrs. Snow put the lamp upon
+the bureau. She watched him anxiously as he looked about the room.
+
+“Do--do you like it?” she asked.
+
+Albert replied that he guessed he did. Perhaps there was not too much
+certainty in his tone. He had never before seen a room like it.
+
+“Oh, I hope you will like it! It was your mother's room, Albert. She
+slept here from the time she was seven until--until she went away.”
+
+The boy looked about him with a new interest, an odd thrill. His
+mother's room. His mother. He could just remember her, but that was all.
+The memories were childish and unsatisfactory, but they were memories.
+And she had slept there; this had been her room when she was a girl,
+before she married, before--long before such a person as Alberto Miguel
+Carlos Speranza had been even dreamed of. That was strange, it was queer
+to think about. Long before he was born, when she was years younger than
+he as he stood there now, she had stood there, had looked from those
+windows, had--
+
+His grandmother threw her arms about his neck and kissed him. Her cheek
+was wet.
+
+“Good-night, Albert,” she said chokingly, and hurried out of the room.
+
+He undressed quickly, for the room was very cold. He opened the window,
+after a desperate struggle, and climbed into bed. The wind, whistling
+in, obligingly blew out the lamp for him. It shrieked and howled about
+the eaves and the old house squeaked and groaned. Albert pulled the
+comforter up about his neck and concentrated upon the business of going
+to sleep. He, who could scarcely remember when he had had a real home,
+was desperately homesick.
+
+Downstairs in the dining-room Captain Zelotes stood, his hands in his
+pockets, looking through the mica panes of the stove door at the fire
+within. His wife came up behind him and laid a hand on his sleeve.
+
+“What are you thinkin' about, Father?” she asked.
+
+Her husband shook his head. “I was wonderin',” he said, “what my
+granddad, the original Cap'n Lote Snow that built this house, would have
+said if he'd known that he'd have a great-great-grandson come to live in
+it who was,” scornfully, “a half-breed.”
+
+Olive's grip tightened on his arm.
+
+“Oh, DON'T talk so, Zelotes,” she begged. “He's our Janie's boy.”
+
+The captain opened the stove door, regarded the red-hot coals for an
+instant, and then slammed the door shut again.
+
+“I know, Mother,” he said grimly. “It's for the sake of Janie's half
+that I'm takin' in the other.”
+
+“But--but, Zelotes, don't you think he seems like a nice boy?”
+
+The twinkle reappeared in Captain Lote's eyes.
+
+“I think HE thinks he's a nice boy, Mother,” he said. “There, there,
+let's go to bed.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+The story of the events which led up to the coming, on this December
+night, of a “half-breed” grandson to the Snow homestead, was an old
+story in South Harniss. The date of its beginning was as far back as the
+year 1892.
+
+In the fall of that year Captain Zelotes Snow was in Savannah. He was in
+command of the coasting schooner Olive S. and the said schooner was then
+discharging a general cargo, preparatory to loading with rice and cotton
+for Philadelphia. With the captain in Savannah was his only daughter,
+Jane Olivia, age a scant eighteen, pretty, charming, romantic and
+head over heels in love with a handsome baritone then singing in a
+popular-priced grand opera company. It was because of this handsome
+baritone, who, by the way, was a Spaniard named Miguel Carlos Speranza,
+that Jane Snow was then aboard her father's vessel. Captain Lote was not
+in the habit of taking his women-folks on his voyages with him. “Skirts
+clutter up the deck too much,” was his opinion.
+
+He had taken Jane, however, not only on this voyage, but on that
+preceding it, which had been to Rio. It was Captain Lote's belief,
+and his wife's hope, that a succession of sea winds might blow away
+recollections of Senor Speranza--“fan the garlic out of her head,” as
+the captain inelegantly expressed it. Jane had spent her sixteenth and
+seventeenth years at a school for girls near Boston. The opera company
+of which Speranza was a member was performing at one of the
+minor theaters. A party of the school girls, duly chaperoned and
+faculty-guarded, of course, attended a series of matinees. At these
+matinees Jane first saw her hero, brave in doublet and hose, and braver
+still in melody and romance. She and her mates looked and listened
+and worshiped from afar, as is the habit of maidenly youth under such
+circumstances. There is no particular danger in such worship provided
+the worshiper remains always at a safely remote distance from the idol.
+But in Jane's case this safety-bar was removed by Fate. The wife of a
+friend of her father's, the friend being a Boston merchant named Cole
+with whom Captain Zelotes had had business dealings for many years, was
+a music lover. She was in the habit of giving what she was pleased to
+call “musical teas” at her home. Jane, to whom Mr. and Mrs. Cole had
+taken a marked fancy, was often invited to those teas and, because the
+Coles were “among our nicest people,” she was permitted by the school
+authorities to attend.
+
+At one of those teas Senor Miguel Carlos Speranza was the brightest
+star. The Senor, then in his twenty-ninth year, handsome, talented and
+picturesque, shone refulgent. Other and far more experienced feminine
+hearts than Jane Snow's were flutteringly disturbed by the glory of
+his rays. Jane and he met, they shook hands, they conversed. And at
+subsequent teas they met again, for Speranza, on his part, was strongly
+attracted to the simple, unaffected Cape Cod schoolgirl. It was not
+her beauty alone--though beauty she had and of an unusual type--it
+was something else, a personality which attracted all who met her.
+The handsome Spaniard had had many love affairs of a more or less
+perfunctory kind, but here was something different, something he had
+not known. He began by exerting his powers of fascination in a lazy,
+careless way. To his astonishment the said powers were not overwhelming.
+If Jane was fascinated she was not conquered. She remained sweet,
+simple, direct, charmingly aloof.
+
+And Speranza was at first puzzled, then piqued, then himself madly
+fascinated. He wrote fervid letters, he begged for interviews, he
+haunted each one of Mrs. Cole's “teas.” And, at last, he wrung from Jane
+a confession of her love, her promise to marry him. And that very week
+Miss Donaldson, the head of the school, discovered and read a package of
+the Senor's letters to her pupil.
+
+Captain Zelotes happened to be at home from a voyage. Being summoned
+from South Harniss, he came to Boston and heard the tale from Miss
+Donaldson's agitated lips. Jane was his joy, his pride; her future was
+the great hope and dream of his life. WHEN she married--which was not
+to be thought of for an indefinite number of years to come--she would of
+course marry a--well, not a President of the United States, perhaps--but
+an admiral possibly, or a millionaire, or the owner of a fleet of
+steamships, or something like that. The idea that she should even
+think of marrying a play-actor was unbelievable. The captain had never
+attended the performance of an opera; what was more, he never expected
+to attend one. He had been given to understand that a “parcel of
+play-actin' men and women hollered and screamed to music for a couple
+of hours.” Olive, his wife, had attended an opera once and, according
+to her, it was more like a cat fight than anything else. Nobody but
+foreigners ever had anything to do with operas. And for foreigners of
+all kinds--but the Latin variety of foreigner in particular--Captain
+Zelotes Snow cherished a detest which was almost fanatic.
+
+And now his daughter, his own Janie, was receiving ardent love
+letters from a play-acting foreigner, a Spaniard, a “Portygee,” a
+“macaroni-eater”! When finally convinced that it was true, that the
+letters had really been written to Jane, which took some time, he
+demanded first of all to be shown the “Portygee.” Miss Donaldson could
+not, of course, produce the latter forthwith, but she directed her irate
+visitor to the theater where the opera company was then performing. To
+the theater Captain Zelotes went. He did not find Speranza there, but
+from a frightened attendant he browbeat the information that the singer
+was staying at a certain hotel. So the captain went to the hotel. It was
+eleven o'clock in the morning, Senor Speranza was in bed and could not
+be disturbed. Couldn't, eh? By the great and everlasting et cetera and
+continued he was going to be disturbed then and there. And unless some
+of the hotel's “hired help” set about the disturbing it would be done
+for them. So, rather than summon the police, the hotel management
+summoned its guest, and the first, and only, interview between the
+father and lover of Jane Snow took place.
+
+It was not a long interview, but it was spirited. Captain Zelotes began
+by being what he considered diplomatic. Having assured his wife before
+leaving home, and the alarmed Miss Donaldson subsequently, that there
+was to be no trouble whatever--everything would be settled as smooth
+and easy as slidin' downhill; “that feller won't make any fuss, you'll
+see”--having thus prophesied, the captain felt it incumbent upon himself
+to see to the fulfillment. So he began by condescendingly explaining
+that of course he was kind of sorry for the young man before him, young
+folks were young folks and of course he presumed likely 'twas natural
+enough, and the like of that, you understand. But of course also Mr.
+Speranza must realize that the thing could not go on any further. Jane
+was his daughter and her people were nice people, and naturally, that
+being the case, her mother and he would be pretty particular as to who
+she kept company with, to say nothing of marrying, which event was
+not to be thought of for ten years, anyway. Now he didn't want to
+be--er--personal or anything like that, and of course he wouldn't think
+of saying that Mr. Speranza wasn't a nice enough man for--well, for--for
+. . . You see, everybody wasn't as particular as he and Mrs. Snow were.
+But--
+
+Here Senor Speranza interrupted. He politely desired to know if the
+person speaking was endeavoring to convey the idea that he, Miguel
+Carlos Speranza, was not of sufficient poseetion, goodness, standing,
+what it is? to be considered as suitor for that person's daughter's
+hand. Did Meester Snow comprehend to whom he addressed himself?
+
+The interview terminated not long after. The captain's parting remark
+was in the nature of an ultimatum. It was to the effect that if
+Speranza, or any other condemned undesirable like him, dared to so
+much as look in the direction of Jane Olivia Snow, his daughter, he
+personally would see that the return for that look was a charge of
+buckshot. Speranza, white-faced and furiously gesticulative, commanded
+the astonished bellboy to put that “Bah! pig-idiot!” out into the hall
+and air the room immediately afterward.
+
+Having, as he considered, satisfactorily attended to the presumptuous
+lover, Captain Zelotes returned to the school and to what he believed
+would be the comparatively easy task, the bringing of his daughter to
+reason. Jane had always been an obedient girl, she was devoted to her
+parents. Of course, although she might feel rather disappointed at
+first, she would soon get over it. The idea that she might flatly
+refuse to get over it, that she might have a will of her own, and a
+determination equal to that of the father from whom she inherited it,
+did not occur to the captain at all.
+
+But his enlightenment was prompt and complete. Jane did not rage or
+become hysterical, she did not even weep in his presence. But, quietly,
+with a set of her square little chin, she informed Captain Zelotes that
+she loved Speranza, that she meant to marry him and that she should
+marry him, some day or other. The captain raged, commanded, pleaded,
+begged. What was the matter with her? What had come over her? Didn't she
+love her father and mother any more that she should set out to act this
+way? Yes, she declared that she loved them as much as ever, but that
+she loved her lover more than all the world, and no one--not even her
+parents--should separate them.
+
+Captain Zelotes gave it up at last. That is, he gave up the appeal to
+reason and the pleadings. But he did not give up the idea of having his
+own way in the matter; being Zelotes Snow, he certainly did not give
+that up. Instead he took his daughter home with him to South Harniss,
+where a tearful and heart-broken Olive added her persuasions to his.
+But, when she found Jane obdurate, Mrs. Snow might have surrendered.
+Not her husband, however. Instead he conceived a brilliant idea. He was
+about to start on a voyage to Rio Janeiro; he would take his wife and
+daughter with him. Under their immediate observation and far removed
+from the influence of “that Portygee,” Jane would be in no danger and
+might forget.
+
+Jane made no remonstrance. She went to Rio and returned. She was always
+calm, outwardly pleasant and quiet, never mentioned her lover unless in
+answer to a question; but she never once varied from her determination
+not to give him up. The Snows remained at home for a month. Then
+Zelotes, Jane accompanying him, sailed from Boston to Savannah. Olive
+did not go with them; she hated the sea and by this time both she and
+her husband were somewhat reassured. So far as they could learn by
+watchful observation of their daughter, the latter had not communicated
+with Speranza nor received communications from him. If she had not
+forgotten him it seemed likely that he had forgotten her. The thought
+made the captain furiously angry, but it comforted him, too.
+
+During the voyage to Savannah this sense of comfort became stronger.
+Jane seemed in better spirits. She was always obedient, but now she
+began to seem almost cheerful, to speak, and even laugh occasionally
+just as she used to. Captain Zelotes patted himself on the back,
+figuratively. His scheme had been a good one.
+
+And in Savannah, one afternoon, Jane managed to elude her father's
+observation, to leave the schooner and to disappear completely. And
+that night came a letter. She and Miguel Carlos Speranza had been
+in correspondence all the time, how or through whose connivance is a
+mystery never disclosed. He had come to Savannah, in accordance with
+mutual arrangement; they had met, were married, and had gone away
+together.
+
+“I love you, Father,” Jane wrote in the letter. “I love you and Mother
+so very, VERY much. Oh, PLEASE believe that! But I love him, too. And I
+could not give him up. You will see why when you know him, really know
+him. If it were not for you I should be SO happy. I know you can't
+forgive me now, but some day I am sure you will forgive us both.”
+
+Captain Zelotes was far, far from forgiveness as he read that letter.
+His first mate, who was beside him when he opened and read it, was
+actually frightened when he saw the look on the skipper's face. “He went
+white,” said the mate; “not pale, but white, same as a dead man, or--or
+the underside of a flatfish, or somethin'. 'For the Lord sakes, Cap'n,'
+says I, 'what's the matter?' He never answered me, stood starin' at
+the letter. Then he looked up, not at me, but as if somebody else was
+standin' there on t'other side of the cabin table. 'Forgive him!' he
+says, kind of slow and under his breath. 'I won't forgive his black soul
+in hell.' When I heard him say it I give you my word my hair riz under
+my cap. If ever there was killin' in a man's voice and in his looks
+'twas in Cap'n Lote's that night. When I asked him again what was the
+matter he didn't answer any more than he had the first time. A few
+minutes afterwards he went into his stateroom and shut the door. I
+didn't see him again until the next mornin'.”
+
+Captain Zelotes made no attempt to follow the runaway couple. He did
+take pains to ascertain that they were legally married, but that
+was all. He left his schooner in charge of the mate at Savannah and
+journeyed north to South Harniss and his wife. A week he remained at
+home with her, then returned to the Olive S. and took up his command and
+its duties as if nothing had happened. But what had happened changed his
+whole life. He became more taciturn, a trifle less charitable, a little
+harder and more worldly. Before the catastrophe he had been interested
+in business success and the making of money chiefly because of his plans
+for his daughter's future. Now he worked even harder because it helped
+him to forget. He became sole owner of the Olive S., then of other
+schooners. People spoke of him as one destined to become a wealthy man.
+
+Jane lived only a few years after her marriage. She died at the birth of
+her second child, who died with her. Her first, a boy, was born a year
+after the elopement. She wrote her mother to tell that news and Olive
+answered the letter. She begged permission of her husband to invite Jane
+and the baby to visit the old home. At first Zelotes said no, flatly;
+the girl had made her bed, let her lie in it. But a year later he had
+so far relented as to give reluctant consent for Jane and the child to
+come, provided her condemned husband did not accompany them. “If that
+low-lived Portygee sets foot on my premises, so help me God, I'll
+kill him!” declared the captain. In his vernacular all foreigners were
+“Portygees.”
+
+But Jane was as proud and stubborn as he. Where her husband was not
+welcome she would not go. And a little later she had gone on the longest
+of all journeys. Speranza did not notify her parents except to send a
+clipped newspaper account of her death and burial, which arrived a week
+after the latter had taken place. The news prostrated Olive, who was ill
+for a month. Captain Zelotes bore it, as he had borne the other great
+shock, with outward calm and quiet. Yet a year afterward he suddenly
+announced his determination of giving up the sea and his prosperous and
+growing shipping business and of spending the rest of his days on the
+Cape.
+
+Olive was delighted, of course. Riches--that is, more than a comfortable
+competency--had no temptations for her. The old house, home of three
+generations of Snows, was painted, repaired and, to some extent,
+modernized. For another year Captain Zelotes “loafed,” as he called it,
+although others might have considered his activities about the place
+anything but that. At the end of that year he surprised every one by
+buying from the heirs of the estate the business equipment of the late
+Eben Raymond, hardware dealer and lumber merchant of South Harniss,
+said equipment comprising an office, a store and lumber yards near
+the railway station. “Got to have somethin' to keep me from gettin'
+barnacled,” declared Captain Lote. “There's enough old hulks rottin' at
+their moorin's down here as 'tis. I don't know anything about lumber and
+half as much about hardware, but I cal'late I can learn.” As an aid in
+the learning process he retained as bookkeeper Laban Keeler, who had
+acted in that capacity for the former proprietor.
+
+The years slipped away, a dozen of them, as smoothly and lazily as South
+Harniss years have always slipped. Captain Zelotes was past sixty
+now, but as vigorous as when forty, stubborn as ever, fond of using
+quarter-deck methods on shore and especially in town-meeting, and
+very often in trouble in consequence. He was a member of the Board of
+Selectmen and was in the habit of characterizing those whose opinions
+differed from his as “narrow-minded.” They retorted by accusing him of
+being “pig-headed.” There was some truth on both sides. His detest of
+foreigners had not abated in the least.
+
+And then, in this December of the year 1910, fell as from a clear sky
+the legacy of a grandson. From Senor Miguel Carlos Speranza the Snows
+had had no direct word, had received nothing save the newspaper clipping
+already mentioned. Olive had never seen him; her husband had seen him
+only on the occasion of the memorable interview in the hotel room. They
+never spoke of him, never mentioned him to each other. Occasionally,
+in the Boston newspapers, his likeness in costume had appeared amid the
+music notes or theatrical jottings. But these had not been as numerous
+of late. Of his son, their own daughter's child, they knew nothing;
+he might be alive or he might be dead. Sometimes Olive found herself
+speculating concerning him, wondering if he was alive, and if he
+resembled Jane. But she put the speculation from her thoughts; she
+could not bear to bring back memories of the old hopes and their bitter
+ending. Sometimes Captain Lote at his desk in the office of “Z. Snow
+& Co., Lumber and Builders' Hardware,” caught himself dreaming of his
+idolized daughter and thinking how different the future might have been
+for him had she married a “white man,” the kind of man he had meant for
+her to marry. There might be grandchildren growing up now, fine boys
+and girls, to visit the old home at South Harniss. “Ah hum! Well! . . .
+Labe, how long has this bill of Abner Parker's been hangin' on?
+For thunder sakes, why don't he pay up? He must think we're runnin' a
+meetin'-house Christmas tree.”
+
+The letter from the lawyer had come first. It was written in New York,
+was addressed to “Captain Lotus Snow,” and began by taking for granted
+the fact that the recipient knew all about matters of which he knew
+nothing. Speranza was dead, so much was plain, and the inference was
+that he had been fatally injured in an automobile accident, “particulars
+of which you have of course read in the papers.” Neither Captain Lote
+nor his wife had read anything of the kind in the papers. The captain
+had been very busy of late and had read little except political news,
+and Mrs. Snow never read of murders and accidents, their details at
+least. She looked up from the letter, which her husband had hastened
+home from the office to bring her, with a startled face.
+
+“Oh, Zelotes,” she cried, “he's dead!”
+
+The captain nodded.
+
+“Seems so,” he said. “That part's plain enough, but go on. The rest of
+it is what I can't get a hand-hold on. See what you make of the rest of
+it, Olive.”
+
+The rest of it was to the effect that the writer, being Mr. Speranza's
+business adviser, “that is to say, as much or more so than any one
+else,” had been called in at the time of the accident, had conferred
+with the injured man, and had learned his last wishes. “He expressed
+himself coherently concerning his son,” went on the letter, “and it is
+in regard to that son that I am asking an interview with you. I should
+have written sooner, but have been engaged with matters pertaining to
+Mr. Speranza's estate and personal debts. The latter seem to be large--”
+
+“I'LL bet you!” observed Captain Zelotes, sententiously, interrupting
+his wife's reading by pointing to this sentence with a big forefinger.
+
+“'And the estate's affairs much tangled,'” went on Olive, reading aloud.
+“'It seems best that I should see you concerning the boy at once. I
+don't know whether or not you are aware that he is at school in ----,
+New York. I am inclined to think that the estate itself will scarcely
+warrant the expense of his remaining there. Could you make it convenient
+to come to New York and see me at once? Or, if not, I shall be in
+Boston on Friday of next week and can you meet me there? It seems almost
+impossible for me to come to you just now, and, of course, you will
+understand that I am acting as a sort of temporary executor merely
+because Mr. Speranza was formerly my friend and not because I have any
+pecuniary interest in the settlement of his affairs.
+
+“'Very truly yours,
+
+“'MARCUS W. WEISSMANN.'”
+
+
+“Weissman! Another Portygee!” snorted Captain Lote.
+
+“But--but what does it MEAN?” begged Mrs. Snow. “Why--why should he want
+to see you, Zelotes? And the boy--why--why, that's HER boy. It's Janie's
+boy he must mean, Zelotes.”
+
+Her husband nodded.
+
+“Hers and that blasted furriner's,” he muttered. “I suppose so.”
+
+“Oh, DON'T speak that way, Zelotes! Don't! He's dead.”
+
+Captain Lote's lips tightened. “If he'd died twenty years ago 'twould
+have been better for all hands,” he growled.
+
+“Janie's boy!” repeated Olive slowly. “Why--why, he must be a big boy
+now. Almost grown up.”
+
+Her husband did not speak. He was pacing the floor, his hands in his
+pockets.
+
+“And this man wants to see you about him,” said Olive. Then, after a
+moment, she added timidly: “Are you goin', Zelotes?”
+
+“Goin'? Where?”
+
+“To New York? To see this lawyer man?”
+
+“I? Not by a jugful! What in blazes should I go to see him for?”
+
+“Well--well, he wants you to, you know. He wants to talk with you about
+the--the boy.”
+
+“Humph!”
+
+“It's her boy, Zelotes.”
+
+“Humph! Young Portygee!”
+
+“Don't, Zelotes! Please! . . . I know you can't forgive that--that man.
+We can't either of us forgive him; but--”
+
+The captain stopped in his stride. “Forgive him!” he repeated. “Mother,
+don't talk like a fool. Didn't he take away the one thing that I was
+workin' for, that I was plannin' for, that I was LIVIN' for? I--”
+
+She interrupted, putting a hand on his sleeve.
+
+“Not the only thing, dear,” she said. “You had me, you know.”
+
+His expression changed. He looked down at her and smiled.
+
+“That's right, old lady,” he admitted. “I had you, and thank the
+Almighty for it. Yes, I had you . . . But,” his anger returning, “when
+I think how that damned scamp stole our girl from us and then neglected
+her and killed her--”
+
+“ZELOTES! How you talk! He DIDN'T kill her. How can you!”
+
+“Oh, I don't mean he murdered her, of course. But I'll bet all I've got
+that he made her miserable. Look here, Mother, you and she used to write
+back and forth once in a while. In any one of those letters did she ever
+say she was happy?”
+
+Mrs. Snow's answer was somewhat equivocal. “She never said she was
+unhappy,” she replied. Her husband sniffed and resumed his pacing up and
+down.
+
+After a little Olive spoke again.
+
+“New York IS a good ways,” she said. “Maybe 'twould be better for you to
+meet this lawyer man in Boston. Don't you think so?”
+
+“Bah!”
+
+Another interval. Then: “Zelotes?”
+
+“Yes,” impatiently. “What is it?”
+
+“It's her boy, after all, isn't it? Our grandson, yours and mine. Don't
+you think--don't you think it's your duty to go, Zelotes?”
+
+Captain Lote stamped his foot.
+
+“For thunderation sakes, Olive, let up!” he commanded. “You ought to
+know by this time that there's one thing I hate worse than doin' my
+duty, that's bein' preached to about it. Let up! Don't you say another
+word.”
+
+She did not, having learned much by years of experience. He said the
+next word on the subject himself. At noon, when he came home for dinner,
+he said, as they rose from the table: “Where's my suitcase, up attic?”
+
+“Why, yes, I guess likely 'tis. Why?”
+
+Instead of answering he turned to the housekeeper, Mrs. Ellis.
+
+“Rachel,” he said, “go up and get that case and fetch it down to the
+bedroom, will you? Hurry up! Train leaves at half-past two and it's
+'most one now.”
+
+Both women stared at him. Mrs. Ellis spoke first.
+
+“Why, Cap'n Lote,” she cried; “be you goin' away?”
+
+Her employer's answer was crisp and very much to the point. “I am if
+I can get that case time enough to pack it and make the train,” he
+observed. “If you stand here askin' questions I probably shall stay to
+home.”
+
+The housekeeper made a hasty exit by way of the back stairs. Mrs. Snow
+still gazed wonderingly at her husband.
+
+“Zelotes,” she faltered, “are you--are you--”
+
+“I'm goin' to New York on to-night's boat. I've telegraphed that--that
+Weiss--Weiss--what-do-you-call-it--that Portygee lawyer--that I'll be to
+his office to-morrow mornin'.”
+
+“But, Zelotes, we haven't scarcely talked about it, you and I, at all.
+You might have waited till he came to Boston. Why do you go so SOON?”
+
+The captain's heavy brows drew together.
+
+“You went to the dentist's last Friday,” he said. “Why didn't you wait
+till next week?”
+
+“Why--why, what a question! My tooth ached and I wanted to have it fixed
+quick as possible.”
+
+“Um-m, yes. Well, this tooth aches and I want it fixed or hauled out,
+one or t'other. I want the thing off my mind. . . . Don't TALK to me?”
+ he added, irritably. “I know I'm a fool. And,” with a peremptory wave of
+the hand, “don't you DARE say anything about DUTY!”
+
+He was back again two days later. His wife did not question him, but
+waited for him to speak. Those years of experience already mentioned had
+taught her diplomacy. He looked at her and pulled his beard. “Well,” he
+observed, when they were alone together, “I saw him.”
+
+“The--the boy?” eagerly.
+
+“No, no! Course not! The boy's at school somewhere up in New York State;
+how could I see him! I saw that lawyer and I found out about--about the
+other scamp. He was killed in an auto accident, drunk at the time, I
+cal'late. Nigh's I can gather he's been drinkin' pretty heavy for the
+last six or seven years. Always lived high, same as his kind generally
+does, and spent money like water, I judge--but goin' down hill fast
+lately. His voice was givin' out on him and he realized it, I presume
+likely. Now he's dead and left nothin' but trunks full of stage clothes
+and photographs and,” contemptuously, “letters from fool women, and
+debts--Lord, yes! debts enough.”
+
+“But the boy, Zelotes. Janie's boy?”
+
+“He's been at this school place for pretty nigh ten years, so the lawyer
+feller said. That lawyer was a pretty decent chap, too, for a furriner.
+Seems he used to know this--Speranza rascal--when Speranza was younger
+and more decent--if he ever was really decent, which I doubt. But this
+lawyer man was his friend then and about the only one he really had when
+he was hurt. There was plenty of make-believe friends hangin' on, like
+pilot-fish to a shark, for what they could get by spongin' on him, but
+real friends were scarce.”
+
+“And the boy--”
+
+“For the Lord sakes, Mother, don't keep sayin' 'The boy,' 'the boy,'
+over and over again like a talkin' machine! Let me finish about the
+father first. This Weis--er--thingamajig--the lawyer, had quite a talk
+with Speranza afore he died, or while he was dyin'; he only lived a few
+hours after the accident and was out of his head part of that. But
+he said enough to let Weiss--er--er--Oh, why CAN'T I remember that
+Portygee's name?--to let him know that he'd like to have him settle up
+what was left of his affairs, and to send word to us about--about the
+boy. There! I hope you feel easier, Mother; I've got 'round to 'the boy'
+at last.”
+
+“But why did he want word sent to us, Zelotes? He never wrote a line to
+us in his life.”
+
+“You bet he didn't!” bitterly; “he knew better. Why did he want word
+sent now? The answer to that's easy enough. 'Cause he wanted to get
+somethin' out of us, that's the reason. From what that lawyer could
+gather, and from what he's found out since, there ain't money enough
+for the boy to stay another six weeks at that school, or anywhere else,
+unless the young feller earns it himself. And, leavin' us out of the
+count, there isn't a relation this side of the salt pond. There's
+probably a million or so over there in Portygee-land,” with a derisive
+sniff; “those foreigners breed like flies. But THEY don't count.”
+
+“But did he want word sent to us about the--”
+
+“Sshh! I'm tellin' you, Olive, I'm tellin' you. He wanted word sent
+because he was in hopes that we--you and I, Mother--would take that son
+of his in at our house here and give him a home. The cheek of it! After
+what he'd done to you and me, blast him! The solid brass nerve of it!”
+
+He stormed up and down the room. His wife did not seem nearly so much
+disturbed as he at the thought of the Speranza presumption. She looked
+anxious--yes, but she looked eager, too, and her gaze was fixed upon her
+husband's face.
+
+“Oh!” she said, softly. “Oh! . . . And--and what did you say, Zelotes?”
+
+“What did I say? What do you suppose I said? I said no, and I said it
+good and loud, too.”
+
+Olive made no comment. She turned away her head, and the captain,
+who now in his turn was watching her, saw a suspicious gleam, as of
+moisture, on her cheek. He stopped his pacing and laid a hand on her
+shoulder.
+
+“There, there, Mother,” he said, gently. “Don't cry. He's comin'.”
+
+“Comin'?” She turned pale. “Comin'?” she repeated. “Who?”
+
+“That boy! . . . Sshh! shh!” impatiently. “Now don't go askin' me
+questions or tellin' me what I just said I said. I SAID the right thing,
+but--Well, hang it all, what else could I DO? I wrote the boy--Albert--a
+letter and I wrote the boss of the school another one. I sent a check
+along for expenses and--Well, he'll be here 'most any day now, I
+shouldn't wonder. And WHAT in the devil are we goin' to do with him?”
+
+His wife did not reply to this outburst. She was trembling with
+excitement.
+
+“Is--is his name Albert?” she faltered.
+
+“Um-hm. Seems so.”
+
+“Why, that's your middle name! Do you--do you s'pose Janie could have
+named him for--for you?”
+
+“I don't know.”
+
+“Of course,” with some hesitation, “it may be she didn't. If she'd named
+him Zelotes--”
+
+“Good heavens, woman! Isn't one name like that enough in the family?
+Thank the Lord we're spared two of 'em! But there! he's comin'. And when
+he gets here--then what?”
+
+Olive put her arm about her big husband.
+
+“I hope--yes, I'm sure you did right, Zelotes, and that all's goin' to
+turn out to be for the best.”
+
+“Are you? Well, _I_ ain't sure, not by a thousand fathom.”
+
+“He's Janie's boy.”
+
+“Yes. And he's that play-actor's boy, too. One Speranza pretty nigh
+ruined your life and mine, Olive. What'll this one do? . . . Well, God
+knows, I suppose likely, but He won't tell. All we can do is wait and
+see. I tell you honest I ain't very hopeful.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+A brisk rap on the door; then a man's voice.
+
+“Hello, there! Wake up.”
+
+Albert rolled over, opened one eye, then the other and raised himself on
+his elbow.
+
+“Eh? Wh-what?” he stammered.
+
+“Seven o'clock! Time to turn out.”
+
+The voice was his grandfather's. “Oh--oh, all right!” he answered.
+
+“Understand me, do you?”
+
+“Yes--yes, sir. I'll be right down.”
+
+The stairs creaked as Captain Zelotes descended them. Albert yawned
+cavernously, stretched and slid one foot out of bed. He drew it back
+instantly, however, for the sensation was that of having thrust it into
+a bucket of cold water. The room had been cold the previous evening;
+plainly it was colder still now. The temptation was to turn back and go
+to sleep again, but he fought against it. Somehow he had a feeling that
+to disregard his grandfather's summons would be poor diplomacy.
+
+He set his teeth and, tossing back the bed clothes, jumped to the floor.
+Then he jumped again, for the floor was like ice. The window was wide
+open and he closed it, but there was no warm radiator to cuddle against
+while dressing. He missed his compulsory morning shower, a miss which
+did not distress him greatly. He shook himself into his clothes, soused
+his head and neck in a basin of ice water poured from a pitcher, and,
+before brushing his hair, looked out of the window.
+
+It was a sharp winter morning. The wind had gone down, but before
+subsiding it had blown every trace of mist or haze from the air, and
+from his window-sill to the horizon every detail was clean cut and
+distinct. He was looking out, it seemed, from the back of the house. The
+roof of the kitchen extension was below him and, to the right, the high
+roof of the barn. Over the kitchen roof and to the left he saw little
+rolling hills, valleys, cranberry swamps, a pond. A road wound in
+and out and, scattered along it, were houses, mostly white with green
+blinds, but occasionally varied by the gray of unpainted, weathered
+shingles. A long, low-spreading building a half mile off looked as if
+it might be a summer hotel, now closed and shuttered. Beyond it was a
+cluster of gray shanties and a gleam of water, evidently a wharf and a
+miniature harbor. And, beyond that, the deep, brilliant blue of the sea.
+Brown and blue were the prevailing colors, but, here and there, clumps
+and groves of pines gave splashes of green.
+
+There was an exhilaration in the crisp air. He felt an unwonted
+liveliness and a desire to be active which would have surprised some of
+his teachers at the school he had just left. The depression of spirits
+of which he had been conscious the previous night had disappeared
+along with his premonitions of unpleasantness. He felt optimistic this
+morning. After giving his curls a rake with the comb, he opened the door
+and descended the steep stairs to the lower floor.
+
+His grandmother was setting the breakfast table. He was a little
+surprised to see her doing it. What was the use of having servants if
+one did the work oneself? But perhaps the housekeeper was ill.
+
+“Good morning,” he said.
+
+Mrs. Snow, who had not heard him enter, turned and saw him. When he
+crossed the room, she kissed him on the cheek.
+
+“Good morning, Albert,” she said. “I hope you slept well.”
+
+Albert replied that he had slept very well indeed. He was a trifle
+disappointed that she made no comment on his promptness in answering his
+grandfather's summons. He felt such promptness deserved commendation. At
+school they rang two bells at ten minute intervals, thus giving a fellow
+a second chance. It had been a point of senior etiquette to accept
+nothing but that second chance. Here, apparently, he was expected to
+jump at the first. There was a matter of course about his grandmother's
+attitude which was disturbing.
+
+She went on setting the table, talking as she did so.
+
+“I'm real glad you did sleep,” she said. “Some folks can hardly
+ever sleep the first night in a strange room. Zelotes--I mean your
+grandpa--'s gone out to see to the horse and feed the hens and the pig.
+He'll be in pretty soon. Then we'll have breakfast. I suppose you're
+awful hungry.”
+
+As a matter of fact he was not very hungry. Breakfast was always a
+more or less perfunctory meal with him. But he was surprised to see
+the variety of eatables upon that table. There were cookies there, and
+doughnuts, and even half an apple pie. Pie for breakfast! It had been a
+newspaper joke at which he had laughed many times. But it seemed not to
+be a joke here, rather a solemn reality.
+
+The kitchen door opened and Mrs. Ellis put in her head. To Albert's
+astonishment the upper part of the head, beginning just above the brows,
+was swathed in a huge bandage. The lower part was a picture of hopeless
+misery.
+
+“Has Cap'n Lote come in yet?” inquired the housekeeper, faintly.
+
+“Not yet, Rachel,” replied Mrs. Snow. “He'll be here in a minute,
+though. Albert's down, so you can begin takin' up the things.”
+
+The head disappeared. A sigh of complete wretchedness drifted in as the
+door closed. Albert looked at his grandmother in alarm.
+
+“Is she sick?” he faltered.
+
+“Who? Rachel? No, she ain't exactly sick . . . Dear me! Where did I put
+that clean napkin?”
+
+The boy stared at the kitchen door. If his grandmother had said the
+housekeeper was not exactly dead he might have understood. But to say
+she was not exactly sick--
+
+“But--but what makes her look so?” he stammered. “And--and what's she
+got that on her head for? And she groaned! Why, she MUST be sick!”
+
+Mrs. Snow, having found the clean napkin, laid it beside her husband's
+plate.
+
+“No,” she said calmly. “It's one of her sympathetic attacks; that's what
+she calls 'em, sympathetic attacks. She has 'em every time Laban
+Keeler starts in on one of his periodics. It's nerves, I suppose. Cap'n
+Zelotes--your grandfather--says it's everlastin' foolishness. Whatever
+'tis, it's a nuisance. And she's so sensible other times, too.”
+
+Albert was more puzzled than ever. Why in the world Mrs. Ellis should
+tie up her head and groan because the little Keeler person had gone on a
+spree was beyond his comprehension.
+
+His grandmother enlightened him a trifle.
+
+“You see,” she went on, “she and Laban have been engaged to be married
+ever since they were young folks. It's Laban's weakness for liquor
+that's kept 'em apart so long. She won't marry him while he drinks and
+he keeps swearin' off and then breaking down. He's a good man, too; an
+awful good man and capable as all get-out when he's sober. Lately that
+is, for the last seven or eight years, beginnin' with the time when that
+lecturer on mesmerism and telegraphy--no, telepathy--thought-transfers
+and such--was at the town hall--Rachel has been havin' these sympathetic
+attacks of hers. She declares that alcohol-takin' is a disease and
+that Laban suffers when he's tipsy and that she and he are so bound up
+together that she suffers just the same as he does. I must say I never
+noticed him sufferin' very much, not at the beginnin,' anyhow--acts
+more as he was havin' a good time--but she seems to. I don't wonder you
+smile,” she added. “'Tis funny, in a way, and it's queer that such a
+practical, common-sense woman as Rachel Ellis is, should have such a
+notion. It's hard on us, though. Don't say anything to her about it, and
+don't laugh at her, whatever you do.”
+
+Albert wanted to laugh very much. “But, Mrs. Snow--” he began.
+
+“Mercy sakes alive! You ain't goin' to call me 'Mrs. Snow,' I hope.”
+
+“No, of course not. But, Grandmother why do you and Captain--you and
+Grandfather keep her and Keeler if they are so much trouble? Why don't
+you let them go and get someone else?”
+
+“Let 'em go? Get someone else! Why, we COULDN'T get anybody else, anyone
+who would be like them. They're almost a part of our family; that is,
+Rachel is, she's been here since goodness knows when. And, when he's
+sober Laban almost runs the lumber business. Besides, they're nice
+folks--almost always.”
+
+Plainly the ways of South Harniss were not the ways of the world he had
+known. Certainly these people were “Rubes” and queer Rubes, too. Then he
+remembered that two of them were his grandparents and that his immediate
+future was, so to speak, in their hands. The thought was not entirely
+comforting or delightful. He was still pondering upon it when his
+grandfather came in from the barn.
+
+The captain said good morning in the same way he had said good night,
+that is, he and Albert shook hands and the boy was again conscious of
+the gaze which took him in from head to foot and of the quiet twinkle in
+the gray eyes.
+
+“Sleep well, son?” inquired Captain Zelotes.
+
+“Yes . . . Yes, sir.”
+
+“That's good. I judged you was makin' a pretty good try at it when I
+thumped on your door this mornin'. Somethin' new for you to be turned
+out at seven, eh?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“Eh? It wasn't?”
+
+“No, sir. The rising bell rang at seven up at school. We were supposed
+to be down at breakfast at a quarter past.”
+
+“Humph! You were, eh? Supposed to be? Does that mean that you were
+there?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+There was a surprised look in the gray eyes now, a fact which Albert
+noticed with inward delight. He had taken one “rise” out of his
+grandfather, at any rate. He waited, hoping for another opportunity, but
+it did not come. Instead they sat down to breakfast.
+
+Breakfast, in spite of the morning sunshine at the windows, was somewhat
+gloomy. The homesickness, although not as acute as on the previous
+night, was still in evidence. Albert felt lost, out of his element,
+lonely. And, to add a touch of real miserableness, the housekeeper
+served and ate like a near relative of the deceased at a funeral feast.
+She moved slowly, she sighed heavily, and the bandage upon her forehead
+loomed large and portentous. When spoken to she seldom replied before
+the third attempt. Captain Zelotes lost patience.
+
+“Have another egg?” he roared, brandishing the spoon containing it at
+arm's length and almost under her nose. “Egg! Egg! EGG! If you can't
+hear it, smell it. Only answer, for heaven sakes!”
+
+The effect of this outburst was obviously not what he had hoped. Mrs.
+Ellis stared first at the egg quivering before her face, then at the
+captain. Then she rose and marched majestically to the kitchen. The door
+closed, but a heartrending sniff drifted in through the crack. Olive
+laid down her knife and fork.
+
+“There!” she exclaimed, despairingly. “Now see what you've done. Oh,
+Zelotes, how many times have I told you you've got to treat her tactful
+when she's this way?”
+
+Captain Lote put the egg back in the bowl.
+
+“DAMN!” he observed, with intense enthusiasm.
+
+His wife shook her head.
+
+“Swearin' don't help it a mite, either,” she declared. “Besides I
+don't know what Albert here must think of you.” Albert, who, between
+astonishment and a wild desire to laugh, was in a critical condition,
+appeared rather embarrassed. His grandfather looked at him and smiled
+grimly.
+
+“I cal'late one damn won't scare him to death,” he observed. “Maybe he's
+heard somethin' like it afore. Or do they say, 'Oh, sugar!' up at that
+school you come from?” he added.
+
+Albert, not knowing how to reply, looked more embarrassed than ever.
+Olive seemed on the point of weeping.
+
+“Oh, Zelotes, how CAN you!” she wailed. “And to-day, of all days! His
+very first mornin'!”
+
+Captain Lote relented.
+
+“There, there, Mother!” he said. “I'm sorry. Forget it. Sorry if I
+shocked you, Albert. There's times when salt-water language is the only
+thing that seems to help me out . . . Well, Mother, what next? What'll
+we do now?”
+
+“You know just as well as I do, Zelotes. There's only one thing you can
+do. That's go out and beg her pardon this minute. There's a dozen places
+she could get right here in South Harniss without turnin' her hand over.
+And if she should leave I don't know WHAT I'd do.”
+
+“Leave! She ain't goin' to leave any more'n than the ship's cat's goin'
+to jump overboard. She's been here so long she wouldn't know how to
+leave if she wanted to.”
+
+“That don't make any difference. The pitcher that goes to the
+well--er--er--”
+
+She had evidently forgotten the rest of the proverb. Her husband helped
+her out.
+
+“Flocks together or gathers no moss, or somethin', eh? All right,
+Mother, don't fret. There ain't really any occasion to, considerin'
+we've been through somethin' like this at least once every six months
+for ten years.”
+
+“Zelotes, won't you PLEASE go and ask her pardon?”
+
+The captain pushed back his chair. “I'll be hanged if it ain't a healthy
+note,” he grumbled, “when the skipper has to go and apologize to the
+cook because the cook's made a fool of herself! I'd like to know what
+kind of rum Labe drinks. I never saw any but his kind that would go
+to somebody else's head. Two people gettin' tight and only one of 'em
+drinkin' is somethin'--”
+
+He disappeared into the kitchen, still muttering. Mrs. Snow smiled
+feebly at her grandson.
+
+“I guess you think we're funny folks, Albert,” she said. “But Rachel is
+one hired help in a thousand and she has to be treated just so.”
+
+Five minutes later Cap'n 'Lote returned. He shrugged his shoulders and
+sat down at his place.
+
+“All right, Mother, all right,” he observed. “I've been heavin' ile on
+the troubled waters and the sea's smoothin' down. She'll be kind and
+condescendin' enough to eat with us in a minute or so.”
+
+She was. She came into the dining-room with the air of a saint going to
+martyrdom and the remainder of the meal was eaten by the quartet almost
+in silence. When it was over the captain said:
+
+“Well, Al, feel like walkin', do you?”
+
+“Why, why, yes, sir, I guess so.”
+
+“Humph! You don't seem very wild at the prospect. Walkin' ain't much in
+your line, maybe. More used to autoin', perhaps?”
+
+Mrs. Snow put in a word. “Don't talk so, Zelotes,” she said. “He'll
+think you're makin' fun of him.”
+
+“Who? Me? Not a bit of it. Well, Al, do you want to walk down to the
+lumber yard with me?”
+
+The boy hesitated. The quiet note of sarcasm in his grandfather's voice
+was making him furiously angry once more, just as it had done on the
+previous night.
+
+“Do you want me to?” he asked, shortly.
+
+“Why, yes, I cal'late I do.”
+
+Albert, without another word, walked to the hat-rack in the hall and
+began putting on his coat. Captain Lote watched him for a moment and
+then put on his own.
+
+“We'll be back to dinner, Mother,” he said. “Heave ahead, Al, if you're
+ready.”
+
+There was little conversation between the pair during the half mile
+walk to the office and yards of “Z. Snow and Co., Lumber and Builders'
+Hardware.” Only once did the captain offer a remark. That was just as
+they came out by the big posts at the entrance to the driveway. Then he
+said:
+
+“Al, I don't want you to get the idea from what happened at the table
+just now--that foolishness about Rachel Ellis--that your grandmother
+ain't a sensible woman. She is, and there's no better one on earth.
+Don't let that fact slip your mind.”
+
+Albert, somewhat startled by the abruptness of the observation, looked
+up in surprise. He found the gray eyes looking down at him.
+
+“I noticed you lookin' at her,” went on his grandfather, “as if you was
+kind of wonderin' whether to laugh at her or pity her. You needn't
+do either. She's kind-hearted and that makes her put up with Rachel's
+silliness. Then, besides, Rachel herself is common sense and practical
+nine-tenths of the time. It's always a good idea, son, to sail one
+v'yage along with a person before you decide whether to class 'em as A.
+B. or just roustabout.”
+
+The blood rushed to the boy's face. He felt guilty and the feeling made
+him angrier than ever.
+
+“I don't see why,” he burst out, indignantly, “you should say I was
+laughing at--at Mrs. Snow--”
+
+“At your grandmother.”
+
+“Well--yes--at my grandmother. I don't see why you should say that. I
+wasn't.”
+
+“Wasn't you? Good! I'm glad of it. I wouldn't, anyhow. She's liable to
+be about the best friend you'll have in this world.”
+
+To Albert's mind flashed the addition: “Better than you, that means,”
+ but he kept it to himself.
+
+The lumber yards were on a spur track not very far from the railway
+station where he had spent that miserable half hour the previous
+evening. The darkness then had prevented his seeing them. Not that he
+would have been greatly interested if he had seen them, nor was he
+more interested now, although his grandfather took him on a personally
+conducted tour between the piles of spruce and pine and hemlock and
+pointed out which was which and added further details. “Those are two by
+fours,” he said. Or, “Those are larger joist, different sizes.” “This is
+good, clear stock, as good a lot of white pine as we've got hold of for
+a long spell.” He gave particulars concerning the “handiest way to drive
+a team” to one or the other of the piles. Albert found it rather boring.
+He longed to speak concerning enormous lumber yards he had seen in New
+York or Chicago or elsewhere. He felt almost a pitying condescension
+toward this provincial grandparent who seemed to think his little piles
+of “two by fours” so important.
+
+It was much the same, perhaps a little worse, when they entered the
+hardware shop and the office. The rows and rows of little drawers and
+boxes, each with samples of its contents--screws, or bolts, or hooks,
+or knobs--affixed to its front, were even more boring than the lumber
+piles. There was a countryfied, middle-aged person in overalls sweeping
+out the shop and Captain Zelotes introduced him.
+
+“Albert,” he said, “this is Mr. Issachar Price, who works around the
+place here. Issy, let me make you acquainted with my grandson, Albert.”
+
+Mr. Price, looking over his spectacles, extended a horny hand and
+observed: “Yus, yus. Pleased to meet you, Albert. I've heard tell of
+you.”
+
+Albert's private appraisal of “Issy” was that the latter was another
+funny Rube. Whatever Issy's estimate of his employer's grandson might
+have been, he, also, kept it to himself.
+
+Captain Zelotes looked about the shop and glanced into the office.
+
+“Humph!” he grunted. “No sign or symptoms of Laban this mornin', I
+presume likely?”
+
+Issachar went on with his sweeping.
+
+“Nary one,” was his laconic reply.
+
+“Humph! Heard anything about him?”
+
+Mr. Price moistened his broom in a bucket of water. “I see Tim Kelley
+on my way down street,” he said. “Tim said he run afoul of Laban along
+about ten last night. Said he cal'lated Labe was on his way. He was
+singin' 'Hyannis on the Cape' and so Tim figgered he'd got a pretty fair
+start already.”
+
+The captain shook his head. “Tut, tut, tut!” he muttered. “Well, that
+means I'll have to do office work for the next week or so. Humph! I
+declare it's too bad just now when I was countin' on him to--” He did
+not finish the sentence, but instead turned to his grandson and said:
+“Al, why don't you look around the hardware store here while I open
+the mail and the safe. If there's anything you see you don't understand
+Issy'll tell you about it.”
+
+He went into the office. Albert sauntered listlessly to the window
+and looked out. So far as not understanding anything in the shop was
+concerned he was quite willing to remain in ignorance. It did not
+interest him in the least. A moment later he felt a touch on his elbow.
+He turned, to find Mr. Price standing beside him.
+
+“I'm all ready to tell you about it now,” volunteered the unsmiling
+Issy. “Sweepin's all finished up.”
+
+Albert was amused. “I guess I can get along,” he said.
+
+“Don't worry.”
+
+“_I_ ain't worried none. I don't believe in worryin'; worryin' don't do
+folks no good, the way I look at it. But long's Cap'n Lote wants me to
+tell you about the hardware I'd ruther do it now, than any time. Henry
+Cahoon's team'll be here for a load of lath in about ten minutes or so,
+and then I'll have to leave you. This here's the shelf where we keep
+the butts--hinges, you understand. Brass along here, and iron here. Got
+quite a stock, ain't we.”
+
+He took the visitor's arm in his mighty paw and led him from shelves
+to drawers and from drawers to boxes, talking all the time, so the boy
+thought, “like a catalogue.” Albert tried gently to break away several
+times and yawned often, but yawns and hints were quite lost on his
+guide, who was intent only upon the business--and victim--in hand. At
+the window looking across toward the main road Albert paused longest.
+There was a girl in sight--she looked, at that distance, as if she might
+be a rather pretty girl--and the young man was languidly interested.
+He had recently made the discovery that pretty girls may be quite
+interesting; and, moreover, one or two of them whom he had met at the
+school dances--when the young ladies from the Misses Bradshaws' seminary
+had come over, duly guarded and chaperoned, to one-step and fox-trot
+with the young gentlemen of the school--one or two of these young ladies
+had intimated a certain interest in him. So the feminine possibility
+across the road attracted his notice--only slightly, of course; the
+sophisticated metropolitan notice is not easily aroused--but still,
+slightly.
+
+“Come on, come on,” urged Issachar Price. “I ain't begun to show ye the
+whole of it yet . . . Eh? Oh, Lord, there comes Cahoon's team now! Well,
+I got to go. Show you the rest some other time. So long . . . Eh? Cap'n
+Lote's callin' you, ain't he?”
+
+Albert went into the office in response to his grandfather's call to
+find the latter seated at an old-fashioned roll-top desk, piled with
+papers.
+
+“I've got to go down to the bank, Al,” he said. “Some business about
+a note that Laban ought to be here to see to, but ain't. I'll be back
+pretty soon. You just stay here and wait for me. You might be lookin'
+over the books, if you want to. I took 'em out of the safe and they're
+on Labe's desk there,” pointing to the high standing desk by the window.
+“They're worth lookin' at, if only to see how neat they're kept. A set
+of books like that is an example to any young man. You might be lookin'
+'em over.”
+
+He hurried out. Albert smiled condescendingly and, instead of looking
+over Mr. Keeler's books, walked over to the window and looked out of
+that. The girl was not in sight now, but she might be soon. At any rate
+watching for her was as exciting as any amusement he could think of
+about that dull hole. Ah hum! he wondered how the fellows were at
+school.
+
+The girl did not reappear. Signs of animation along the main road were
+limited. One or two men went by, then a group of children obviously on
+their way to school. Albert yawned again, took the silver cigarette case
+from his pocket and looked longingly at its contents. He wondered
+what his grandfather's ideas might be on the tobacco question. But his
+grandfather was not there then . . . and he might not return for some
+time . . . and . . . He took a cigarette from the case, tapped, with
+careful carelessness, its end upon the case--he would not have dreamed
+of smoking without first going through the tapping process--lighted the
+cigarette and blew a large and satisfying cloud. Between puffs he sang:
+
+
+      “To you, beautiful lady,
+       I raise my eyes.
+     My heart, beautiful lady,
+       To your heart cries:
+     Come, come, beautiful lady,
+       To Par-a-dise,
+     As the sweet, sweet--'”
+
+
+Some one behind him said: “Excuse me.” The appeal to the beautiful lady
+broke off in the middle, and he whirled about to find the girl whom he
+had seen across the road and for whose reappearance he had been watching
+at the window, standing in the office doorway. He looked at her and she
+looked at him. He was embarrassed. She did not seem to be.
+
+“Excuse me,” she said: “Is Mr. Keeler here?”
+
+She was a pretty girl, so his hasty estimate made when he had first
+sighted her was correct. Her hair was dark, so were her eyes, and her
+cheeks were becomingly colored by the chill of the winter air. She was
+a country girl, her hat and coat proved that; not that they were in bad
+taste or unbecoming, but they were simple and their style perhaps nearer
+to that which the young ladies of the Misses Bradshaws' seminary had
+worn the previous winter. All this Albert noticed in detail later on.
+Just then the particular point which attracted his embarrassed attention
+was the look in the dark eyes. They seemed to have almost the same
+disturbing quality which he had noticed in his grandfather's gray ones.
+Her mouth was very proper and grave, but her eyes looked as if she were
+laughing at him.
+
+Now to be laughed at by an attractive young lady is disturbing and
+unpleasant. It is particularly so when the laughter is from the
+provinces and the laughee--so to speak--a dignified and sophisticated
+city man. Albert summoned the said dignity and sophistication to his
+rescue, knocked the ashes from his cigarette and said, haughtily:
+
+“I beg your pardon?”
+
+“Is Mr. Keeler here?” repeated the girl.
+
+“No, he is out.”
+
+“Will he be back soon, do you think?”
+
+Recollections of Mr. Price's recent remark concerning the missing
+bookkeeper's “good start” came to Albert's mind and he smiled, slightly.
+“I should say not,” he observed, with delicate irony.
+
+“Is Issy--I mean Mr. Price, busy?”
+
+“He's out in the yard there somewhere, I believe. Would you like to have
+me call him?”
+
+“Why, yes--if you please--sir.”
+
+The “sir” was flattering, if it was sincere. He glanced at her. The
+expression of the mouth was as grave as ever, but he was still uncertain
+about those eyes. However, he was disposed to give her the benefit of
+the doubt, so, stepping to the side door of the office--that leading to
+the yards--he opened it and shouted: “Price! . . . Hey, Price!”
+
+There was no answer, although he could hear Issachar's voice and another
+above the rattle of lath bundles.
+
+“Price!” he shouted, again. “Pri-i-ce!”
+
+The rattling ceased. Then, in the middle distance, above a pile of
+“two by fours,” appeared Issachar's head, the features agitated and the
+forehead bedewed with the moisture of honest toil.
+
+“Huh?” yelled Issy. “What's the matter? Be you hollerin' to me?”
+
+“Yes. There's some one here wants to see you.”
+
+“Hey?”
+
+“I say there's some one here who wants to see you.”
+
+“What for?”
+
+“I don't know.”
+
+“Well, find out, can't ye? I'm busy.”
+
+Was that a laugh which Albert heard behind him? He turned around, but
+the young lady's face wore the same grave, even demure, expression.
+
+“What do you want to see him for?” he asked.
+
+“I wanted to buy something.”
+
+“She wants to buy something,” repeated Albert, shouting.
+
+“Hey?”
+
+“She wants to--BUY--something.” It was humiliating to have to scream in
+this way.
+
+“Buy? Buy what?”
+
+“What do you want to buy?”
+
+“A hook, that's all. A hook for our kitchen door. Would you mind asking
+him to hurry? I haven't much time.”
+
+“She wants a hook.”
+
+“Eh? We don't keep books. What kind of a book?”
+
+“Not book--HOOK. H-O-O-K! Oh, great Scott! Hook! HOOK! Hook for a door!
+And she wants you to hurry.”
+
+“Eh? Well, I can't hurry now for nobody. I got to load these laths
+and that's all there is to it. Can't you wait on him?” Evidently the
+customer's sex had not yet been made clear to the Price understanding.
+“You can get a hook for him, can't ye? You know where they be, I showed
+ye. Ain't forgot so soon, 'tain't likely.”
+
+The head disappeared behind the “two by fours.” Its face was red, but no
+redder than Mr. Speranza's at that moment.
+
+“Fool rube!” he snorted, disgustedly.
+
+“Excuse me, but you've dropped your cigarette,” observed the young lady.
+
+Albert savagely slammed down the window and turned away. The dropped
+cigarette stump lay where it had fallen, smudging and smelling.
+
+His caller looked at it and then at him.
+
+“I'd pick it up, if I were you,” she said. “Cap'n Snow HATES
+cigarettes.”
+
+Albert, his dignity and indignation forgotten, returned her look with
+one of anxiety.
+
+“Does he, honest?” he asked.
+
+“Yes. He hates them worse than anything.”
+
+The cigarette stump was hastily picked up by its owner.
+
+“Where'll I put it?” he asked, hurriedly.
+
+“Why don't you--Oh, don't put it in your pocket! It will set you on
+fire. Put it in the stove, quick.”
+
+Into the stove it went, all but its fragrance, which lingered.
+
+“Do you think you COULD find me that hook?” asked the girl.
+
+“I'll try. _I_ don't know anything about the confounded things.”
+
+“Oh!” innocently. “Don't you?”
+
+“No, of course I don't. Why should I?”
+
+“Aren't you working here?”
+
+“Here? Work HERE? ME? Well, I--should--say--NOT!”
+
+“Oh, excuse me. I thought you must be a new bookkeeper, or--or a new
+partner, or something.”
+
+Albert regarded her intently and suspiciously for some seconds before
+making another remark. She was as demurely grave as ever, but his
+suspicions were again aroused. However, she WAS pretty, there could be
+no doubt about that.
+
+“Maybe I can find the hook for you,” he said. “I can try, anyway.”
+
+“Oh, thank you ever so much,” gratefully. “It's VERY kind of you to take
+so much trouble.”
+
+“Oh,” airily, “that's all right. Come on; perhaps we can find it
+together.”
+
+They were still looking when Mr. Price came panting in.
+
+“Whew!” he observed, with emphasis. “If anybody tells you heavin'
+bundles of laths aboard a truck-wagon ain't hard work you tell him for
+me he's a liar, will ye. Whew! And I had to do the heft of everything,
+'cause Cahoon sent that one-armed nephew of his to drive the team. A
+healthy lot of good a one-armed man is to help heave lumber! I says to
+him, says I: 'What in time did--' Eh? Why, hello, Helen! Good mornin'.
+Land sakes! you're out airly, ain't ye?”
+
+The young lady nodded. “Good morning, Issachar,” she said. “Yes, I am
+pretty early and I'm in a dreadful hurry. The wind blew our kitchen door
+back against the house last night and broke the hook. I promised Father
+I would run over here and get him a new one and bring it back to him
+before I went to school. And it's quarter to nine now.”
+
+“Land sakes, so 'tis! Ain't--er--er--what's-his-name--Albert here, found
+it for you yet? He ain't no kind of a hand to find things, is he? We'll
+have to larn him better'n that. Yes indeed!”
+
+Albert laughed, sarcastically. He was about to make a satisfyingly
+crushing reproof to this piece of impertinence when Mr. Price began to
+sniff the air.
+
+“What in tunket?” he demanded. “Sn'f! Sn'f! Who's been smokin' in here?
+And cigarettes, too, by crimus! Sn'f! Sn'f! Yes, sir, cigarettes, by
+crimustee! Who's been smokin' cigarettes in here? If Cap'n Lote knew
+anybody'd smoked a cigarette in here I don't know's he wouldn't kill
+'em. Who done it?”
+
+Albert shivered. The girl with the dark blue eyes flashed a quick glance
+at him. “I think perhaps someone went by the window when it was open
+just now,” she suggested. “Perhaps they were smoking and the smoke blew
+in.”
+
+“Eh? Well, maybe so. Must have been a mighty rank cigarette to smell up
+the whole premises like this just goin' past a window. Whew! Gosh!
+no wonder they say them things are rank pison. I'd sooner smoke
+skunk-cabbage myself; 'twouldn't smell no worse and 'twould be a dum
+sight safer. Whew! . . . Well, Helen, there's about the kind of hook I
+cal'late you need. Fifteen cents 'll let you out on that. Cheap enough
+for half the money, eh? Give my respects to your pa, will ye. Tell him
+that sermon he preached last Sunday was fine, but I'd like it better if
+he'd laid it on to the Univer'lists a little harder. Folks that don't
+believe in hell don't deserve no consideration, 'cordin' to my notion.
+So long, Helen . . . Oh say,” he added, as an afterthought, “I guess
+you and Albert ain't been introduced, have ye? Albert, this is Helen
+Kendall, she's our Orthodox minister's daughter. Helen, this young
+feller is Albert--er--er--Consarn it, I've asked Cap'n Lote that name a
+dozen times if I have once! What is it, anyway?”
+
+“Speranza,” replied the owner of the name.
+
+“That's it, Sperandy. This is Albert Sperandy, Cap'n Lote's grandson.”
+
+Albert and Miss Kendall shook hands.
+
+“Thanks,” said the former, gratefully and significantly.
+
+The young lady smiled.
+
+“Oh, you're welcome,” she said. “I knew who you were all the time--or I
+guessed who you must be. Cap'n Snow told me you were coming.”
+
+She went out. Issachar, staring after her, chuckled admiringly.
+“Smartest girl in THIS town,” he observed, with emphasis. “Head of her
+class up to high school and only sixteen and three-quarters at that.”
+
+Captain Zelotes came bustling in a few minutes later. He went to his
+desk, paying little attention to his grandson. The latter loitered idly
+up and down the office and hardware shop, watching Issachar wait on
+customers or rush shouting into the yard to attend to the wants of
+others there. Plainly this was Issachar's busy day.
+
+“Crimus!” he exclaimed, returning from one such excursion and mopping
+his forehead. “This doin' two men's work ain't no fun. Every time Labe
+goes on a time seem's if trade was brisker'n it's been for a month.
+Seems as if all creation and part of East Harniss had been hangin' back
+waitin' till he had a shade on 'fore they come to trade. Makes a feller
+feel like votin' the Prohibition ticket. I WOULD vote it, by crimustee,
+if I thought 'twould do any good. 'Twouldn't though; Labe would take
+to drinkin' bay rum or Florida water or somethin', same as Hoppy Rogers
+done when he was alive. Jim Young says he went into Hoppy's barber-shop
+once and there was Hoppy with a bottle of a new kind of hair-tonic in
+his hand. 'Drummer that was here left it for a sample,' says Hoppy.
+'Wanted me to try it and, if I liked it, he cal'lated maybe I'd buy
+some. I don't think I shall, though,' he says; 'don't taste right to
+me.' Yes, sir, Jim Young swears that's true. Wan't enough snake-killer
+in that hair tonic to suit Hoppy. I--Yes, Cap'n Lote, what is it? Want
+me, do ye?”
+
+But the captain did not, as it happened, want Mr. Price at that time.
+It was Albert whose name he had called. The boy went into the office and
+his grandfather rose and shut the door.
+
+“Sit down, Al,” he said, motioning toward a chair. When his grandson had
+seated himself Captain Zelotes tilted back his own desk chair upon its
+springs and looked at him.
+
+“Well, son,” he said, after a moment, “what do you think of it?”
+
+“Think of it? I don't know exactly what--”
+
+“Of the place here. Shop, yards, the whole business. Z. Snow and
+Company--what do you think of it?”
+
+Privately Albert was inclined to classify the entire outfit as one-horse
+and countrified, but he deemed it wiser not to express this opinion. So
+he compromised and replied that it “seemed to be all right.”
+
+His grandfather nodded. “Thanks,” he observed, dryly. “Glad you find it
+that way. Well, then, changin' the subject for a minute or two, what do
+you think about yourself?”
+
+“About myself? About me? I don't understand?”
+
+“No, I don't suppose you do. That's what I got you over here this
+mornin' for, so as we could understand--you and me. Al, have you given
+any thought to what you're goin' to do from this on? How you're goin' to
+live?”
+
+Albert looked at him uncomprehendingly.
+
+“How I'm going to live?” he repeated. “Why--why, I thought--I supposed I
+was going to live with you--with you and Grandmother.”
+
+“Um-hm, I see.”
+
+“I just kind of took that for granted, I guess. You sent for me to come
+here. You took me away from school, you know.”
+
+“Yes, so I did. You know why I took you from school?”
+
+“No, I--I guess I DON'T, exactly. I thought--I supposed it was because
+you didn't want me to go there any more.”
+
+“'Twasn't that. I don't know whether I would have wanted you to go there
+or not if things had been different. From what I hear it was a pretty
+extravagant place, and lookin' at it from the outside without knowin'
+too much about it, I should say it was liable to put a lot of foolish
+and expensive notions into a boy's head. I may be wrong, of course; I
+have been wrong at least a few times in my life.”
+
+It was evident that he considered the chances of his being wrong in this
+instance very remote. His tone again aroused in the youth the feeling of
+obstinacy, of rebellion, of desire to take the other side.
+
+“It is one of the best schools in this country,” he declared. “My father
+said so.”
+
+Captain Zelotes picked up a pencil on his desk and tapped his chin
+lightly with the blunt end. “Um,” he mused. “Well, I presume likely he
+knew all about it.”
+
+“He knew as much as--most people,” with a slight but significant
+hesitation before the “most.”
+
+“Um-hm. Naturally, havin' been schooled there himself, I suppose.”
+
+“He wasn't schooled there. My father was a Spaniard.”
+
+“So I've heard. . . . Well, we're kind of off the subject, ain't we?
+Let's leave your father's nationality out of it for a while. And we'll
+leave the school, too, because no matter if it was the best one on earth
+you couldn't go there. I shouldn't feel 'twas right to spend as much
+money as that at any school, and you--well, son, you ain't got it to
+spend. Did you have any idea what your father left you, in the way of
+tangible assets?”
+
+“No. I knew he had plenty of money always. He was one of the most famous
+singers in this country.”
+
+“Maybe so.”
+
+“It WAS so,” hotly. “And he was paid enough in one week to buy this
+whole town--or almost. Why, my father--”
+
+“Sshh! Sssh!”
+
+“No, I'm not going to hush. I'm proud of my father. He was a--a great
+man. And--and I'm not going to stand here and have you--”
+
+Between indignation and emotion he choked and could not finish the
+sentence. The tears came to his eyes.
+
+“I'm not going to have you or anyone else talk about him that way,” he
+concluded, fiercely.
+
+His grandfather regarded him with a steady, but not at all unkindly,
+gaze.
+
+“I ain't runnin' down your father, Albert,” he said.
+
+“Yes, you are. You hated him. Anybody could see you hated him.”
+
+The captain slowly rapped the desk with the pencil. He did not answer at
+once.
+
+“Well,” he said, after a moment, “I don't know as I ought to deny that.
+I don't know as I can deny it and be honest. Years ago he took away from
+me what amounted to three-quarters of everything that made my life worth
+while. Some day you'll know more about it than you do now, and maybe
+you'll understand my p'int of view better. No, I didn't like your
+father--Eh? What was you sayin'?”
+
+Albert, who had muttered something, was rather confused. However, he
+did not attempt to equivocate. “I said I guessed that didn't make much
+difference to Father,” he answered, sullenly.
+
+“I presume likely it didn't. But we won't go into that question now.
+What I'm tryin' to get at in this talk we're having is you and your
+future. Now you can't go back to school because you can't afford it. All
+your father left when he died was--this is the honest truth I'm tellin'
+you now, and if I'm puttin' it pretty blunt it's because I always think
+it's best to get a bad mess out of the way in a hurry--all your father
+left was debts. He didn't leave money enough to bury him, hardly.”
+
+The boy stared at him aghast. His grandfather, leaning a little toward
+him, would have put a hand on his knee, but the knee was jerked out of
+the way.
+
+“There, that's over, Al,” went on Captain Zelotes. “You know the worst
+now and you can say, 'What of it?' I mean just that: What of it? Bein'
+left without a cent, but with your health and a fair chance to make
+good--that, at seventeen or eighteen ain't a bad lookout, by any manner
+of means. It's the outlook _I_ had at fifteen--exceptin' the chance--and
+I ain't asked many favors of anybody since. At your age, or a month or
+two older, do you know where I was? I was first mate of a three-masted
+schooner. At twenty I was skipper; and at twenty-five, by the Almighty,
+I owned a share in her. Al, all you need now is a chance to go to work.
+And I'm goin' to give you that chance.”
+
+Albert gasped. “Do you mean--do you mean I've got to be a--a sailor?” he
+stammered.
+
+Captain Zelotes put back his head and laughed, laughed aloud.
+
+“A sailor!” he repeated. “Ho, ho! No wonder you looked scared. No,
+I wan't cal'latin' to make a sailor out of you, son. For one reason,
+sailorin' ain't what it used to be; and, for another, I have my doubts
+whether a young feller of your bringin' up would make much of a go
+handlin' a bunch of fo'mast hands the first day out. No, I wasn't
+figgerin' to send you to sea . . . What do you suppose I brought you
+down to this place for this mornin'?”
+
+And then Albert understood. He knew why he had been conducted through
+the lumber yards, about the hardware shop, why his grandfather and Mr.
+Price had taken so much pains to exhibit and explain. His heart sank.
+
+“I brought you down here,” continued the captain, “because it's a
+first-rate idea to look a vessel over afore you ship aboard her. It's
+kind of late to back out after you have shipped. Ever since I made up my
+mind to send for you and have you live along with your grandmother and
+me I've been plannin' what to do with you. I knew, if you was a decent,
+ambitious young chap, you'd want to do somethin' towards makin' a start
+in life. We can use--that is, this business can use that kind of a chap
+right now. He could larn to keep books and know lumber and hardware
+and how to sell and how to buy. He can larn the whole thing. There's
+a chance here, son. It's your chance; I'm givin' it to you. How big a
+chance it turns out to be 'll depend on you, yourself.”
+
+He stopped. Albert was silent. His thoughts were confused, but out of
+their dismayed confusion two or three fixed ideas reared themselves like
+crags from a whirlpool. He was to live in South Hamiss always--always;
+he was to keep books--Heavens, how he hated mathematics, detail work of
+any kind!--for drunken old Keeler; he was to “heave lumber” with
+Issy Price. He--Oh, it was dreadful! It was horrible. He couldn't! He
+wouldn't! He--
+
+Captain Zelotes had been watching him, his heavy brows drawing closer
+together as the boy delayed answering.
+
+“Well?” he asked, for another minute. “Did you hear what I said?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Understood, did you?”
+
+“Yes--sir.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+Albert was clutching at straws. “I--I don't know how to keep books,” he
+faltered.
+
+“I didn't suppose you did. Don't imagine they teach anything as
+practical as bookkeepin' up at that school of yours. But you can larn,
+can't you?”
+
+“I--I guess so.”
+
+“I guess so, too. Good Lord, I HOPE so! Humph! You don't seem to be
+jumpin' for joy over the prospect. There's a half dozen smart young
+fellers here in South Harniss that would, I tell you that.”
+
+Albert devoutly wished they had jumped--and landed--before his arrival.
+His grandfather's tone grew more brusque.
+
+“Don't you want to work?” he demanded.
+
+“Why, yes, I--I suppose I do. I--I hadn't thought much about it.”
+
+“Humph! Then I think it's time you begun. Hadn't you had ANY notion of
+what you wanted to do when you got out of that school of yours?”
+
+“I was going to college.”
+
+“Humph! . . . Yes, I presume likely. Well, after you got out of college,
+what was you plannin' to do then?”
+
+“I wasn't sure. I thought I might do something with my music. I can
+play a little. I can't sing--that is, not well enough. If I could,”
+ wistfully, “I should have liked to be in opera, as father was, of
+course.”
+
+Captain Zelotes' only comment was a sniff or snort, or combination of
+both. Albert went on.
+
+“I had thought of writing--writing books and poems, you know. I've
+written quite a good deal for the school magazine. And I think I should
+like to be an actor, perhaps. I--”
+
+“Good God!” His grandfather's fist came down upon the desk before him.
+Slowly he shook his head.
+
+“A--a poetry writer and an actor!” he repeated. “Whew! . . . Well,
+there! Perhaps maybe we hadn't better talk any more just now. You can
+have the rest of the day to run around town and sort of get acquainted,
+if you want to. Then to-morrow mornin' you and I'll come over here
+together and we'll begin to break you in. I shouldn't wonder,” he added,
+dryly, “if you found it kind of dull at first--compared to that school
+and poetry makin' and such--but it'll be respectable and it'll pay for
+board and clothes and somethin' to eat once in a while, which may
+not seem so important to you now as 'twill later on. And some day I
+cal'late--anyhow we'll hope--you'll be mighty glad you did it.”
+
+Poor Albert looked and felt anything but glad just then. Captain
+Zelotes, his hands in his pockets, stood regarding him. He, too, did not
+look particularly happy.
+
+“You'll remember,” he observed, “or perhaps you don't know, that when
+your father asked us to look out for you--”
+
+Albert interrupted. “Did--did father ask you to take care of me?” he
+cried, in surprise.
+
+“Um-hm. He asked somebody who was with him to ask us to do just that.”
+
+The boy drew a long breath. “Well, then,” he said, hopelessly,
+“I'll--I'll try.”
+
+“Thanks. Now you run around town and see the sights. Dinner's at half
+past twelve prompt, so be on hand for that.”
+
+After his grandson had gone, the captain, hands still in his pockets,
+stood for some time looking out of the window. At length he spoke aloud.
+
+“A play actor or a poetry writer!” he exclaimed. “Tut, tut, tut! No use
+talkin', blood will tell!”
+
+Issachar, who was putting coal on the office fire, turned his head.
+
+“Eh?” he queried.
+
+“Nothin',” said Captain Lote.
+
+He would have been surprised if he could have seen his grandson just at
+that moment. Albert, on the beach whither he had strayed in his desire
+to be alone, safely hidden from observation behind a sand dune, was
+lying with his head upon his arms and sobbing bitterly.
+
+A disinterested person might have decided that the interview which had
+just taken place and which Captain Zelotes hopefully told his wife that
+morning would probably result in “a clear, comf'table understandin'
+between the boy and me”--such a disinterested person might have decided
+that it had resulted in exactly the opposite. In calculating the results
+to be obtained from that interview the captain had not taken into
+consideration two elements, one his own and the other his grandson's.
+These elements were prejudice and temperament.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+The next morning, with much the same feeling that a convict must
+experience when he enters upon a life imprisonment, Albert entered the
+employ of “Z. Snow and Co., Lumber and Builders' Hardware.” The day,
+he would have sworn it, was at least a year long. The interval between
+breakfast and dinner was quite six months, yet the dinner hour itself
+was the shortest sixty minutes he had ever known. Mr. Keeler had not yet
+returned to his labors, so there was no instruction in bookkeeping;
+but his grandfather gave him letters to file and long dreary columns of
+invoice figures to add. Twice Captain Zelotes went out and then, just
+as Albert settled back for a rest and breathing spell, Issachar Price
+appeared, warned apparently by some sort of devilish intuition, and
+invented “checking up stock” and similar menial and tiresome tasks to
+keep him uncomfortable till the captain returned. The customers who came
+in asked questions concerning him and he was introduced to at least
+a dozen citizens of South Harniss, who observed “Sho!” and “I want to
+know!” when told his identity and, in some instances, addressed him as
+“Bub,” which was of itself a crime deserving capital punishment.
+
+That night, as he lay in bed in the back bedroom, he fell asleep facing
+the dreary prospect of another monotonous imprisonment the following
+day, and the next day, and the day after that, and after that--and
+after that--and so on--and on--and on--forever and ever, as long as
+life should last. This, then, was to be the end of all his dreams, this
+drudgery in a country town among these commonplace country people. This
+was the end of his dreams of some day writing deathless odes and sonnets
+or thrilling romances; of treading the boards as the hero of romantic
+drama while star-eyed daughters of multi-millionaires gazed from the
+boxes in spellbound rapture. This . . . The thought of the star-eyed
+ones reminded him of the girl who had come into the office the afternoon
+of his first visit to that torture chamber. He had thought of her many
+times since their meeting and always with humiliation and resentment. It
+was his own foolish tongue which had brought the humiliation upon him.
+When she had suggested that he might be employed by Z. Snow and Co. he
+had replied: “Me? Work HERE! Well, I should say NOT!” And all the time
+she, knowing who he was, must have known he was doomed to work there. He
+resented that superior knowledge of hers. He had made a fool of himself
+but she was to blame for it. Well, by George, he would NOT work there!
+He would run away, he would show her, and his grandfather and all the
+rest what was what. Night after night he fell asleep vowing to run away,
+to do all sorts of desperate deeds, and morning after morning he went
+back to that office.
+
+On the fourth morning the prodigal came home, the stray lamb returned
+to the fold--Mr. Keeler returned to his desk and his duties. There was
+a premonition of his return at the Snow breakfast table. For three days
+Mrs. Ellis had swathed her head in white and her soul in black. For
+three days her favorite accompaniment to conversation had been a groan
+or a sigh. Now, on this fourth morning, she appeared without the bandage
+on her brow or the crape upon her spirit. She was not hilarious but
+she did not groan once, and twice during the meal she actually smiled.
+Captain Lote commented upon the change, she being absent from table
+momentarily.
+
+“Whew!” he observed, in an undertone, addressing his wife. “If it ain't
+a comfort to see the wrinkles on Rachel's face curvin' up instead of
+down. I'm scared to death that she'll go out some time in a cold spell
+when she's havin' one of them sympathetics of hers, and her face'll
+freeze that way. Well, Albert,” turning to his grandson, “the colors'll
+be h'isted to the truck now instead of half-mast and life'll be
+somethin' besides one everlastin' 'last look at the remains.' Now we can
+take off the mournin' till the next funeral.”
+
+“Yes,” said Olive, “and Laban'll be back, too. I'm sure you must have
+missed him awfully, Zelotes.”
+
+“Missed him! I should say so. For one thing, I miss havin' him between
+me and Issy. When Labe's there Is talks to him and Labe keeps on
+thinkin' of somethin' else and so it don't worry him any. I can't do
+that, and my eardrums get to wearin' thin and that makes me nervous.
+Maybe you've noticed that Issy's flow of conversation ain't what you'd
+call a trickle,” he added, turning to Albert.
+
+Albert had noticed it. “But,” he asked, “what makes Rachel--Mrs.
+Ellis--so cheerful this morning? Does she know that Mr. Keeler will be
+back at work? How does she know? She hasn't seen him, has she?”
+
+“No,” replied the captain. “She ain't seen him. Nobody sees him, far's
+that goes. He generally clears out somewheres and locks himself up in
+a room, I judge, till his vacation's over. I suppose that's one way to
+have fun, but it ain't what I'd call hilarious.”
+
+“Don't, Zelotes,” said Mrs. Snow. “I do wish you wouldn't call it fun.”
+
+“I don't, but Laban seems to. If he don't do it for fun I don't know
+what he does it for. Maybe it's from a sense of duty. It ain't to oblige
+me, I know that.”
+
+Albert repeated his question. “But how does she know he will be back
+to-day?” he asked.
+
+His grandmother shook her head. “That's the mysterious part about it,”
+ she whispered. “It makes a person think there may be somethin' in the
+sympathetic notion she talks so much about. She don't see him at all and
+yet we can always tell when he's comin' back to work by her spirits. If
+he ain't back to-day he will be to-morrow, you'll see. She never misses
+by more than a day. _I_ think it's real sort of mysterious, but Zelotes
+laughs at me.”
+
+Captain Lote's lip twitched. “Yes, Mother,” he said, “it's about as
+mysterious as the clock's strikin' twelve when it's noon. _I_ know it's
+morally sartin that Labe'll be back aboard to-day or to-morrow because
+his sprees don't ever last more than five days. I can't swear to how
+she knows, but that's how _I_ know--and I'm darned sure there's no
+'sympathy' about my part.” Then, as if realizing that he had talked more
+than usual, he called, brusquely: “Come on, Al, come on. Time we were on
+the job, boy.”
+
+Sure enough, as they passed the window of the office, there, seated on
+the stool behind the tall desk, Albert saw the diminutive figure of the
+man who had been his driver on the night of his arrival. He was curious
+to see how the delinquent would apologize for or explain his absence.
+But Mr. Keeler did neither, nor did Captain Snow ask a question. Instead
+the pair greeted each other as if they had parted in that office at the
+close of business on the previous day.
+
+“Mornin', Cap'n Lote,” said Laban, quietly.
+
+“Mornin', Labe,” replied the captain, just as calmly.
+
+He went on and opened his own desk, leaving his grandson standing by
+the door, not knowing whether to speak or offer to shake hands. The
+situation was a little difficult, particularly as Mr. Keeler gave no
+sign of recognition, but, after a glance at his employer's companion,
+went on making entries in the ledger.
+
+Captain Zelotes looked up a moment later. His gray eyes inspected
+the pair and the expression on Albert's face caused them to twinkle
+slightly. “Labe,” he said, “this is my grandson, Albert, the one I told
+you was comin' to live with us.”
+
+Laban turned on the stool, regarded Albert over his spectacles, and
+extended a hand.
+
+“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Yes, yes . . . Yes, yes, yes. . .
+Pleased to meet you. Cap'n Lote said you was comin'--er--er--Alfred.
+Howdy do.”
+
+They shook hands. Mr. Keeler's hand trembled a little, but that was
+the only symptom of his recent “vacation” which the youth could notice.
+Certain vivid remembrances of his father's bad humor on mornings
+following convivial evenings recurred to him. Was it possible that this
+odd, precise, dried-up little man had been on a spree for four days? It
+did not seem possible. He looked more as if he might be expected to rap
+on the desk and ask the school to come to order.
+
+“Albert's goin' to take hold here with us in the office,” went on
+Captain Lote. “You'll remember I spoke to you about that when we talked
+about his comin'. Al, Labe--Mr. Keeler here--will start you in larnin'
+to bookkeep. He'll be your first mate from now on. Don't forget you're
+a fo'mast hand yet awhile and the way for a fo'mast hand to get ahead
+is to obey orders. And don't,” he added, with a quiet chuckle, “do any
+play-actin' or poetry-makin' when it's your watch on deck. Laban nor I
+ain't very strong for play-actin', are we, Labe?”
+
+Laban, to whom the reference was anything but clear, replied rather
+vaguely that he didn't know as he was, very. Albert's temper flared
+up again. His grandfather was sneering at him once more; he was always
+sneering at him. All right, let him sneer--now. Some day he would be
+shown. He scowled and turned away. And Captain Zelotes, noticing the
+scowl, was reminded of a scowl he had seen upon the face of a Spanish
+opera singer some twenty years before. He did not like to be reminded of
+that man.
+
+He went out soon afterward and then Laban, turning to Albert, asked a
+few questions.
+
+“How do you think you're goin' to like South Harniss, Ansel?” he asked.
+
+Albert was tempted to reply that he, Keeler, had asked him that very
+question before, but he thought it best not to do so.
+
+“I don't know yet,” he answered, carelessly. “Well enough, I guess.”
+
+“You'll like it fust-rate bimeby. Everybody does when they get used
+to it. Takes some time to get used to a place, don't you know it does,
+Ansel?”
+
+“My name is Albert.”
+
+“Eh? Yes, yes, so 'tis. Yes, yes, yes. I don't know why I called you
+Ansel, 'less 'twas on account of my knowin' an Ansel Olsen once . . .
+Hum . . . Yes, yes. Well, you'll like South Harniss when you get used to
+it.”
+
+The boy did not answer. He was of the opinion that he should die long
+before the getting used process was completed. Mr. Keeler continued.
+
+“Come on yesterday's train, did you?” he asked.
+
+Albert looked at him. Was the fellow joking? He did not look as if he
+was.
+
+“Why no,” he replied. “I came last Monday night. Don't you remember?”
+
+“Eh? Oh, yes . . . Yes, yes, yes . . . Last Monday night you come, eh?
+On the night train, eh?” He hesitated a moment and then asked. “Cap'n
+Lote fetch you down from the depot?”
+
+Albert stared at him open-mouthed.
+
+“Why, no!” he retorted. “You drove me down yourself.”
+
+For the first time a slight shade of embarrassment crossed the
+bookkeeper's features. He drew a long breath.
+
+“Yes,” he mused. “Yes, yes, yes. I kind of thought I--yes, yes,--I--I
+thought likely I did . . . Yes, yes, course I did, course I did. Well,
+now maybe we'd better be startin' you in to work--er--Augustus. Know
+anything about double-entry, do you?”
+
+Albert did not, nor had he the slightest desire to learn. But before
+the first hour was over he foresaw that he was destined to learn, if he
+remained in that office, whether he wanted to or not. Laban Keeler might
+be, and evidently was, peculiar in his ways, but as a bookkeeper he was
+thoroughness personified. And as a teacher of his profession he was just
+as thorough. All that forenoon Albert practiced the first principles
+of “double entry” and, after the blessed hour for dinner, came back to
+practice the remainder of the working day.
+
+And so for many days. Little by little he learned to invoice and
+journalize and “post in the ledger” and all the rest of the detail of
+bookkeeping. Not that his instructor permitted him to do a great deal
+of actual work upon the books of Z. Snow and Co. Those books were too
+spotless and precious for that. Looking over them Albert was surprised
+and obliged to admit a grudging admiration at the manner in which, for
+the most part, they had been kept. Page after page of the neatest of
+minute figures, not a blot, not a blur, not an erasure. So for months;
+then, in the minor books, like the day-book or journal, would suddenly
+break out an eruption of smudges and scrawls in the rugged handwriting
+of Captain Zelotes. When he first happened upon one of these Albert
+unthinkingly spoke to Mr. Keeler about it. He asked the latter what it
+meant.
+
+Laban slowly stroked his nose with his thumb and finger, a habit he had.
+
+“I cal'late I was away for a spell then,” he said, gravely. “Yes,
+yes . . . Yes, yes, yes. I was away for a little spell.”
+
+He went soberly back to his desk. His new assistant, catching a glimpse
+of his face, felt a pang of real pity for the little man. Of course the
+reason for the hiatus in the books was plain enough. He knew about those
+“little spells.” Oddly enough Laban seemed to feel sorry for them. He
+remembered how funny the bookkeeper had appeared at their first meeting,
+when one “spell” was just developing, and the contrast between the
+singing, chirruping clown and the precise, grave little person at the
+desk struck even his youthful mind as peculiar. He had read “Doctor
+Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” and now here was an example of something similar.
+He was beginning to like Laban Keeler, although he was perfectly sure
+that he should never like bookkeeping.
+
+He did not slave at the books all the time, of course. For stretches,
+sometimes lasting whole days, his slavery was of another sort. Then he
+was working in the lumber yard with Issachar, or waiting on customers in
+the hardware shop. The cold of winter set in in earnest now and handling
+“two by fours” and other timber out where the raw winds swept piercingly
+through one's overcoat and garments and flesh to the very bone was a
+trying experience. His hands were chapped and cracked, even though his
+grandmother had knit him a pair of enormous red mittens. He appreciated
+the warmth of the mittens, but he hated the color. Why in the name of
+all that was inartistic did she choose red; not a deep, rich crimson,
+but a screeching vermilion, like a fireman's shirt?
+
+Issachar, when he had the opportunity, was a hard boss. It suited Mr.
+Price to display his superior knowledge and to find fault with his
+helper's lack of skill. Albert's hot temper was at the boiling point
+many times, but he fought it down. Occasionally he retorted in kind, but
+his usual and most effective weapon was a more or less delicate sarcasm.
+Issachar did not understand sarcasm and under rapid fire he was inclined
+to lose his head.
+
+“Consarn it!” he snapped, irritably, on one occasion. “Consarn it,
+Al, why don't you h'ist up on t'other end of that j'ist? What do you
+cal'late you're out here along of me for; to look harnsome?”
+
+Albert shook his head. “No, Is,” he answered, gravely. “No, that
+wouldn't be any use. With you around nobody else has a look-in at the
+'handsome' game. Issy, what do you do to your face?”
+
+“Do to it? What do you mean by do to it?”
+
+“What do you do to it to make it look the way it does? Don't tell me it
+grew that way naturally.”
+
+“Grew! Course it grew! What kind of talk's that?”
+
+“Issy, with a face like yours how do you keep the birds away?”
+
+“Eh? Keep the birds away! Now look here, just--”
+
+“Excuse me. Did I say 'birds,' Issy? I didn't mean birds like--like
+crows. Of course a face like yours would keep the crows away all right
+enough. I meant girls. How do you keep the girls away? I should think
+they would be making love all the time.”
+
+“Aw, you shut up! Just 'cause you're Cap'n Lote's grandson I presume
+likely you think you can talk any kind of talk, don't ye?”
+
+“Not any kind, Is. I can't talk like you. Will you teach me?”
+
+“Shut up! Now, by Crimus, you--you furriner--you Speranzy--”
+
+Mr. Keeler appeared at the office window. His shrill voice rose pipingly
+in the wintry air as he demanded to know what was the trouble out there.
+
+Mr. Price, still foaming, strode toward the window; Albert laughingly
+followed him.
+
+“What's the matter?” repeated Laban. “There's enough noise for a sewin'
+circle. Be still, Is, can't you, for a minute. Al, what's the trouble?”
+
+“Issy's been talking about his face,” explained Albert, soberly.
+
+“I ain't neither. I was h'istin' up my end of a j'ist, same as I'm
+paid to do, and, 'stead of helpin' he stands there and heaves out talk
+about--about--”
+
+“Well, about what?”
+
+“Aw, about--about me and--and girls--and all sorts of dum foolishness.
+I tell ye, I've got somethin' else to do beside listen to that kind of
+cheap talk.”
+
+“Um. Yes, yes. I see. Well, Al, what have you got to say?”
+
+“Nothing. I'm sure I don't know what it is all about. I was working as
+hard as I could and all at once he began pitching into me.”
+
+“Pitchin' into you? How?”
+
+“Oh, I don't know. Something about my looks he didn't like, I guess.
+Wanted to know if I thought I was as handsome as he was, or something
+like that.”
+
+“Eh? I never neither! All I said was--”
+
+Mr. Keeler raised his hand. “Seems to be a case for an umpire,” he
+observed. “Um. Seem's if 'twas, seems so, seems so. Well, Captain Lote's
+just comin' across the road and, if you say the word, I'll call him in
+to referee. What do you say?”
+
+They said nothing relevant to the subject in hand. Issachar made the
+only remark. “Crimus-TEE!” he ejaculated. “Come on, Al, come on.”
+
+The pair hurried away to resume lumber piling. Laban smiled slightly and
+closed the window. It may be gathered from this incident that when the
+captain was in charge of the deck there was little idle persiflage among
+the “fo'mast hands.” They, like others in South Harniss, did not presume
+to trifle with Captain Lote Snow.
+
+So the business education of Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza progressed.
+At the end of the first six weeks in South Harniss he had learned a
+little about bookkeeping, a little about selling hardware, a little
+about measuring and marking lumber. And it must be admitted that that
+little had been acquired, not because of vigorous application on the
+part of the pupil, but because, being naturally quick and intelligent,
+he could not help learning something. He liked the work just as little
+as he had in the beginning of his apprenticeship. And, although he was
+forgetting his thoughts of running away, of attempting fortune on his
+own hook, he was just as rebellious as ever against a future to be spent
+in that office and at that work.
+
+Outside the office and the hateful bookkeeping he was beginning to find
+several real interests. At the old house which had for generations been
+called “the Snow place,” he was beginning to feel almost at home. He
+and his grandmother were becoming close friends. She was not looking for
+trouble, she never sat for long intervals gazing at him as if she were
+guessing, guessing, guessing concerning him. Captain Zelotes did that,
+but Olive did not. She had taken the boy, her “Janie's boy,” to her
+heart from the moment she saw him and she mothered him and loved him in
+a way which--so long as it was not done in public--comforted his lonely
+soul. They had not yet reached the stage where he confided in her to
+any great extent, but that was certain to come later. It was his
+grandmother's love and the affection he was already beginning to feel
+for her which, during these first lonesome, miserable weeks, kept him
+from, perhaps, turning the running away fantasy into a reality.
+
+Another inmate of the Snow household with whom Albert was
+becoming better acquainted with was Mrs. Rachel Ellis. Their real
+acquaintanceship began one Sunday forenoon when Captain Zelotes and
+Olive had gone to church. Ordinarily he would have accompanied them,
+to sit in the straight-backed old pew on a cushion which felt lumpy and
+smelt ancient and musty, and pretend to listen while old Mr. Kendall
+preached a sermon which was ancient and musty likewise.
+
+But this Sunday morning he awoke with a headache and his grandmother had
+pleaded for him, declaring that he ought to “lay to bed” a while and get
+over it. He got over it with surprising quickness after the church bell
+ceased ringing, and came downstairs to read Ivanhoe in the sitting room.
+He had read it several times before, but he wanted to read something and
+the choice of volumes in the Snow bookcase was limited. He was stretched
+out on the sofa with the book in his hand when the housekeeper entered,
+armed with a dust-cloth. She went to church only “every other” Sunday.
+This was one of the others without an every, and she was at home.
+
+“What are you readin', Albert?” she asked, after a few' minutes vigorous
+wielding of the dust-cloth. “It must be awful interestin', you stick at
+it so close.”
+
+The Black Knight was just then hammering with his battle-axe at the gate
+of Front de Buef's castle, not minding the stones and beams cast
+down upon him from above “no more than if they were thistle-down or
+feathers.” Albert absently admitted that the story was interesting. The
+housekeeper repeated her request to be told its name.
+
+“Ivanhoe,” replied the boy; adding, as the name did not seem to convey
+any definite idea to his interrogator's mind: “It's by Walter Scott, you
+know.”
+
+Mrs. Ellis made no remark immediately. When she did it was to the effect
+that she used to know a colored man named Scott who worked at the hotel
+once. “He swept out and carried trunks and such things,” she explained.
+“He seemed to be a real nice sort of colored man, far as ever I heard.”
+
+Albert was more interested in the Black Knight of Ivanhoe than the black
+man of the hotel, so he went on reading. Rachel sat down in a chair by
+the window and looked out, twisting and untwisting the dust-cloth in her
+lap.
+
+“I presume likely lots and lots of folks have read that book, ain't
+they?” she asked, after another interval.
+
+“What? Oh, yes, almost everybody. It's a classic, I suppose.”
+
+“What's that?”
+
+“What's what?”
+
+“What you said the book was. A class-somethin' or other?”
+
+“Oh, a classic. Why, it's--it's something everybody knows about,
+or--or ought to know about. One of the big things, you know. Like--like
+Shakespeare or--or Robinson Crusoe or Paradise Lost or--lots of them.
+It's a book everybody reads and always will.”
+
+“I see. Humph! Well, I never read it. . . . I presume likely you think
+that's pretty funny, don't you?”
+
+Albert tore himself away from the fight at the gate.
+
+“Why, I don't know,” he replied.
+
+“Yes, you do. You think it's awful funny. Well, you wouldn't if you knew
+more about how busy I've been all my life. I ain't had time to read the
+way I'd ought to. I read a book once though that I'll never forget. Did
+you ever read a book called Foul Play?”
+
+“No. . . . Why, hold on, though; I think I have. By Charles Reade,
+wasn't it?”
+
+“Yes, that's who wrote it, a man named Charles Reade. Laban told me that
+part of it; he reads a lot, Laban does. I never noticed who wrote it,
+myself. I was too interested in it to notice little extry things like
+that. But ain't that a WONDERFUL book? Ain't that the best book you ever
+read in all your LIFE?”
+
+She dropped the dust-cloth and was too excited and enthusiastic to pick
+it up. Albert did his best to recall something definite concerning Foul
+Play. The book had been in the school library and he, who read almost
+everything, had read it along with the others.
+
+“Let me see,” he said musingly. “About a shipwreck--something about a
+shipwreck in it, wasn't there?”
+
+“I should say there was! My stars above! Not the common kind of
+shipwreck, neither, the kind they have down to Setuckit P'int on the
+shoals. No sir-ee! This one was sunk on purpose. That Joe Wylie bored
+holes right down through her with a gimlet, the wicked thing! And that
+set 'em afloat right out on the sea in a boat, and there wan't anything
+to eat till Robert Penfold--oh, HE was the smart one; he'd find
+anything, that man!--he found the barnacles on the bottom of the boat,
+just the same as he found out how to diffuse intelligence tied onto a
+duck's leg over land knows how many legs--leagues, I mean--of ocean. But
+that come later. Don't you remember THAT?”
+
+Albert laughed. The story was beginning to come back to him.
+
+“Oh, sure!” he exclaimed. “I remember now. He--the Penfold fellow--and
+the girl landed on this island and had all sorts of adventures, and fell
+in love and all that sort of stuff, and then her dad came and took her
+back to England and she--she did something or other there to--to get the
+Penfold guy out of trouble.”
+
+“Did somethin'! I should say she did! Why, she found out all about who
+forged the letter--the note, I mean--that's what she done. 'Twas Arthur
+Wardlaw, that's who 'twas. And he was tryin' to get Helen all the time
+for himself, the skinner! Don't talk to me about that Arthur Wardlaw! I
+never could bear HIM.”
+
+She spoke as if she had known the detested Wardlaw intimately from
+childhood. Young Speranza was hugely amused. Ivanhoe was quite
+forgotten.
+
+“Foul Play was great stuff,” he observed. “When did you read it?”
+
+“Eh? When? Oh, ever and ever so long ago. When I was about twenty, I
+guess, and laid up with the measles. That's the only time I ever was
+real what you might call down sick in my life, and I commenced with
+measles. That's the way a good many folks commence, I know, but they
+don't generally wait till they're out of their 'teens afore they start.
+I was workin' for Mrs. Philander Bassett at the time, and she says to
+me: 'Rachel,' she says, 'you're on the mendin' hand now, wouldn't you
+like a book to read?' I says, 'Why, maybe I would.' And she fetched
+up three of 'em. I can see 'em now, all three, plain as day. One was
+Barriers Burned Away. She said that was somethin' about a big fire.
+Well, I'm awful nervous about fires, have been from a child, so I didn't
+read that. And another had the queerest kind of a name, if you'd call it
+a name at all; 'twas She.”
+
+Albert nodded.
+
+“Yes,” he said. “I've read that.”
+
+“Have you? Well, I begun to, but my stars, THAT wasn't any book to give
+to a person with nerve symptoms. I got as far as where those Indians or
+whatever they was started to put red-hot kettles on folks's heads, and
+that was enough for ME. 'Give me somethin' civilized,' says I, 'or not
+at all.' So I commenced Foul Play, and I tell you I kept right on to the
+end.
+
+“I don't suppose,” she went on, “that there ever was a much better book
+than that wrote, was there?”
+
+Albert temporized. “It is a good one,” he admitted.
+
+“Don't seem to me there could be much better. Laban says it's good,
+though he won't go so far as to say it's the very best. He's read lots
+and lots of books, Laban has. Reads an awful lot in his spare time. He's
+what you'd call an educated person, which is what I ain't. And I guess
+you'll say that last is plain enough without bein' told,” she added.
+
+Her companion, not exactly knowing how to answer, was silent for a
+moment. Rachel, who had picked up and was again twisting the dust-cloth,
+returned to the subject she so delighted in.
+
+“But that Foul Play book,” she continued, “I've read till I've pretty
+nigh wore the covers off. When Mrs. Bassett saw how much I liked it
+she gave it to me for a present. I read a little bit in it every little
+while. I kind of fit the folks in that book to folks in real life, sort
+of compare 'em, you know. Do you ever do that?”
+
+Albert, repressing a chuckle, said, “Sure!” again. She nodded.
+
+“Now there's General Rolleson in that book,” she said. “Do you know who
+he makes me think of? Cap'n Lote, your grandpa, that's who.”
+
+General Rolleson, as Albert remembered him, was an extremely dignified,
+cultured and precise old gentleman. Just what resemblance there might
+be between him and Captain Zelotes Snow, ex-skipper of the Olive S.,
+he could not imagine. He could not repress a grin, and the housekeeper
+noticed it.
+
+“Seems funny to you, I presume likely,” she said. “Well, now you think
+about it. This General Rolleson man was kind of proud and sot in his
+ways just as your grandpa is, Albert. He had a daughter he thought all
+the world of; so did Cap'n Lote. Along come a person that wanted to
+marry the daughter. In the book 'twas Robert Penfold, who had been
+a convict. In your grandpa's case, 'twas your pa, who had been a
+play-actor. So you see--”
+
+Albert sat up on the sofa. “Hold on!” he interrupted indignantly. “Do
+you mean to compare my father with a--with a CONVICT? I want you to
+understand--”
+
+Mrs. Ellis held up the dust-cloth. “Now, now, now,” she protested.
+“Don't go puttin' words in my mouth that I didn't say. I don't doubt
+your pa was a nice man, in his way, though I never met him. But 'twan't
+Cap'n Lote's way any more than Robert Penfold's was General Rolleson's.”
+
+“My father was famous,” declared the youth hotly. “He was one of the
+most famous singers in this country. Everybody knows that--that is,
+everybody but Grandfather and the gang down here,” he added, in disgust.
+
+“I don't say you're wrong. Laban tells me that some of those singin'
+folks get awful high wages, more than the cap'n of a steamboat, he says,
+though that seems like stretchin' it to me. But, as I say, Cap'n Lote
+was proud, and nobody but the best would satisfy him for Janie, your
+mother. Well, in that way, you see, he reminds me of General Rolleson in
+the book.”
+
+“Look here, Mrs. Ellis. Tell me about this business of Dad's marrying my
+mother. I never knew much of anything about it.”
+
+“You didn't? Did your pa never tell you?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Humph! That's funny. Still, I don't know's as 'twas, after all,
+considerin' you was only a boy. Probably he'd have told you some day.
+Well, I don't suppose there's any secret about it. 'Twas town talk down
+here when it happened.”
+
+She told him the story of the runaway marriage. Albert listened with
+interest and the almost incredulous amazement with which the young
+always receive tales of their parents' love affairs. Love, for people of
+his age or a trifle older, was a natural and understandable thing, but
+for his father, as he remembered him, to have behaved in this way was
+incomprehensible.
+
+“So,” said Rachel, in conclusion, “that's how it happened. That's why
+Cap'n Lote couldn't ever forgive your father.”
+
+He tossed his head. “Well, he ought to have forgiven him,” he declared.
+“He was dead lucky to get such a man for a son-in-law, if you ask me.”
+
+“He didn't think so. And he wouldn't ever mention your pa's name.”
+
+“Oh, I don't doubt that. Anybody can see how he hated Father. And he
+hates me the same way,” he added moodily.
+
+Mrs. Ellis was much disturbed. “Oh, no, he don't,” she cried. “You
+mustn't think that, Albert. He don't hate you, I'm sure of it. He's
+just kind of doubtful about you, that's all. He remembers how your pa
+acted--or how he thinks he acted--and so he can't help bein' the least
+mite afraid the same thing may crop out in you. If you just stick to
+your job over there at the lumber yards and keep on tryin' to please
+him, he'll get all over that suspicion, see if he don't. Cap'n Lote
+Snow is stubborn sometimes and hard to turn, but he's square as a brick.
+There's some that don't like him, and a good many that don't agree with
+him--but everybody respects him.”
+
+Albert did not answer. The housekeeper rose from her chair.
+
+“There!” she exclaimed. “I don't know when I've set down for so long.
+Goodness knows I've got work enough to do without settin' around
+talkin'. I can't think what possessed me to do it this time, unless
+'twas seein' you readin' that book.” She paused a moment and then said:
+“Albert, I--I don't want you and your grandpa to have any quarrels. You
+see--well, you see, I used to know your mother real well, and--and I
+thought an awful sight of her. I wish--I do wish when you and the cap'n
+have any trouble or anything, or when you think you're liable to have
+any, you'd come and talk it over with me. I'm like the feller that Laban
+tells about in his dog-fight yarn. This feller was watchin' the fight
+and when they asked him to stop it afore one or t'other of the dogs
+was killed, he just shook his head. 'No-o,' he says, kind of slow and
+moderate, 'I guess I shan't interfere. One of 'em's been stealin' my
+chickens and the other one bit me. I'm a friend to both parties,' he
+says. Course I don't mean it exactly that way,” she added, with a smile,
+“but you know what I do mean, I guess. WILL you talk things over with me
+sometimes, Albert?”
+
+His answer was not very enthusiastic, but he said he guessed so, and
+Rachel seemed satisfied with that. She went on with her dusting, and he
+with his reading, but the conversation was the first of many between the
+pair. The housekeeper appeared to consider his having read her beloved
+Foul Play a sort of password admitting him to her lodge and that
+thereafter they were, in consequence, to be confidants and comrades. She
+never hesitated to ask him the most personal questions concerning his
+work, his plans, the friends or acquaintances he was making in the
+village. Some of those questions he answered honestly and fully, some he
+dodged, some he did not answer at all. Mrs. Ellis never resented his not
+answering. “I presume likely that ain't any of my business, is it?” she
+would say, and ask about something else.
+
+On the other hand, she was perfectly outspoken concerning her own
+affairs. He was nearly overcome with hilarious joy when, one day, she
+admitted that, in her mind, Robert Penfold, the hero of Foul Play, lived
+again in the person of Laban Keeler.
+
+“Why, Mrs. Ellis,” he cried, as soon as he could trust himself to speak
+at all, “I don't see THAT. Penfold was a six-footer, wasn't he?
+And--and athletic, you know, and--and a minister, and young--younger, I
+mean--and--”
+
+Rachel interrupted. “Yes, yes, I know,” she said. “And Laban is little,
+and not very young, and, whatever else he is, he ain't a minister. I
+know all that. I know the outside of him don't look like Robert Penfold
+at all. But,” somewhat apologetically, “you see I've been acquainted
+with him so many years I've got into the habit of seein' his INSIDE.
+Now that sounds kind of ridiculous, I know,” she added. “Sounds as if
+I--I--well, as if I was in the habit of takin' him apart, like a watch
+or somethin'. What I mean is that I know him all through. I've known him
+for a long, long while. He ain't much to look at, bein' so little and
+sort of dried up, but he's got a big, fine heart and big brains. He can
+do 'most anything he sets his hand to. When I used to know him, when I
+was a girl, folks was always prophesyin' that Laban Keeler would turn
+out to be a whole lot more'n the average. He would, too, only for one
+thing, and you know what that is. It's what has kept me from marryin'
+him all this time. I swore I'd never marry a man that drinks, and I
+never will. Why, if it wasn't for liquor Labe would have been runnin'
+his own business and gettin' rich long ago. He all but runs Cap'n Lote's
+place as 'tis. The cap'n and a good many other folks don't realize that,
+but it's so.”
+
+It was plain that she worshiped the little bookkeeper and, except during
+the periods of “vacation” and “sympathetics,” was tremendously proud
+of him. Albert soon discovered that Mr. Keeler's feeling for her was
+equally strong. In his case, though, there was also a strong strain of
+gratitude.
+
+“She's a fine woman, Al,” he confided to his assistant on one occasion.
+“A fine woman. . . . Yes, yes, yes. They don't make 'em any finer. Ah
+hum! And not so long ago I read about a passel of darn fools arguin'
+that the angels in heaven was all he-ones. . . . Umph! . . . Sho, sho!
+If men was as good as women, Ansel--Alfred--Albert, I mean--we could
+start an opposition heaven down here most any time. 'Most any time--yes,
+yes.”
+
+It was considerable for him to say. Except when on a vacation, Laban was
+not loquacious.
+
+Each Sunday afternoon, when the weather was pleasant, he came, dressed
+in his best black cutaway, shiny at elbows and the under part of the
+sleeves, striped trousers and a pearl gray soft hat with a black band,
+a hat which looked as much out of place above his round, withered little
+face as a red roof might have looked on a family vault, and he and the
+housekeeper went for a walk.
+
+Rachel, in her Sunday black, bulked large beside him. As Captain Zelotes
+said, the pair looked like “a tug takin' a liner out to sea.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+Outside of the gates of the Snow place Albert was making many
+acquaintances and a few friends. After church on Sundays his grandmother
+had a distressful habit of suddenly seizing his arm or his coat-tail as
+he was hurrying toward the vestibule and the sunshine of outdoors, and
+saying: “Oh, Albert, just a minute! Here's somebody you haven't met
+yet, I guess. Elsie”--or Nellie or Mabel or Henry or Charlie or George,
+whichever it happened to be--“this is my grandson, Albert Speranza.” And
+the young person to whom he was thus introduced would, if a male, extend
+a hesitating hand, give his own an embarrassed shake, smile uncertainly
+and say, “Yes--er--yes. Pleased to meet you.” Or, if of the other sex,
+would blush a little and venture the observation that it was a lovely
+morning, and wasn't the sermon splendid.
+
+These Sabbath introductions led to week-day, or rather week-evening,
+meetings. The principal excitement in South Harniss was “going for the
+mail.” At noon and after supper fully one-half of the village population
+journeyed to the post office. Albert's labors for Z. Snow and Co.
+prevented his attending the noon gatherings--his grandfather usually
+got the morning mail--but he early formed the habit of sauntering “down
+street” in the evening if the weather was not too cold or disagreeable.
+There he was certain to find groups of South Harniss youth of both
+sexes, talking, giggling, skylarking and flirting. Sometimes he joined
+one or the other of these groups; quite as often he did not, but kept
+aloof and by himself, for it may as well be acknowledged now, if it is
+not already plain, that the son of Miguel Carlos Speranza had inherited
+a share of his father's temperament and self-esteem. The whim of the
+moment might lead him to favor these young people with his society, but
+he was far from considering himself under obligation to do so. He had
+not the least idea that he was in any way a snob, he would have hotly
+resented being called one, but he accepted his estimate of his own worth
+as something absolute and certain, to be taken for granted.
+
+Now this attitude of mind had its dangers. Coupled with its possessor's
+extraordinary good looks, it was fascinating to a large percentage of
+the village girls. The Speranza eyes and the Speranza curls and nose
+and chin were, when joined with the easy condescension of the Speranza
+manner, a combination fatal to the susceptible. The South Harniss
+“flappers,” most of them, enthused over the new bookkeeper in the lumber
+office. They ogled and giggled and gushed in his presence, and he was
+tolerant or bored, just as he happened to be feeling at the moment. But
+he never displayed a marked interest in any one of them, for the very
+good reason that he had no such interest. To him they were merely girls,
+nice enough in their way, perhaps, but that way not his. Most of the
+town young fellows of his age he found had a “girl” and almost every
+girl had a “fellow”; there was calf love in abundance, but he was a
+different brand of veal.
+
+However, a great man must amuse himself, and so he accepted invitations
+to church socials and suppers and to an occasional dance or party. His
+style of dancing was not that of South Harniss in the winter. It was
+common enough at the hotel or the “tea house” in July and August when
+the summer people were there, but not at the town hall at the Red Men's
+Annual Ball in February. A fellow who could foxtrot as he could swept
+all before him. Sam Thatcher, of last year's class in the high school,
+but now clerking in the drug store, who had hitherto reigned as the best
+“two-stepper” in town, suddenly became conscious of his feet. Then, too,
+the contents of the three trunks which had been sent on from school were
+now in evidence. No Boston or Brockton “Advanced Styles” held a candle
+to those suits which the tailor of the late Miguel Carlos had turned out
+for his patron's only son. No other eighteen-year-older among the town's
+year-around residents possessed a suit of evening clothes. Albert wore
+his “Tux” at the Red Men's Ball and hearts palpitated beneath new muslin
+gowns and bitter envy stirred beneath the Brockton “Advanced Styles.”
+
+In consequence, by spring the social status of Albert Speranza among
+those of his own age in the village had become something like this: He
+was in high favor with most of the girls and in corresponding disfavor
+with most of the young fellows. The girls, although they agreed that he
+was “stand-offish and kind of queer,” voted him “just lovely, all the
+same.” Their envious beaux referred to him sneeringly among themselves
+as a “stuck-up dude.” Some one of them remembered having been told that
+Captain Zelotes, years before, had been accustomed to speak of his hated
+son-in-law as “the Portygee.” Behind his back they formed the habit
+of referring to their new rival in the same way. The first time Albert
+heard himself called a “Portygee” was after prayer meeting on Friday
+evening, when, obeying a whim, he had walked home with Gertie Kendrick,
+quite forgetful of the fact that Sam Thatcher, who aspired to be
+Gertie's “steady,” was himself waiting on the church steps for that
+privilege.
+
+Even then nothing might have come of it had he and Sam not met in the
+path as he was sauntering back across lots to the main road and home. It
+was a brilliant moonlight night and the pair came together, literally,
+at the bend where the path turns sharply around the corner of Elijah
+Doane's cranberry shanty. Sam, plowing along, head down and hands in his
+pockets, swung around that corner and bumped violently into Albert,
+who, a cigarette between his lips--out here in the fields, away from
+civilization and Captain Zelotes, was a satisfyingly comfortable place
+to smoke a cigarette--was dreaming dreams of a future far away from
+South Harniss. Sam had been thinking of Gertie. Albert had not. She had
+been a mere incident of the evening; he had walked home with her because
+he happened to be in the mood for companionship and she was rather
+pretty and always talkative. His dreams during the stroll back alone
+in the moonlight had been of lofty things, of poetry and fame and
+high emprise; giggling Gerties had no place in them. It was distinctly
+different with Sam Thatcher.
+
+They crashed together, gasped and recoiled.
+
+“Oh, I'm sorry!” exclaimed Albert.
+
+“Can't you see where you're goin', you darned Portygee half-breed?”
+ demanded Sam.
+
+Albert, who had stepped past him, turned and came back.
+
+“What did you say?” he asked.
+
+“I said you was a darned half-breed, and you are. You're a no-good
+Portygee, like your father.”
+
+It was all he had time to say. For the next few minutes he was too busy
+to talk. The Speranzas, father and son, possessed temperament; also they
+possessed temper. Sam's face, usually placid and good-natured, for Sam
+was by no means a bad fellow in his way, was fiery red. Albert's, on the
+contrary, went perfectly white. He seemed to settle back on his heels
+and from there almost to fly at his insulter. Five minutes or so later
+they were both dusty and dirty and dishevelled and bruised, but Sam was
+pretty thoroughly licked. For one thing, he had been taken by surprise
+by his adversary's quickness; for another, Albert's compulsory training
+in athletics at school gave him an advantage. He was by no means an
+unscarred victor, but victor he was. Sam was defeated, and very much
+astonished. He leaned against the cranberry house and held on to his
+nose. It had been a large nose in the beginning, it was larger now.
+
+Albert stood before him, his face--where it was not a pleasing
+combination of black and blue--still white.
+
+“If you--if you speak of my father or me again like that,” he panted,
+“I'll--I'll kill you!”
+
+Then he strode off, a bit wobbly on his legs, but with dignity.
+
+Oddly enough, no one except the two most interested ever knew of this
+encounter. Albert, of course, did not tell. He was rather ashamed of it.
+For the son of Miguel Carlos Speranza to conquer dragons was a worthy
+and heroic business, but there seemed to be mighty little heroism in
+licking Sam Thatcher behind 'Lije Doane's cranberry shack. And Sam did
+not tell. Gertie next day confided that she didn't care two cents for
+that stuck-up Al Speranza, anyway; she had let him see her home only
+because Sam had danced so many times with Elsie Wixon at the ball
+that night. So Sam said nothing concerning the fight, explaining the
+condition of his nose by saying that he had run into something in the
+dark. And he did not appear to hold a grudge against his conqueror; on
+the contrary when others spoke of the latter as a “sissy,” Sam defended
+him. “He may be a dude,” said Sam; “I don't say he ain't. But he ain't
+no sissy.”
+
+When pressed to tell why he was so certain, his answer was: “Because he
+don't act like one.” It was not a convincing answer, the general opinion
+being that that was exactly how Al Speranza did act.
+
+There was one young person in the village toward whom Albert found
+himself making exceptions in his attitude of serenely impersonal
+tolerance. That person was Helen Kendall, the girl who had come into his
+grandfather's office the first morning of his stay in South Harniss. He
+was forced to make these exceptions by the young lady herself. When he
+met her the second time--which was after church on his first Sunday--his
+manner was even more loftily reserved than usual. He had distinct
+recollections of their first conversation. His own part in it had not
+been brilliant, and in it he had made the absurd statement--absurd in
+the light of what came after--that he was certainly NOT employed by Z.
+Snow and Co.
+
+So he was cool and superior when his grandmother brought them together
+after the meeting was over. If Helen noticed the superiority, she was
+certainly not over-awed by it, for she was so simple and natural and
+pleasant that he was obliged to unbend and be natural too. In fact,
+at their third meeting he himself spoke of the interview in the
+lumber office and again expressed his thanks for warning him of his
+grandfather's detestation of cigarettes.
+
+“Gee!” he exclaimed, “I'm certainly glad that you put me on to the old
+boy's feelings. I think he'd have murdered me if he had come back and
+found me puffing a Pall Mall in there.”
+
+She smiled. “He does hate them, doesn't he?” she said.
+
+“Hate them! I should say he did. Hating cigarettes is about the only
+point where he and Issy get along without an argument. If a traveler for
+a hardware house comes into the office smoking a cig, Issy opens all the
+windows to let the smell out, and Grandfather opens the door to throw
+the salesman out. Well, not exactly to throw him out, of course, but he
+never buys a single cent's worth of a cigarette smoker.”
+
+Helen glanced at him. “You must be awfully glad you're not a traveling
+salesman,” she said demurely.
+
+Albert did not know exactly what to make of that remark. He, in his
+turn, looked at her, but she was grave and quite unconcerned.
+
+“Why?” he asked, after a moment.
+
+“Why--what?”
+
+“Why ought I to be glad I'm not a traveling salesman?”
+
+“Oh, I don't know. It just seemed to me that you ought, that's all.”
+
+“But why?”
+
+“Well, if you were you wouldn't make a great hit with your grandfather,
+would you?”
+
+“Eh? . . . Oh, you mean because I smoke. Say, YOU'RE not silly enough to
+be down on cigarettes the way grandfather is, are you?”
+
+“No-o, I'm not down on them, especially. I'm not very well acquainted
+with them.”
+
+“Neither is he. He never smoked one in his life. It's just country
+prejudice, that's all.”
+
+“Well, I live in the country, too, you know.”
+
+“Yes, but you're different.”
+
+“How do you know I am?”
+
+“Oh, because any one can see you are.” The manner in which this remark
+was made, a manner implying a wide knowledge of humanity and a hint of
+personal interest and discriminating appreciation, had been found quite
+effective by the precocious young gentleman uttering it. With variations
+to suit the case and the individual it had been pleasantly received by
+several of the Misses Bradshaw's pupils. He followed it with another
+equally tried and trustworthy.
+
+“Say,” he added, “would YOU rather I didn't smoke?”
+
+The obvious reply should have been, “Oh, would you stop if I asked you
+to?” But Helen Kendall was a most disconcerting girl. Instead of purring
+a pleased recognition of the implied flattery, she laughed merrily. The
+Speranza dignity was hurt.
+
+“What is there to laugh at?” he demanded. “Are you laughing at me?”
+
+The answer was as truthful as truth itself.
+
+“Why, of course I am,” she replied; and then completed his discomfiture
+by adding, “Why should I care whether you smoke or not? You had better
+ask your grandfather that question, I should think.”
+
+Now Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza had not been accustomed to this sort
+of treatment from young persons of the other sex, and he walked away in
+a huff. But the unusual is always attractive, and the next time he and
+Miss Kendall met he was as gracious and cordial as ever. But it was
+not long before he learned that the graciousness was, in her case, a
+mistake. Whenever he grew lofty, she took him down, laughed at him with
+complete frankness, and refused to treat him as anything but a boy. So
+they gradually grew friendly, and when they met at parties or church
+socials he spent most of the time in her company, or, rather, he would
+have so spent it had she permitted. But she was provokingly impartial
+and was quite as likely to refuse a dance with him to sit out one
+with Sam Thatcher or Ben Hammond or any other village youth of her
+acquaintance. However, although she piqued and irritated him, he was
+obliged to admit to his inner consciousness that she was the most
+interesting person he had yet discovered in South Harniss, also that
+even in the eyes of such connoisseurs as his fellow members of the
+senior class at school she would have been judged a “good looker,” in
+spite of her country clothes.
+
+He met her father, of course. The Reverend Mr. Kendall was a dreamy
+little old gentleman with white hair and the stooped shoulders of a
+student. Everybody liked him, and it was for that reason principally
+that he was still the occupant of the Congregational pulpit, for to
+quote Captain Zelotes, his sermons were inclined to be like the sandy
+road down to Setuckit Point, “ten mile long and dry all the way.” He was
+a widower and his daughter was his companion and managing housekeeper.
+There was a half-grown girl, one of the numerous Price family, a cousin
+of Issachar's, who helped out with the sweeping, dish-washing and
+cooking, but Helen was the real head of the household.
+
+“And she's a capable one, too,” declared Mrs. Snow, when at supper one
+evening Helen's name had come into the conversation. “I declare when I
+was there yesterday to see the minister about readin' poetry to us at
+sewin'-circle next Monday that parlor was as neat as wax. And 'twas all
+Helen's work that kept it so, that was plain enough. You could see her
+way of settin' a vase or puttin' on a table cloth wherever you looked.
+Nobody else has just that way. And she does it after school or before
+school or 'most any odd time. And whatever 'tis is done right.”
+
+The housekeeper put in a word. “There's no doubt about that,” she said,
+“and there ain't any more doubt that she don't get much help from her pa
+or that Maria B.” There were so many Prices within the township limits
+that individuals were usually distinguished by their middle initial. “As
+for Mr. Kendall,” went on Rachel, “he moves with his head in the clouds
+and his feet cruisin' with nobody at the wheel two-thirds of the time.
+Emma Smith says to me yesterday, says she, 'Mr. Kendall is a saint on
+earth, ain't he,' says she. 'Yes,' says I, 'and he'll be one in heaven
+any minute if he goes stumblin' acrost the road in front of Doctor
+Holliday's automobile the way I see him yesterday.' The doctor put on
+the brakes with a slam and a yell. The minister stopped right there in
+the middle of the road with the front wheels of that auto not MORE'N two
+foot from his old baggy trousers' knees, and says he, 'Eh? Did you want
+me, Doctor?' The doctor fetched a long breath. 'Why, no, Mr. Kendall,'
+he says, 'I didn't, but I come darn nigh gettin' you.' I don't know what
+WOULD become of him if he didn't have Helen to look out for him.”
+
+As they came to know each other better their conversation dealt with
+matters more personal. They sometimes spoke of plans for the future.
+Albert's plans and ambitions were lofty, but rather vague. Helen's
+were practical and definite. She was to graduate from high school that
+spring. Then she was hoping to teach in the primary school there in the
+village; the selectmen had promised her the opportunity.
+
+“But, of course,” she said, “I don't mean to stay here always. When I
+can, after I have saved some money and if Father doesn't need me
+too badly, I shall go away somewhere, to Bridgewater, or perhaps to
+Radcliffe, and study. I want to specialize in my teaching, you know.”
+
+Albert regarded her with amused superiority.
+
+“I don't see why on earth you are so anxious to be a school-marm,” he
+said. “That's the last job I'd want.”
+
+Her answer was given promptly, but without the least trace of temper.
+That was one of the most provoking things about this girl, she would not
+lose her temper. He usually lost his trying to make her. She spoke now,
+pleasantly, and deliberately, but as if she were stating an undesirable
+fact.
+
+“I think it would be the last one you would get,” she said.
+
+“Why? Great Scott! I guess I could teach school if I wanted to. But you
+bet I wouldn't want to! . . . NOW what are you laughing at?”
+
+“I'm not laughing.”
+
+“Yes, you are. I can always tell when you're laughing; you get that look
+in your eyes, that sort of--of--Oh, I can't tell you what kind of look
+it is, but it makes me mad. It's the same kind of look my grandfather
+has, and I could punch him for it sometimes. Why should you and he think
+I'm not going to amount to anything?”
+
+“I don't think so. And I'm sure he doesn't either. And I wasn't laughing
+at you. Or, if I was, it--it was only because--”
+
+“Well, because what?”
+
+“Oh, because you are so AWFULLY sure you know--well, know more than most
+people.”
+
+“Meaning I'm stuck on myself, I suppose. Well, now I tell you I'm
+not going to hang around in this one-horse town all my life to please
+grandfather or any one else.”
+
+When he mentioned his determination to win literary glory she was always
+greatly interested. Dreams of histrionic achievement were more coldly
+received. The daughter of a New England country clergyman, even in these
+days of broadening horizons, could scarcely be expected to look with
+favor upon an actor's career.
+
+June came and with it the first of the summer visitors. For the next
+three months Albert was happy with a new set of acquaintances. They were
+HIS kind, these young folks from the city, and his spare moments were
+for the most part spent in their society. He was popular with them, too.
+Some of them thought it queer that he should be living all the year in
+the village and keeping books for a concern like Z. Snow and Co., but
+juvenile society is tolerant and a youth who could sing passably, dance
+wonderfully and, above all, was as beautifully picturesque as Albert
+Speranza, was welcomed, especially by the girls. So the Saturdays and
+Sundays and evenings of that summer were pleasant for him. He saw little
+of Helen or Gertie Kendrick while the hotel or the cottages remained
+open.
+
+Then came the fall and another long, dreary winter. Albert plodded on at
+his desk or in the yard, following Mr. Keeler's suggestions, obeying his
+grandfather's orders, tormenting Issy, doing his daily stint because he
+had to, not because he liked it. For amusement he read a good deal, went
+to the usual number of sociables and entertainments, and once took part
+in amateur theatricals, a play given by the church society in the
+town hall. There was where he shone. As the dashing young hero he was
+resplendent. Gertie Kendrick gazed upon him from the third settee
+center with shining eyes. When he returned home after it was over his
+grandmother and Mrs. Ellis overwhelmed him with praises.
+
+“I declare you was perfectly splendid, Albert!” exclaimed Olive. “I was
+so proud of you I didn't know what to do.”
+
+Rachel looked upon him as one might look upon a god from Olympus.
+
+“All I could think of was Robert Penfold,” she said. “I says so to
+Laban: 'Laban,' says I, ain't he Robert Penfold and nobody else?' There
+you was, tellin' that Hannibal Ellis that you was innocent and some day
+the world would know you was, just the way Robert Penfold done in the
+book. I never did like that Hannie Ellis!”
+
+Mrs. Snow smiled. “Mercy, Rachel,” she said, “I hope you're not blamin'
+Hannie because of what he did in that play. That was his part, he had to
+do it.”
+
+But Rachel was not convinced. “He didn't have to be so everlastin' mean
+and spiteful about it, anyhow,” she declared. “But there, that family
+of Ellises never did amount to nothin' much. But, as I said to Laban,
+Albert, you was Robert Penfold all over.”
+
+“What did Labe say to that?” asked Albert, laughing.
+
+“He never had a chance to say nothin'. Afore he could answer, that Maria
+B. Price--she was settin' right back of me and eatin' molasses candy out
+of a rattly paper bag till I thought I SHOULD die--she leaned forward
+and she whispered: 'He looks more to me like that Stevie D. that used to
+work for Cap'n Crowell over to the Center. Stevie D. had curly hair like
+that and HE was part Portygee, you remember; though there was a little
+nigger blood in him, too,' she says. I could have shook her! And then
+she went to rattlin' that bag again.”
+
+Even Mr. Keeler congratulated him at the office next morning. “You done
+well, Al,” he said. “Yes--yes--yes. You done fust-rate, fust-rate.”
+
+His grandfather was the only one who refused to enthuse.
+
+“Well,” inquired Captain Zelotes, sitting down at his desk and glancing
+at his grandson over his spectacles, “do you cal'late to be able to get
+down to earth this mornin' far enough to figger up the payroll? You can
+put what you made from play-actin' on a separate sheet. It's about as
+much as the average person makes at that job,” he added.
+
+Albert's face flushed. There were times when he hated his grandfather.
+Mr. Keeler, a moment later, put a hand on his shoulder.
+
+“You mustn't mind the old man, Al,” he whispered. “I expect that seein'
+you last night brought your dad's job back to him strong. He can't bear
+play-actin', you know, on your dad's account. Yes--yes. That was it.
+Yes--yes--yes.”
+
+It may have been a truthful explanation, but as an apology it was a
+limited success.
+
+“My father was a gentleman, at any rate,” snapped Albert. Laban opened
+his mouth to reply, but closed it again and walked back to his books.
+
+In May, which was an unusually balmy month, the Congregational Sunday
+School gave an automobile excursion and box-luncheon party at High Point
+Light down at Trumet. As Rachel Ellis said, it was pretty early for
+picnickin', but if the Almighty's season was ahead of time there didn't
+seem to be any real good reason why one of his Sunday schools shouldn't
+be. And, which was the principal excuse for the hurry, the hotel busses
+could be secured, which would not be the case after the season opened.
+
+Albert went to the picnic. He was not very keen on going, but his
+grandfather had offered him a holiday for the purpose, and it was one
+of his principles never to refuse a chance to get away from that office.
+Besides, a number of the young people of his age were going, and Gertie
+Kendrick had been particularly insistent.
+
+“You just MUST come, Al,” she said. “It won't be any fun at all if you
+don't come.”
+
+It is possible that Gertie found it almost as little fun when he
+did come. He happened to be in one of his moods that day; “Portygee
+streaks,” his grandfather termed these moods, and told Olive that they
+were “that play-actor breakin' out in him.” He talked but little during
+the ride down in the bus, refused to sing when called upon, and, after
+dinner, when the dancing in the pavilion was going on, stepped quietly
+out of the side door and went tramping along the edge of the bluff,
+looking out over the sea or down to the beach, where, one hundred and
+fifty feet below, the big waves were curling over to crash into a creamy
+mass of froth and edge the strand with lacy ripples.
+
+The high clay bluffs of Trumet are unique. No other part of the Cape
+shows anything just like them. High Point Light crowns their highest
+and steepest point and is the flashing beacon the rays of which spell
+“America” to the incoming liner Boston bound.
+
+Along the path skirting the edge of the bluff Albert strolled, his hands
+in his pockets and his thoughts almost anywhere except on the picnic
+and the picnickers of the South Harniss Congregational Church. His
+particular mood on this day was one of discontent and rebellion against
+the fate which had sentenced him to the assistant bookkeeper's position
+in the office of Z. Snow and Co. At no time had he reconciled himself to
+the idea of that position as a permanent one; some day, somehow he was
+going to break away and do--marvelous things. But occasionally, and
+usually after a disagreeable happening in the office, he awoke from his
+youthful day dreams of glorious futures to a realization of the dismal
+to-day.
+
+The happening which had brought about realization in this instance was
+humorous in the eyes of two-thirds of South Harniss's population. They
+were chuckling over it yet. The majority of the remaining third were
+shocked. Albert, who was primarily responsible for the whole affair, was
+neither amused nor shocked; he was angry and humiliated.
+
+The Reverend Seabury Calvin, of Providence, R. I., had arrived in town
+and opened his summer cottage unusually early in the season. What
+was quite as important, Mrs. Seabury Calvin had arrived with him. The
+Reverend Calvin, whose stay was in this case merely temporary, was
+planning to build an addition to his cottage porch. Mrs. Calvin, who was
+the head of the summer “Welfare Workers,” whatever they were, had called
+a meeting at the Calvin house to make Welfare plans for the season.
+
+The lumber for the new porch was ordered of Z. Snow and Co. The Reverend
+Calvin ordered it himself in person. Albert received the order.
+
+“I wish this delivered to-morrow without fail,” said Mr. Calvin. Albert
+promised.
+
+But promises are not always easy to keep. One of Z. Snow and Co.'s teams
+was busy hauling lumber for the new schoolhouse at Bayport. The other
+Issachar had commandeered for deliveries at Harniss Center and refused
+to give up his claim. And Laban Keeler, as it happened, was absent
+on one of his “vacations.” Captain Zelotes was attending a directors'
+meeting at Osham and from there was going to Boston for a day's stay.
+
+“The ship's in your hands, Al,” he had said to his grandson. “Let me see
+how you handle her.”
+
+So, in spite of Albert's promise, the Calvin lumber was not delivered on
+time. The Reverend gentleman called to ask why. His manner was anything
+but receptive so far as excuses were concerned.
+
+“Young man,” he said loftily, “I am accustomed to do business with
+business people. Did you or did you not promise to deliver my order
+yesterday?”
+
+“Why, yes sir, I promised, but we couldn't do it. We--”
+
+“I don't care to know why you didn't do it. The fact that you did not is
+sufficient. Will that order of mine be delivered to-day?”
+
+“If it is a possible thing, Mr. Calvin, it--”
+
+“Pardon me. Will it be delivered?”
+
+The Speranza temper was rising. “Yes,” said the owner of that temper,
+succinctly.
+
+“Does yes mean yes, in this case; or does it mean what it meant before?”
+
+“I have told you why--”
+
+“Never mind. Young man, if that lumber is not delivered to-day I shall
+cancel the order. Do you understand?”
+
+Albert swallowed hard. “I tell you, Mr. Calvin, that it shall be
+delivered,” he said. “And it will be.”
+
+But delivering it was not so easy. The team simply could NOT be taken
+off the schoolhouse job, fulfillment of a contract was involved there.
+And the other horse had gone lame and Issachar swore by all that was
+solemn that the animal must not be used.
+
+“Let old Calvin wait till to-morrow,” said Issy. “You can use the big
+team then. And Cap'n Lote'll be home, besides.”
+
+But Albert was not going to let “old Calvin” wait. That lumber was going
+to be delivered, if he had to carry it himself, stick by stick. He asked
+Mr. Price if an extra team might not be hired.
+
+“Ain't none,” said Issy. “Besides, where'd your granddad's profits be
+if you spent money hirin' extry teams to haul that little mite of stuff?
+I've been in this business a good long spell, and I tell you--”
+
+He did not get a chance to tell it, for Albert walked off and left him.
+At half-past twelve that afternoon he engaged “Vessie” Young--christened
+Sylvester Young and a brother to the driver of the depot wagon--to
+haul the Calvin lumber in his rickety, fragrant old wagon. Simpson
+Mullen--commonly called “Simp”--was to help in the delivery.
+
+Against violent protests from Issy, who declared that Ves Young's
+rattle-trap wan't fit to do nothin' but haul fish heads to the
+fertilizer factory, the Calvin beams and boards were piled high on
+the wagon and with Ves on the driver's seat and Simp perched, like a
+disreputable carrion crow on top of the load, the equipage started.
+
+“There!” exclaimed Albert, with satisfaction. “He can't say it wasn't
+delivered this time according to promise.”
+
+“Godfreys!” snorted Issy, gazing after the departing wagon. “He won't be
+able to say nothin' when he sees that git-up--and smells it. Ves carts
+everything in that cart from dead cows to gurry barrels. Whew! I'd
+hate to have to set on that porch when 'twas built of that lumber. And,
+unless I'm mistook, Ves and Simp had been havin' a little somethin'
+strong to take, too.”
+
+Mr. Price, as it happened, was not “mistook.” Mr. Young had, as the
+South Harniss saying used to be, “had a jug come down” on the train from
+Boston that very morning. The jug was under the seat of his wagon and
+its contents had already been sampled by him and by Simp. The journey to
+the Calvin cottage was enlivened by frequent stops for refreshment.
+
+Consequently it happened that, just as Mrs. Calvin's gathering of
+Welfare Workers had reached the cake and chocolate stage in their
+proceedings and just as the Reverend Mr. Calvin had risen by invitation
+to say a few words of encouragement, the westerly wind blowing in at
+the open windows bore to the noses and ears of the assembled faithful a
+perfume and a sound neither of which was sweet.
+
+Above the rattle and squeak of the Young wagon turning in at the Calvin
+gate arose the voices of Vessie and Simp uplifted in song.
+
+“'Here's to the good old whiskey, drink 'er daown,'” sang Mr. Young.
+
+
+     “'Here's to the good old whiskey,
+         Drink 'er daown!
+       Here's to the good old whiskey,
+       It makes you feel so frisky,
+         Drink 'er--'
+
+
+Git up there, blank blank ye! What the blankety blank you stoppin' here
+for? Git up!”
+
+The horse was not the only creature that got up. Mrs. Calvin rose from
+her chair and gazed in horror at the window. Her husband, being already
+on his feet, could not rise but he broke off short the opening sentence
+of his “few words” and stared and listened. Each Welfare Worker stared
+and listened also.
+
+“Git up, you blankety blank blank,” repeated Ves Young, with cheerful
+enthusiasm. Mr. Mullen, from the top of the load of lumber, caroled
+dreamily on:
+
+
+     “'Here's to the good old rum,
+         Drink 'er daown!
+       Here's to the good old rum,
+         Drink 'er daown!
+       Here's to the good old rum,
+       Ain't you glad that you've got some?
+       Drink 'er daown!  Drink 'er daown!
+         Drink 'er daown!'”
+
+
+And floating, as it were, upon the waves of melody came the odor of the
+Young wagon, an odor combining deceased fish and late lamented cow and
+goodness knows what beside.
+
+The dissipated vehicle stopped beneath the parlor windows of the Calvin
+cottage. Mr. Young called to his assistant.
+
+“Here we be, Simp!” he yelled. “A-a-ll ashore that's goin' ashore! Wake
+up there, you unmentionably described old rum barrel and help unload
+this everlastingly condemned lumber.”
+
+Mr. Calvin rushed to the window. “What does this mean?” he demanded, in
+frothing indignation.
+
+Vessie waved at him reassuringly. “'Sall right, Mr. Calvin,” he shouted.
+“Here's your lumber from Ze-lotes Snow and Co., South Harniss, Mass., U.
+S. A. 'Sall right. Let 'er go, Simp! Let 'er blankety-blank go!”
+
+Mr. Mullen responded with alacrity and a whoop. A half dozen boards
+crashed to the ground beneath the parlor windows. Mrs. Calvin rushed to
+her husband's side.
+
+“This is DREADFUL, Seabury!” she cried. “Send those creatures and--and
+that horrible wagon away at once.”
+
+The Reverend Calvin tried to obey orders. He commanded Mr. Young to go
+away from there that very moment. Vessie was surprised.
+
+“Ain't this your lumber?” he demanded.
+
+“It doesn't make any difference whether it is or not, I--”
+
+“Didn't you tell Z. Snow and Co. that this lumber'd got to be delivered
+to-day or you'd cancel the order?”
+
+“Never mind. That is my business, sir. You--”
+
+“Hold on! Ho-o-ld on! _I_ got a business, too. My business is deliverin'
+what I'm paid to deliver. Al Speranzy he says to me: 'Ves,' he says, 'if
+you don't deliver that lumber to old man Calvin to-day you don't get no
+money, see. Will you deliver it?' Says I, 'You bet your crashety-blank
+life I'll (hic) d'liver it! What I say I'll do, I'll do!' And I'm
+deliverin' it, ain't I? Hey? Ain't I? Well, then, what the--” And so
+forth and at length, while Mrs. Calvin collapsed half fainting in an
+easy-chair, and horrified Welfare Workers covered their ears--and longed
+to cover their noses.
+
+The lumber was delivered that day. Its delivery was, from the viewpoint
+of Messrs. Young and Mullen, a success. The spring meeting of the
+Welfare Workers was not a success.
+
+The following day Mr. Calvin called at the office of Z. Snow and Co. He
+had things to say and said them. Captain Zelotes, who had returned from
+Boston, listened. Then he called his grandson.
+
+“Tell him what you've just told me, Mr. Calvin,” he said.
+
+The reverend gentleman told it, with added details.
+
+“And in my opinion, if you'll excuse me, Captain Snow,” he said, in
+conclusion, “this young man knew what he was doing when he sent those
+drunken scoundrels to my house. He did it purposely, I am convinced.”
+
+Captain Zelotes looked at him.
+
+“Why?” he asked.
+
+“Why, because--because of--of what I said to him--er--er--when I called
+here yesterday morning. He--I presume he took offense and--and this
+outrage is the result. I am convinced that--”
+
+“Wait a minute. What did you say for him to take offense at?”
+
+“I demanded that order should be delivered as promised. I am accustomed
+to do business with business men and--”
+
+“Hold on just a minute more, Mr. Calvin. We don't seem to be gettin' at
+the clam in this shell as fast as we'd ought to. Al, what have you got
+to say about all this business?”
+
+Albert was white, almost as white as when he fought Sam Thatcher, but as
+he stood up to Sam so also did he face the irate clergyman. He told
+of the latter's visit to the office, of the threat to cancel the order
+unless delivery was promised that day, of how his promise to deliver was
+exacted, of his effort to keep that promise.
+
+“I HAD to deliver it, Grandfather,” he said hotly. “He had all but
+called me a liar and--and by George, I wasn't going to--”
+
+His grandfather held up a warning hand.
+
+“Sshh! Ssh!” he said. “Go on with your yarn, boy.”
+
+Albert told of the lame horse, of his effort to hire another team, and
+finally how in desperation he had engaged Ves Young as a last resort.
+The captain's face was serious but there was the twinkle under his heavy
+brows. He pulled at his beard.
+
+“Humph!” he grunted. “Did you know Ves and Simp had been drinkin' when
+you hired 'em?”
+
+“Of course I didn't. After they had gone Issy said he suspected that
+they had been drinking a little, but _I_ didn't know it. All I wanted
+was to prove to HIM,” with a motion toward Mr. Calvin, “that I kept my
+word.”
+
+Captain Zelotes pulled at his beard. “All right, Al,” he said, after a
+moment; “you can go.”
+
+Albert went out of the private office. After he had gone the captain
+turned to his irate customer.
+
+“I'm sorry this happened, Mr. Calvin,” he said, “and if Keeler or I had
+been here it probably wouldn't. But,” he added, “as far as I can see,
+the boy did what he thought was the best thing to do. And,” the twinkle
+reappeared in the gray eyes, “you sartinly did get your lumber when
+'twas promised.”
+
+Mr. Calvin stiffened. He had his good points, but he suffered from what
+Laban Keeler once called “ingrowin' importance,” and this ailment often
+affected his judgment. Also he had to face Mrs. Calvin upon his return
+home.
+
+“Do I understand,” he demanded, “that you are excusing that young man
+for putting that outrage upon me?”
+
+“We-ll, as I say, I'm sorry it happened. But, honest, Mr. Calvin, I
+don't know's the boy's to blame so very much, after all. He delivered
+your lumber, and that's somethin'.”
+
+“Is that all you have to say, Captain Snow? Is that--that impudent young
+clerk of yours to go unpunished?”
+
+“Why, yes, I guess likely he is.”
+
+“Then I shall NEVER buy another dollar's worth of your house again,
+sir.”
+
+Captain Zelotes bowed. “I'm sorry to lose your trade, Mr. Calvin,” he
+said. “Good mornin'.”
+
+Albert, at his desk in the outer office, was waiting rebelliously to be
+called before his grandfather and upbraided. And when so called he was
+in a mood to speak his mind. He would say a few things, no matter what
+happened in consequence. But he had no chance to say them. Captain
+Zelotes did not mention the Calvin affair to him, either that day or
+afterward. Albert waited and waited, expecting trouble, but the trouble,
+so far as his grandfather was concerned, did not materialize. He could
+not understand it.
+
+But if in that office there was silence concerning the unusual delivery
+of the lumber for the Calvin porch, outside there was talk enough and
+to spare. Each Welfare Worker talked when she reached home and the story
+spread. Small boys shouted after Albert when he walked down the main
+street, demanding to know how Ves Young's cart was smellin' these days.
+When he entered the post office some one in the crowd was almost sure to
+hum, “Here's to the good old whiskey, drink her down.” On the train
+on the way to the picnic, girls and young fellows had slyly nagged him
+about it. The affair and its consequence were the principal causes of
+his mood that day; this particular “Portygee streak” was due to it.
+
+The path along the edge of the high bluff entered a grove of scraggy
+pitch pines about a mile from the lighthouse and the picnic ground.
+Albert stalked gloomily through the shadows of the little grove and
+emerged on the other side. There he saw another person ahead of him on
+the path. This other person was a girl. He recognized her even at this
+distance. She was Helen Kendall.
+
+She and he had not been quite as friendly of late. Not that there was
+any unfriendliness between them, but she was teaching in the primary
+school and, as her father had not been well, spent most of her evenings
+at home. During the early part of the winter he had called occasionally
+but, somehow, it had seemed to him that she was not quite as cordial, or
+as interested in his society and conversation as she used to be. It was
+but a slight indifference on her part, perhaps, but Albert Speranza
+was not accustomed to indifference on the part of his feminine
+acquaintances. So he did not call again. He had seen her at the picnic
+ground and they had spoken, but not at any length.
+
+And he did not care to speak with her now. He had left the pavilion
+because of his desire to be alone, and that desire still persisted.
+However, she was some little distance ahead of him and he waited in the
+edge of the grove until she should go over the crest of the little hill
+at the next point.
+
+But she did not go over the crest. Instead, when she reached it, she
+walked to the very edge of the bluff and stood there looking off at the
+ocean. The sea breeze ruffled her hair and blew her skirts about her and
+she made a pretty picture. But to Albert it seemed that she was standing
+much too near the edge. She could not see it, of course, but from where
+he stood he could see that the bank at that point was much undercut by
+the winter rains and winds, and although the sod looked firm enough from
+above, in reality there was little to support it. Her standing there
+made him a trifle uneasy and he had a mind to shout and warn her.
+He hesitated, however, and as he watched she stepped back of her own
+accord. He turned, re-entered the grove and started to walk back to the
+pavilion.
+
+He had scarcely done so when he heard a short scream followed by a
+thump and a rumbling, rattling sound. He turned like a flash, his heart
+pounding violently.
+
+The bluff edge was untenanted. A semi-circular section of the sod where
+Helen had stood was missing. From the torn opening where it had been
+rose a yellow cloud of dust.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+A goodly number of the South Harniss “natives,” those who had not seen
+him play tennis, would have been willing to swear that running was, for
+Albert Speranza, an impossibility. His usual gait was a rather languid
+saunter. They would have changed their minds had they seen him now.
+
+He ran along that path as he had run in school at the last track meet,
+where he had been second in the hundred-yard dash. He reached the spot
+where the sod had broken and, dropping on his knees, looked fearfully
+over. The dust was still rising, the sand and pebbles were still
+rattling in a diminishing shower down to the beach so far below. But he
+did not see what he had so feared to see.
+
+What he did see, however, was neither pleasant nor altogether
+reassuring. The bluff below the sod at its top dropped sheer and
+undercut for perhaps ten feet. Then the sand and clay sloped outward and
+the slope extended down for another fifty feet, its surface broken by
+occasional clinging chunks of beach grass. Then it broke sharply again,
+a straight drop of eighty feet to the mounds and dunes bordering the
+beach.
+
+Helen had of course fallen straight to the upper edge of the slope,
+where she had struck feet first, and from there had slid and rolled to
+the very edge of the long drop to the beach. Her skirt had caught in
+the branches of an enterprising bayberry bush which had managed to find
+roothold there, and to this bush and a clump of beach grass she was
+clinging, her hands outstretched and her body extended along the edge of
+the clay precipice.
+
+Albert gasped.
+
+“Helen!” he called breathlessly.
+
+She turned her head and looked up at him. Her face was white, but she
+did not scream.
+
+“Helen!” cried Albert, again. “Helen, do you hear me?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Are you badly hurt?”
+
+“No. No, I don't think so.”
+
+“Can you hold on just as you are for a few minutes?”
+
+“Yes, I--I think so.”
+
+“You've got to, you know. Here! You're not going to faint, are you?”
+
+“No, I--I don't think I am.”
+
+“You can't! You mustn't! Here! Don't you do it! Stop!”
+
+There was just a trace of his grandfather in the way he shouted the
+order. Whether or not the vigor of the command produced the result is a
+question, but at any rate she did not faint.
+
+“Now you stay right where you are,” he ordered again. “And hang on as
+tight as you can. I'm coming down.”
+
+Come down he did, swinging over the brink with his face to the bank,
+dropping on his toes to the upper edge of the slope and digging boots
+and fingers into the clay to prevent sliding further.
+
+“Hang on!” he cautioned, over his shoulder. “I'll be there in a second.
+There! Now wait until I get my feet braced. Now give me your hand--your
+left hand. Hold on with your right.”
+
+Slowly and cautiously, clinging to his hand, he pulled her away from the
+edge of the precipice and helped her to scramble up to where he clung.
+There she lay and panted. He looked at her apprehensively.
+
+“Don't go and faint now, or any foolishness like that,” he ordered
+sharply.
+
+“No, no, I won't. I'll try not to. But how are we ever going to climb
+up--up there?”
+
+Above them and at least four feet out of reach, even if they stood up,
+and that would be a frightfully risky proceeding, the sod projected over
+their heads like the eaves of a house.
+
+Helen glanced up at it and shuddered.
+
+“Oh, how CAN we?” she gasped.
+
+“We can't. And we won't try.”
+
+“Shall we call for help?”
+
+“Not much use. Nobody to hear us. Besides, we can always do that if
+we have to. I think I see a way out of the mess. If we can't get up,
+perhaps we can get down.”
+
+“Get DOWN?”
+
+“Yes, it isn't all as steep as it is here. I believe we might sort of
+zig-zag down if we were careful. You hold on here just as you are; I'm
+going to see what it looks like around this next point.”
+
+The “point” was merely a projection of the bluff about twenty feet away.
+He crawfished along the face of the slope, until he could see beyond it.
+Helen kept urging him to be careful--oh, be careful!
+
+“Of course I'll be careful,” he said curtly. “I don't want to break my
+neck. Yes--yes, by George, it IS easier around there! We could get down
+a good way. Here, here; don't start until you take my hand. And be sure
+your feet are braced before you move. Come on, now.”
+
+“I--I don't believe I can.”
+
+“Of course you can. You've GOT to. Come on. Don't look down. Look at the
+sand right in front of you.”
+
+Getting around that point was a decidedly ticklish operation, but they
+managed it, he leading the way, making sure of his foothold before
+moving and then setting her foot in the print his own had made. On the
+other side of the projection the slope was less abrupt and extended much
+nearer to the ground below. They zigzagged down until nearly to the edge
+of the steep drop. Then Albert looked about for a new path to safety. He
+found it still farther on.
+
+“It takes us down farther,” he said, “and there are bushes to hold on to
+after we get there. Come on, Helen! Brace up now, be a sport!”
+
+She was trying her best to obey orders, but being a sport was no slight
+undertaking under the circumstances. When they reached the clump of
+bushes her guide ordered her to rest.
+
+“Just stop and catch your breath,” he said. “The rest is going to be
+easier, I think. And we haven't so very far to go.”
+
+He was too optimistic. It was anything but easy; in fact, the last
+thirty feet was almost a tumble, owing to the clay giving way beneath
+their feet. But there was soft sand to tumble into and they reached the
+beach safe, though in a dishevelled, scratched and thoroughly smeared
+condition. Then Helen sat down and covered her face with her hands.
+Her rescuer gazed triumphantly up at the distant rim of broken sod and
+grinned.
+
+“There, by George!” he exclaimed. “We did it, didn't we? Say, that was
+fun!”
+
+She removed her hands and looked at him.
+
+“WHAT did you say it was?” she faltered.
+
+“I said it was fun. It was great! Like something out of a book, eh?”
+
+She began to laugh hysterically. He turned to her in indignant surprise.
+“What are you laughing at?” he demanded.
+
+“Oh--oh, don't, please! Just let me laugh. If I don't laugh I shall cry,
+and I don't want to do that. Just don't talk to me for a few minutes,
+that's all.”
+
+When the few minutes were over she rose to her feet.
+
+“Now we must get back to the pavilion, I suppose,” she said. “My, but
+we are sights, though! Do let's see if we can't make ourselves a little
+more presentable.”
+
+She did her best to wipe off the thickest of the clay smears with her
+handkerchief, but the experiment was rather a failure. As they started
+to walk back along the beach she suddenly turned to him and said:
+
+“I haven't told you how--how much obliged I am for--for what you did. If
+you hadn't come, I don't know what would have happened to me.”
+
+“Oh, that's all right,” he answered lightly. He was reveling in the
+dramatic qualities of the situation. She did not speak again for some
+time and he, too, walked on in silence enjoying his day dream. Suddenly
+he became aware that she was looking at him steadily and with an odd
+expression on her face.
+
+“What is it?” he asked. “Why do you look at me that way?”
+
+Her answer was, as usual, direct and frank.
+
+“I was thinking about you,” she said. “I was thinking that I must have
+been mistaken, partly mistaken, at least.”
+
+“Mistaken? About me, do you mean?”
+
+“Yes; I had made up my mind that you were--well, one sort of fellow, and
+now I see that you are an entirely different sort. That is, you've shown
+that you can be different.”
+
+“What on earth do you mean by that?”
+
+“Why, I mean--I mean--Oh, I'm sure I had better not say it. You won't
+like it, and will think I had better mind my own affairs--which I should
+do, of course.”
+
+“Go on; say it.”
+
+She looked at him again, evidently deliberating whether or not to speak
+her thought. Then she said:
+
+“Well, I will say it. Not that it is really my business, but because in
+a way it is begging your pardon, and I ought to do that. You see, I had
+begun to believe that you were--that you were--well, that you were not
+very--very active, you know.”
+
+“Active? Say, look here, Helen! What--”
+
+“Oh, I don't wonder you don't understand. I mean that you were
+rather--rather fond of not doing much--of--of--”
+
+“Eh? Not doing much? That I was lazy, do you mean?”
+
+“Why, not exactly lazy, perhaps, but--but--Oh, how CAN I say just what
+I mean! I mean that you were always saying that you didn't like the work
+in your grandfather's office.”
+
+“Which I don't.”
+
+“And that some day you were going to do something else.”
+
+“Which I am.”
+
+“Write or act or do something--”
+
+“Yes, and that's true, too.”
+
+“But you don't, you know. You don't do anything. You've been talking
+that way ever since I knew you, calling this a one-horse town and saying
+how you hated it, and that you weren't going to waste your life here,
+and all that, but you keep staying here and doing just the same things.
+The last long talk we had together you told me you knew you could write
+poems and plays and all sorts of things, you just felt that you could.
+You were going to begin right away. You said that some months ago, and
+you haven't done any writing at all. Now, have you?”
+
+“No-o. No, but that doesn't mean I shan't by and by.”
+
+“But you didn't begin as you said you would. That was last spring, more
+than a year ago, and I don't believe you have tried to write a single
+poem. Have you?”
+
+He was beginning to be ruffled. It was quite unusual for any one, most
+of all for a girl, to talk to him in this way.
+
+“I don't know that I have,” he said loftily. “And, anyway, I don't see
+that it is--is--”
+
+“My business whether you have or not. I know it isn't. I'm sorry I
+spoke. But, you see, I--Oh, well, never mind. And I do want you to know
+how much I appreciate your helping me as you did just now. I don't know
+how to thank you for that.”
+
+But thanks were not exactly what he wanted at that moment.
+
+“Go ahead and say the rest,” he ordered, after a short pause. “You've
+said so much that you had better finish it, seems to me. I'm lazy, you
+think. What else am I?”
+
+“You're brave, awfully brave, and you are so strong and quick--yes,
+and--and--masterful; I think that is the right word. You ordered me
+about as if I were a little girl. I didn't want to keep still, as you
+told me to; I wanted to scream. And I wanted to faint, too, but you
+wouldn't let me. I had never seen you that way before. I didn't know you
+could be like that. That is what surprises me so. That is why I said you
+were so different.”
+
+Here was balm for wounded pride. Albert's chin lifted. “Oh, that was
+nothing,” he said. “Whatever had to be done must be done right off, I
+could see that. You couldn't hang on where you were very long.”
+
+She shuddered. “No,” she replied, “I could not. But _I_ couldn't think
+WHAT to do, and you could. Yes, and did it, and made me do it.”
+
+The chin lifted still more and the Speranza chest began to expand.
+Helen's next remark was in the natures of a reducer for the said
+expansion.
+
+“If you could be so prompt and strong and--and energetic then,” she
+said, “I can't help wondering why you aren't like that all the time. I
+had begun to think you were just--just--”
+
+“Lazy, eh?” he suggested.
+
+“Why--why, no-o, but careless and indifferent and with not much
+ambition, certainly. You had talked so much about writing and yet you
+never tried to write anything, that--that--”
+
+“That you thought I was all bluff. Thanks! Any more compliments?”
+
+She turned on him impulsively. “Oh, don't!” she exclaimed. “Please
+don't! I know what I am saying sounds perfectly horrid, and especially
+now when you have just saved me from being badly hurt, if not killed.
+But don't you see that--that I am saying it because I am interested in
+you and sure you COULD do so much if you only would? If you would only
+try.”
+
+This speech was a compound of sweet and bitter. Albert
+characteristically selected the sweet.
+
+“Helen,” he asked, in his most confidential tone, “would you like to
+have me try and write something? Say, would you?”
+
+“Of course I would. Oh, will you?”
+
+“Well, if YOU asked me I might. For your sake, you know.”
+
+She stopped and stamped her foot impatiently.
+
+“Oh, DON'T be silly!” she exclaimed. “I don't want you to do it for
+my sake. I want you to do it for your own sake. Yes, and for your
+grandfather's sake.”
+
+“My grandfather's sake! Great Scott, why do you drag him in? HE doesn't
+want me to write poetry.”
+
+“He wants you to do something, to succeed. I know that.”
+
+“He wants me to stay here and help Labe Keeler and Issy Price. He wants
+me to spend all my life in that office of his; that's what HE wants.
+Now hold on, Helen! I'm not saying anything against the old fellow. He
+doesn't like me, I know, but--”
+
+“You DON'T know. He does like you. Or he wants to like you very much
+indeed. He would like to have you carry on the Snow Company's business
+after he has gone, but if you can't--or won't--do that, I know he would
+be very happy to see you succeed at anything--anything.”
+
+Albert laughed scornfully. “Even at writing poetry?” he asked.
+
+“Why, yes, at writing; although of course he doesn't know a thing about
+it and can't understand how any one can possibly earn a living that way.
+He has read or heard about poets and authors starving in garrets and he
+thinks they're all like that. But if you could only show him and prove
+to him that you could succeed by writing, he would be prouder of you
+than any one else would be. I know it.”
+
+He regarded her curiously. “You seem to know a lot about my
+grandfather,” he observed.
+
+“I do know something about him. He and I have been friends ever since
+I was a little girl, and I like him very much indeed. If he were my
+grandfather I should be proud of him. And I think you ought to be.”
+
+She flashed the last sentence at him in a sudden heat of enthusiasm. He
+was surprised at her manner.
+
+“Gee! You ARE strong for the old chap, aren't you?” he said. “Well,
+admitting that he is all right, just why should I be proud of him? I AM
+proud of my father, of course; he was somebody in the world.”
+
+“You mean he was somebody just because he was celebrated and lots of
+people knew about him. Celebrated people aren't the only ones who do
+worth while things. If I were you, I should be proud of Captain Zelotes
+because he is what he has made himself. Nobody helped him; he did it
+all. He was a sea captain and a good one. He has been a business man and
+a good one, even if the business isn't so very big. Everybody here
+in South Harniss--yes, and all up and down the Cape--knows of him and
+respects him. My father says in all the years he has preached in his
+church he has never heard a single person as much as hint that Captain
+Snow wasn't absolutely honest, absolutely brave, and the same to
+everybody, rich or poor. And all his life he has worked and worked hard.
+What HE has belongs to him; he has earned it. That's why I should be
+proud of him if he were my grandfather.”
+
+Her enthusiasm had continued all through this long speech. Albert
+whistled.
+
+“Whew!” he exclaimed. “Regular cheer for Zelotes, fellows! One--two--!
+Grandfather's got one person to stand up for him, I'll say that. But why
+this sudden outbreak about him, anyhow? It was me you were talking about
+in the beginning--though I didn't notice any loud calls for cheers in
+that direction,” he added.
+
+She ignored the last part of the speech. “I think you yourself made me
+think of him,” she replied. “Sometimes you remind me of him. Not often,
+but once in a while. Just now, when we were climbing down that awful
+place you seemed almost exactly like him. The way you knew just what to
+do all the time, and your not hesitating a minute, and the way you took
+command of the situation and,” with a sudden laugh, “bossed me around;
+every bit of that was like him, and not like you at all. Oh, I don't
+mean that,” she added hurriedly. “I mean it wasn't like you as you
+usually are. It was different.”
+
+“Humph! Well, I must say--See here, Helen Kendall, what is it you expect
+me to do; sail in and write two or three sonnets and a 'Come Into
+the Garden, Maud,' some time next week? You're terribly keen about
+Grandfather, but he has rather got the edge on me so far as age goes.
+He's in the sixties, and I'm just about nineteen.”
+
+“When he was nineteen he was first mate of a ship.”
+
+“Yes, so I've heard him say. Maybe first-mating is a little bit easier
+than writing poetry.”
+
+“And maybe it isn't. At any rate, he didn't know whether it was easy or
+not until he tried. Oh, THAT'S what I would like to see you do--TRY
+to do something. You could do it, too, almost anything you tried, I do
+believe. I am confident you could. But--Oh, well, as you said at the
+beginning, it isn't my business at all, and I've said ever and ever so
+much more than I meant to. Please forgive me, if you can. I think my
+tumble and all the rest must have made me silly. I'm sorry, Albert.
+There are the steps up to the pavilion. See them!”
+
+He was tramping on beside her, his hands in his pockets. He did not look
+at the long flight of steps which had suddenly come into view around the
+curve of the bluff. When he did look up and speak it was in a different
+tone, some such tone as she had heard him use during her rescue.
+
+“All right,” he said, with decision, “I'll show you whether I can try
+or not. I know you think I won't, but I will. I'm going up to my room
+to-night and I'm going to try to write something or other. It may be the
+rottenest poem that ever was ground out, but I'll grind it if it kills
+me.”
+
+She was pleased, that was plain, but she shook her head.
+
+“Not to-night, Albert,” she said. “To-night, after the picnic, is
+Father's reception at the church. Of course you'll come to that.”
+
+“Of course I won't. Look here, you've called me lazy and indifferent and
+a hundred other pet names this afternoon. Well, this evening I'll make
+you take some of 'em back. Reception be hanged! I'm going to write
+to-night.”
+
+That evening both Mrs. Snow and Rachel Ellis were much disturbed because
+Albert, pleading a headache, begged off from attendance at the reception
+to the Reverend Mr. Kendall. Either, or both ladies would have been only
+too willing to remain at home and nurse the sufferer through his attack,
+but he refused to permit the sacrifice on their part. After they had
+gone his headache disappeared and, supplied with an abundance of paper,
+pens and ink, he sat down at the table in his room to invoke the Muse.
+The invocation lasted until three A. M. At that hour, with a genuine
+headache, but a sense of triumph which conquered pain, Albert climbed
+into bed. Upon the table lay a poem, a six stanza poem, having these
+words at its head:
+
+
+        TO MY LADY'S SPRING HAT
+           By A. M. Speranza.
+
+
+The following forenoon he posted that poem to the editor of The Cape Cod
+Item. And three weeks later it appeared in the pages of that journal.
+Of course there was no pecuniary recompense for its author, and the fact
+was indisputable that the Item was generally only too glad to publish
+contributions which helped to fill its columns. But, nevertheless,
+Albert Speranza had written a poem and that poem had been published.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+It was Rachel who first discovered “To My Lady's Spring Hat” in the Item
+three weeks later. She came rushing into the sitting room brandishing
+the paper.
+
+“My soul! My soul! My soul!” she cried.
+
+Olive, sitting sewing by the window, was, naturally, somewhat startled.
+“Mercy on us, Rachel!” she exclaimed. “What IS it?”
+
+“Look!” cried the housekeeper, pointing to the contribution in the
+“Poets' Corner” as Queen Isabella may have pointed at the evidence of
+her proteges discovery of a new world. “LOOK!”
+
+Mrs. Snow looked, read the verses to herself, and then aloud.
+
+“Why, I declare, they're real sort of pretty, ain't they?” she
+exclaimed, in astonished admiration.
+
+“Pretty! They're perfectly elegant! And right here in the paper for all
+hands to see. Ain't you PROUD of him, Mrs. Snow?”
+
+Olive had been growing more and more proud of her handsome grandson ever
+since his arrival. She was prouder still now and said so. Rachel nodded,
+triumphantly.
+
+“He'll be a Robert Penfold afore he dies, or I miss MY guess!” she
+declared.
+
+She showed it to feminine acquaintances all over town, and Olive, when
+callers came, took pains to see that a copy of the Item, folded with the
+“Poets' Corner” uppermost, lay on the center table. Customers, dropping
+in at the office, occasionally mentioned the poem to its author.
+
+“See you had a piece in the Item, Al,” was their usual way of referring
+to it. “Pretty cute piece 'twas, too, seemed to me. Say, that girl of
+yours must have SOME spring bunnit. Ho, ho!”
+
+Issachar deigned to express approval, approval qualified with discerning
+criticism of course, but approval nevertheless.
+
+“Pretty good piece, Al,” he observed. “Pretty good. Glad to see you done
+so well. Course you made one little mistake, but 'twan't a very big one.
+That part where you said--What was it, now? Where'd I put that piece of
+poetry? Oh, yes, here 'tis! Where you said--er--er--
+
+
+     'It floats upon her golden curls
+      As froth upon the wave.'
+
+
+Now of course nothin'--a hat or nothin' else--is goin' to float on top
+of a person's head. Froth floatin', that's all right, you understand;
+but even if you took froth right out of the water and slapped it up onto
+anybody's hair 'twouldn't FLOAT up there. If you'd said,
+
+
+     'It SETS up onto her golden curls,
+      Same as froth sets on top of a wave.'
+
+
+that would have been all right and true. But there, don't feel bad about
+it. It's only a little mistake, same as anybody's liable to make. Nine
+persons out of ten wouldn't have noticed it. I'm extry partic'lar, I
+presume likely. I'm findin' mistakes like that all the time.”
+
+Laban's comment was less critical, perhaps, but more reserved.
+
+“It's pretty good, Al,” he said. “Yes--er--yes, sir, it's pretty good.
+It ain't all new, there's some of it that's been written before, but I
+rather guess that might have been said about Shakespeare's poetry when
+he fust commenced. It's pretty good, Al. Yes--yes, yes. It is so.”
+
+Albert was inclined to resent the qualified strain in the bookkeeper's
+praise. He was tempted to be sarcastic.
+
+“Well,” he observed, “of course you've read so much real poetry that you
+ought to know.”
+
+Laban nodded, slowly. “I've read a good deal,” he said quietly. “Readin'
+is one of the few things I ain't made a failure of in this life. Um-hm.
+One of the few. Yes yes--yes.”
+
+He dipped his pen in the inkwell and carefully made an entry in the
+ledger. His assistant felt a sudden pang of compunction.
+
+“I beg your pardon, Mr. Keeler,” he said. “That was pretty fresh of me.
+I'm sorry.”
+
+Laban looked up in mild surprise. “Sorry?” he repeated. “What for? . . .
+Oh, that's all right, Al, that's all right. Lord knows I'm the last one
+on earth who'd ought to criticize anybody. All I had in mind in sayin'
+what I did was to--well, to kind of keep you from bein' too well
+satisfied and not try harder on the next one. It don't pay to be too
+well satisfied. . . . Years ago, I can remember, _I_ was pretty well
+satisfied--with myself and my work. Sounds like a joke, I know, but
+'twas so. . . . Well, I've had a nice long chance to get over it. Um-hm.
+Yes--yes. So I have, so I have.”
+
+Only Captain Zelotes at first said nothing about the poem. He read it,
+his wife saw to that, but his comment even to her was a non-committal
+grunt.
+
+“But don't you think it's real sort of pretty, Zelotes?” she asked.
+
+The captain grunted again. “Why, I guess likely 'tis if you say so,
+Mother. I don't know much about such things.”
+
+“But everybody says it is.”
+
+“Want to know! Well, then 'twon't make much difference whether I say it
+or not.”
+
+“But ain't you goin' to say a word to Albert about it, Zelotes?”
+
+“Humph! I don't know's I know what to say.”
+
+“Why, say you like it.”
+
+“Ye-es, and if I do he'll keep on writin' more. That's exactly what I
+don't want him to do. Come now, Mother, be sensible. This piece of his
+may be good or it may not, _I_ wouldn't undertake to say. But this I do
+know: I don't want the boy to spend his time writin' poetry slush for
+that 'Poets' Corner.' Letitia Makepeace did that--she had a piece in
+there about every week--and she died in the Taunton asylum.”
+
+“But, Zelotes, it wasn't her poetry got her into the asylum.”
+
+“Wan't it? Well, she was in the poorhouse afore that. I don't know
+whether 'twas her poetryin' that got her in there, but I know darned
+well it didn't get her out.”
+
+“But ain't you goin' to say one word? 'Twould encourage him so.”
+
+“Good Lord! We don't want to encourage him, do we? If he was takin' to
+thievin' you wouldn't encourage him in that, would you?”
+
+“Thievin'! Zelotes Snow, you don't mean to say you compare a poet to a
+THIEF!”
+
+The captain grinned. “No-o, Mother,” he observed drily. “Sometimes a
+thief can manage to earn a livin' at his job. But there, there, don't
+feel bad. I'll say somethin' to Al, long's you think I ought to.”
+
+The something was not much, and yet Captain Zelotes really meant it to
+be kindly and to sound like praise. But praising a thing of which you
+have precious little understanding and with which you have absolutely no
+sympathy is a hard job.
+
+“See you had a piece in the Item this week, Al,” observed the captain.
+
+“Why--yes, sir,” said Albert.
+
+“Um-hm. I read it. I don't know much about such things, but they tell me
+it is pretty good.”
+
+“Thank you, sir.”
+
+“Eh? Oh, you're welcome.”
+
+That was all. Perhaps considering its source it was a good deal, but
+Albert was not of the age where such considerations are likely to be
+made.
+
+Helen's praise was warm and enthusiastic. “I knew you could do it if you
+only would,” she declared. “And oh, I'm SO glad you did! Now you must
+keep on trying.”
+
+That bit of advice was quite superfluous. Young Speranza having sampled
+the sublime intoxication of seeing himself in print, was not ready to
+sober off yet a while. He continued to bombard the Item with verses.
+They were invariably accepted, but when he sent to a New York magazine
+a poem which he considered a gem, the promptness with which it was
+returned staggered his conceit and was in that respect a good thing for
+him.
+
+However, he kept on trying. Helen would not have permitted him to
+give up even if he had wished. She was quite as much interested in his
+literary aspirations as he was himself and her encouragement was a great
+help to him. After months of repeated trial and repeated rejection he
+opened an envelope bearing the name of a fairly well-known periodical to
+find therein a kindly note stating that his poem, “Sea Spaces” had been
+accepted. And a week later came a check for ten dollars. That was a day
+of days. Incidentally it was the day of a trial balance in the office
+and the assistant bookkeeper's additions and multiplications contained
+no less than four ghastly errors.
+
+The next afternoon there was an interview in the back office. Captain
+Zelotes and his grandson were the participants. The subject discussed
+was “Business versus Poetry,” and there was a marked difference of
+opinion. Albert had proclaimed his triumph at home, of course, had
+exhibited his check, had been the recipient of hugs and praises from his
+grandmother and had listened to paeans and hallelujahs from Mrs. Ellis.
+When he hurried around to the parsonage after supper, Helen had been
+excited and delighted at the good news. Albert had been patted on the
+back quite as much as was good for a young man whose bump of self-esteem
+was not inclined toward under-development. When he entered the private
+office of Z. Snow and Co. in answer to his grandfather's summons, he did
+so light-heartedly, triumphantly, with self-approval written large upon
+him.
+
+But though he came like a conquering hero, he was not received like one.
+Captain Zelotes sat at his desk, the copy of the Boston morning paper
+which he had been reading sticking out of the waste basket into which
+it had been savagely jammed a half hour before. The news had not been to
+the captain's liking. These were the September days of 1914; the German
+Kaiser was marching forward “mit Gott” through Belgium, and it began to
+look as if he could not be stopped short of Paris. Consequently, Captain
+Zelotes, his sympathies from the first with England and the Allies, was
+not happy in his newspaper reading.
+
+Albert entered, head erect and eyes shining. If Gertie Kendrick could
+have seen him then she would have fallen down and worshiped. His
+grandfather looked at him in silence for a moment, tapping his desk with
+the stump of a pencil. Albert, too, was silent; he was already thinking
+of another poem with which to dazzle the world, and his head was among
+the rosy clouds.
+
+“Sit down, Al,” said Captain Zelotes shortly.
+
+Albert reluctantly descended to earth and took the battered armchair
+standing beside the desk. The captain tapped with his pencil upon the
+figure-covered sheet of paper before him. Then he said:
+
+“Al, you've been here three years come next December, ain't you?”
+
+“Why--yes, sir, I believe I have.”
+
+“Um-hm, you have. And for the heft of that time you've been in this
+office.”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Yes. And Labe Keeler and I have been doin' our best to make a business
+man out of you. You understand we have, don't you?”
+
+Albert looked puzzled and a little uneasy. Into his roseate dreams was
+just beginning to filter the idea that his grandfather's tone and manner
+were peculiar.
+
+“Why, yes, sir, of course I understand it,” he replied.
+
+“Well, I asked you because I wasn't quite sure whether you did or not.
+Can you guess what this is I've got on my desk here?”
+
+He tapped the figure-covered sheet of paper once more. Before Albert
+could speak the captain answered his own question.
+
+“I'll tell you what it is,” he went on. “It's one of the latest samples
+of your smartness as a business man. I presume likely you know that
+Laban worked here in this office until three o'clock this mornin',
+didn't you?”
+
+Albert did not know it. Mr. Keeler had told him nothing of the sort.
+
+“Why, no,” he replied. “Did he? What for?”
+
+“Ye-es, he did. And what for? Why, just to find out what was the matter
+with his trial balance, that's all. When one of Labe's trial balances
+starts out for snug harbor and ends up on a reef with six foot of water
+in her hold, naturally Labe wants to get her afloat and pumped dry as
+quick as possible. He ain't used to it, for one thing, and it makes him
+nervous.”
+
+Albert's uneasiness grew. When his grandfather's speech became sarcastic
+and nautical, the young man had usually found that there was trouble
+coming for somebody.
+
+“I--I'm sorry Laban had to stay so late,” he stammered. “I should have
+been glad to stay and help him, but he didn't ask me.”
+
+“No-o. Well, it may possibly be that he cal'lated he was carryin' about
+all your help that the craft would stand, as 'twas. Any more might sink
+her. See here, young feller--” Captain Zelotes dropped his quiet sarcasm
+and spoke sharp and brisk: “See here,” he said, “do you realize that
+this sheet of paper I've got here is what stands for a day's work done
+by you yesterday? And on this sheet there was no less than four silly
+mistakes that a child ten years old hadn't ought to make, that an
+able-bodied idiot hadn't ought to make. But YOU made 'em, and they kept
+Labe Keeler here till three o'clock this mornin'. Now what have you got
+to say for yourself?”
+
+As a matter of fact, Albert had very little to say, except that he was
+sorry, and that his grandfather evidently did not consider worth the
+saying. He waved the protestation aside.
+
+“Sorry!” he repeated impatiently. “Of course you're sorry, though even
+at that I ain't sure you're sorry enough. Labe was sorry, too, I don't
+doubt, when his bedtime went by and he kept runnin' afoul of one of your
+mistakes after another. I'm sorry, darned sorry, to find out that
+you can make such blunders after three years on board here under such
+teachin' as you've had. But bein' sorry don't help any to speak of. Any
+fool can be sorry for his foolishness, but if that's all, it don't help
+a whole lot. Is bein' sorry the best excuse you've got to offer? What
+made you make the mistakes in the first place?”
+
+Albert's face was darkly red under the lash of his grandfather's tongue.
+Captain Zelotes and he had had disagreements and verbal encounters
+before, but never since they had been together had the captain spoken
+like this. And the young fellow was no longer seventeen, he was twenty.
+The flush began to fade from his cheeks and the pallor which meant the
+rise of the Speranza temper took its place.
+
+“What made you make such fool blunders?” repeated the captain. “You knew
+better, didn't you?”
+
+“Yes,” sullenly, “I suppose I did.”
+
+“You know mighty well you did. And as nigh as I can larn from what I
+got out of Laban--which wasn't much; I had to pump it out of him word
+by word--this ain't the first set of mistakes you've made. You make 'em
+right along. If it wasn't for him helpin' you out and coverin' up your
+mistakes, this firm would be in hot water with its customers two-thirds
+of the time and the books would be fust-rate as a puzzle, somethin' to
+use for a guessin' match, but plaguey little good as straight accounts
+of a goin' concern. Now what makes you act this way? Eh? What makes
+you?”
+
+“Oh, I don't know. See here, Grandfather--”
+
+“Hold on a minute. You don't know, eh? Well, I know. It ain't because
+you ain't smart enough to keep a set of books and keep 'em well. I don't
+expect you to be a Labe Keeler; there ain't many bookkeepers like him on
+this earth. But I do know you're smart enough to keep my books and keep
+'em as they'd ought to be, if you want to keep 'em. The trouble with
+you is that you don't want to. You've got too much of your
+good-for-nothin--” Captain Lote pulled up short, cleared his throat,
+and went on: “You've got too much 'poet' in you,” he declared, “that's
+what's the matter.”
+
+Albert leaned forward. “That wasn't what you were going to say,” he said
+quickly. “You were going to say that I had too much of my father in me.”
+
+It was the captain's turn to redden. “Eh?” he stammered. “Why, I--I--How
+do you know what I was goin' to say?”
+
+“Because I do. You say it all the time. Or, if you don't say it, you
+look it. There is hardly a day that I don't catch you looking at me as
+if you were expecting me to commit murder or do some outrageous thing
+or other. And I know, too, that it is all because I'm my father's son.
+Well, that's all right; feel that way about me if you want to, I can't
+help it.”
+
+“Here, here, Al! Hold on! Don't--”
+
+“I won't hold on. And I tell you this: I hate this work here. You say
+I don't want to keep books. Well, I don't. I'm sorry I made the errors
+yesterday and put Keeler to so much trouble, but I'll probably make
+more. No,” with a sudden outburst of determination, “I won't make
+any more. I won't, because I'm not going to keep books any more. I'm
+through.”
+
+Captain Zelotes leaned back in his chair.
+
+“You're what?” he asked slowly.
+
+“I'm through. I'll never work in this office another day. I'm through.”
+
+The captain's brows drew together as he stared steadily at his grandson.
+He slowly tugged at his beard.
+
+“Humph!” he grunted, after a moment. “So you're through, eh? Goin' to
+quit and go somewheres else, you mean?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Um-hm. I see. Where are you goin' to go?”
+
+“I don't know. But I'm not going to make a fool of myself at this job
+any longer. I can't keep books, and I won't keep them. I hate business.
+I'm no good at it. And I won't stay here.”
+
+“I see. I see. Well, if you won't keep on in business, what will you do
+for a livin'? Write poetry?”
+
+“Perhaps.”
+
+“Um-m. Be kind of slim livin', won't it? You've been writin' poetry
+for about a year and a half, as I recollect, and so far you've made ten
+dollars.”
+
+“That's all right. If I don't make it I may starve, as you are always
+saying that writers do. But, starve or not, I shan't ask YOU to take
+care of me.”
+
+“I've taken care of you for three years or so.”
+
+“Yes. But you did it because--because--Well, I don't know why you did,
+exactly, but you won't have to do it any longer. I'm through.”
+
+The captain still stared steadily, and what he saw in the dark eyes
+which flashed defiance back at him seemed to trouble him a little. His
+tugs at his beard became more strenuous.
+
+“Humph!” he muttered. “Humph! . . . Well, Al, of course I can't make you
+stay by main force. Perhaps I could--you ain't of age yet--but I shan't.
+And you want to quit the ship altogether, do you?”
+
+“If you mean this office--yes, I do.”
+
+“I see, I see. Want to quit South Harniss and your grandmother--and
+Rachel--and Labe--and Helen--and all the rest of 'em?”
+
+“Not particularly. But I shall have to, of course.”
+
+“Yes. . . . Um-hm. . . . Yes. Have you thought how your grandmother's
+liable to feel when she hears you are goin' to clear out and leave her?”
+
+Albert had not thought in that way, but he did now. His tone was a
+trifle less combative as he answered.
+
+“She'll be sorry at first, I suppose,” he said, “but she'll get over
+it.”
+
+“Um-hm. Maybe she will. You can get over 'most anything in time--'MOST
+anything. Well, and how about me? How do you think I'll feel?”
+
+Albert's chin lifted. “You!” he exclaimed. “Why, you'll be mighty glad
+of it.”
+
+Captain Zelotes picked up the pencil stump and twirled it in his
+fingers. “Shall I?” he asked. “You think I will, do you?”
+
+“Of course you will. You don't like me, and never did.”
+
+“So I've heard you say. Well, boy, don't you cal'late I like you at
+least as much as you like me?”
+
+“No. What do you mean? I like you well enough. That is, I should if
+you gave me half a chance. But you don't do it. You hate me because my
+father--”
+
+The captain interrupted. His big palm struck the desk.
+
+“DON'T say that again!” he commanded. “Look here, if I hated you do you
+suppose I'd be talkin' to you like this? If I hated you do you cal'late
+I'd argue when you gave me notice? Not by a jugful! No man ever came to
+me and said he was goin' to quit and had me beg him to stay. If we was
+at sea he stayed until we made port; then he WENT, and he didn't hang
+around waitin' for a boat to take him ashore neither. I don't hate you,
+son. I'd ask nothin' better than a chance to like you, but you won't
+give it to me.”
+
+Albert's eyes and mouth opened.
+
+“_I_ won't give YOU a chance?” he repeated.
+
+“Sartin. DO you give me one? I ask you to keep these books of mine.
+You could keep 'em A Number One. You're smart enough to do it. But you
+won't. You let 'em go to thunder and waste your time makin' up fool
+poetry and such stuff.”
+
+“But I like writing, and I don't like keeping books.”
+
+“Keepin' books is a part of l'arnin' the business, and business is the
+way you're goin' to get your livin' by and by.”
+
+“No, it isn't. I am going to be a writer.”
+
+“Now DON'T say that silly thing again! I don't want to hear it.”
+
+“I shall say it because it is true.”
+
+“Look here, boy: When I tell you or anybody else in this office to do
+or not to do a thing, I expect 'em to obey orders. And I tell you not
+to talk any more of that foolishness about bein' a writer. D'you
+understand?”
+
+“Yes, of course I understand.”
+
+“All right, then, that much is settled. . . . Here! Where are you
+goin'?”
+
+Albert had turned and was on his way out of the office. He stopped and
+answered over his shoulder, “I'm going home,” he said.
+
+“Goin' HOME? Why, you came from home not more than an hour and a half
+ago! What are you goin' there again now for?”
+
+“To pack up my things.”
+
+“To pack up your things! To pack up--Humph! So you really mean it!
+You're really goin' to quit me like this? And your grandma, too!”
+
+The young man felt a sudden pang of compunction, a twinge of conscience.
+
+“Grandfather,” he said, “I'm sorry. I--”
+
+But the change in his attitude and tone came too late. Captain Lote's
+temper was boiling now, contradiction was its worst provocative.
+
+“Goin' to quit!” he sneered. “Goin' to quit because you don't like to
+work. All right, quit then! Go ahead! I've done all I can to make a man
+of you. Go to the devil in your own way.”
+
+“Grandfather, I--”
+
+“Go ahead! _I_ can't stop you. It's in your breed, I cal'late.”
+
+That was sufficient. Albert strode out of the private office, head
+erect. Captain Zelotes rose and slammed the door after his departing
+grandson.
+
+At ten that evening Albert was in his room, sitting in a chair by the
+window, gloomily looking out. The packing, most of it, had been done. He
+had not, as he told his grandfather he intended doing, left the office
+immediately and come straight home to pack. As he emerged from the inner
+office after the stormy interview with the captain he found Laban Keeler
+hard at work upon the books. The sight of the little man, so patiently
+and cheerfully pegging away, brought another twinge of conscience to
+the assistant bookkeeper. Laban had been such a brick in all their
+relationships. It must have been a sore trial to his particular,
+business-like soul, those errors in the trial balance. Yet he had not
+found fault nor complained. Captain Zelotes himself had said that every
+item concerning his grandson's mistakes and blunders had been dragged
+from Mr. Keeler much against the latter's will. Somehow Albert could not
+bear to go off and leave him at once. He would stay and finish his day's
+work, for Labe Keeler's sake.
+
+So stay he did and when Captain Zelotes later came out of his private
+office and found him there neither of them spoke. At home, during
+supper, nothing was said concerning the quarrel of the afternoon. Yet
+Albert was as determined to leave as ever, and the Captain, judging by
+the expression of his face, was just as determined to do nothing more to
+prevent him. After supper the young man went to his room and began the
+packing. His grandfather went out, an unusual proceeding for him, saying
+that he guessed he would go down street for a spell.
+
+Now Albert, as he sat there by the window, was gloomy enough. The wind,
+howling and wailing about the gables of the old house, was not an aid
+to cheerfulness and he needed every aid. He had sworn to go away, he was
+going away--but where should he go? He had a little money put by, not
+much but a little, which he had been saving for quite another purpose.
+This would take him a little way, would pay his bills for a short time,
+but after that--Well, after that he could earn more. With the optimism
+of youth and the serene self-confidence which was natural to him he was
+sure of succeeding sooner or later. It was not the dread of failure and
+privation which troubled him. The weight which was pressing upon his
+spirit was not the fear of what might happen to him.
+
+There was a rap upon the door. Then a voice, the housekeeper's voice,
+whispered through the crack.
+
+“It's me, Al,” whispered Mrs. Ellis. “You ain't in bed yet, are you? I'd
+like to talk with you a minute or two, if I might.”
+
+He was not anxious to talk to her or anyone else just then, but he told
+her to come in. She entered on tiptoe, with the mysterious air of a
+conspirator, and shut the door carefully after her.
+
+“May I set down just a minute?” she asked. “I can generally talk better
+settin'.”
+
+He pulled forward the ancient rocker with the rush seat. The
+cross-stitch “tidy” on the back was his mother's handiwork, she had made
+it when she was fifteen. Rachel sat down in the rocker.
+
+“Al” she began, still in the same mysterious whisper, “I know all about
+it.”
+
+He looked at her. “All about what?” he asked.
+
+“About the trouble you and Cap'n Lote had this afternoon. I know you're
+plannin' to leave us all and go away somewheres and that he told you to
+go, and all that. I know what you've been doin' up here to-night. Fur's
+that goes,” she added, with a little catch in her breath and a wave of
+her hand toward the open trunk and suitcase upon the floor, “I wouldn't
+need to know, I could SEE.”
+
+Albert was surprised and confused. He had supposed the whole affair to
+be, so far, a secret between himself and his grandfather.
+
+“You know?” he stammered. “You--How did you know?”
+
+“Laban told me. Labe came hurryin' over here just after supper and
+told me the whole thing. He's awful upset about it, Laban is. He thinks
+almost as much of you as he does of Cap'n Lote or--or me,” with an
+apologetic little smile.
+
+Albert was astonished and troubled. “How did Labe know about it?” he
+demanded.
+
+“He heard it all. He couldn't help hearin'.”
+
+“But he couldn't have heard. The door to the private office was shut.”
+
+“Yes, but the window at the top--the transom one, you know--was wide
+open. You and your grandpa never thought of that, I guess, and Laban
+couldn't hop up off his stool and shut it without givin' it away that
+he'd been hearin'. So he had to just set and listen and I know how he
+hated doin' that. Laban Keeler ain't the listenin' kind. One thing about
+it all is a mercy,” she added, fervently. “It's the Lord's own mercy
+that that Issy Price wasn't where HE could hear it, too. If Issy heard
+it you might as well paint it up on the town-hall fence; all creation
+and his wife wouldn't larn it any sooner.”
+
+Albert drew a long breath. “Well,” he said, after a moment, “I'm sorry
+Labe heard, but I don't suppose it makes much difference. Everyone will
+know all about it in a day or two . . . I'm going.”
+
+Rachel leaned forward.
+
+“No, you ain't, Al,” she said.
+
+“I'm not? Indeed I am! Why, what do you mean?”
+
+“I mean just what I say. You ain't goin'. You're goin' to stay right
+here. At least I hope you are, and I THINK you are. . . . Oh, I know,”
+ she added, quickly, “what you are goin' to say. You're goin' to tell me
+that your grandpa is down on you on account of your father, and that you
+don't like bookkeepin', and that you want to write poetry and--and such.
+You'll say all that, and maybe it's all true, but whether 'tis or not
+ain't the point at all just now. The real point is that you're Janie
+Snow's son and your grandpa's Cap'n Lote Snow and your grandma's Olive
+Snow and there ain't goin' to be another smash-up in this family if I
+can help it. I've been through one and one's enough. Albert, didn't you
+promise me that Sunday forenoon three years ago when I came into the
+settin'-room and we got talkin' about books and Robert Penfold and
+everything--didn't you promise me then that when things between you and
+your grandpa got kind of--of snarled up and full of knots you'd come
+to me with 'em and we'd see if we couldn't straighten 'em out together?
+Didn't you promise me that, Albert?”
+
+Albert remembered the conversation to which she referred. As he
+remembered it, however, he had not made any definite promise.
+
+“You asked me to talk them over with you, Rachel,” he admitted. “I think
+that's about as far as it went.”
+
+“Well, maybe so, but now I ask you again. Will you talk this over with
+me, Albert? Will you tell me every bit all about it, for my sake? And
+for your grandma's sake. . . . Yes, more'n that, for your mother's sake,
+Albert; she was pretty nigh like my own sister, Jane Snow was. Different
+as night from day of course, she was pretty and educated and all that
+and I was just the same then as I am now, but we did think a lot of each
+other, Albert. Tell me the whole story, won't you, please. Just what
+Cap'n Lote said and what you said and what you plan to do--and all?
+Please, Albert.”
+
+There were tears in her eyes. He had always liked her, but it was
+a liking with a trace of condescension in it. She was peculiar, her
+“sympathetic attacks” were funny, and she and Laban together were an odd
+pair. Now he saw her in a new light and he felt a sudden rush of real
+affection for her. And with this feeling, and inspired also by his
+loneliness, came the impulse to comply with her request, to tell her all
+his troubles.
+
+He began slowly at first, but as he went on the words came quicker. She
+listened eagerly, nodding occasionally, but saying nothing. When he had
+finished she nodded again.
+
+“I see,” she said. “'Twas almost what Laban said and about what he and
+I expected. Well, Albert, I ain't goin' to be the one to blame you, not
+very much anyhow. I don't see as you are to blame; you can't help the
+way you're made. But your grandfather can't help bein' made his way,
+either. He can't see with your spectacles and you can't see with his.”
+
+He stirred rebelliously. “Then we had better go our own ways, I should
+say,” he muttered.
+
+“No, you hadn't. That's just what you mustn't do, not now, anyhow. As
+I said before, there's been enough of all hands goin' their own ways in
+this family and look what came of it.”
+
+“But what do you expect me to do? I will not give up every plan I've
+made and my chance in the world just because he is too stubborn and
+cranky to understand them. I will NOT do it.”
+
+“I don't want you to. But I don't want you to upset the whole kettle
+just because the steam has scalded your fingers. I don't want you to
+go off and leave your grandma to break her heart a second time and your
+grandpa to give up all his plans and hopes that he's been makin' about
+you.”
+
+“Plans about me? He making plans about me? What sort of plans?”
+
+“All sorts. Oh, he don't say much about 'em, of course; that ain't his
+way. But from things he's let drop I know he has hoped to take you in
+with him as a partner one of these days, and to leave you the business
+after he's gone.”
+
+“Nonsense, Rachel!”
+
+“No, it ain't nonsense. It's the one big dream of Cap'n Lote's life.
+That Z. Snow and Co. business is his pet child, as you might say. He
+built it up, he and Labe together, and when he figgered to take you
+aboard with him 'twas SOME chance for you, 'cordin' to his lookout. Now
+you can't hardly blame him for bein' disappointed when you chuck that
+chance away and take to writin' poetry pieces, can you?”
+
+“But--but--why, confound it, Rachel, you don't understand!”
+
+“Yes, I do, but your grandpa don't. And you don't understand him. . . .
+Oh, Albert, DON'T be as stubborn as he is, as your mother was--the Lord
+and she forgive me for sayin' it. She was partly right about marryin'
+your pa and Cap'n Lote was partly right, too. If they had met half way
+and put the two 'partlys' together the whole thing might have been right
+in the end. As 'twas, 'twas all wrong. Don't, don't, DON'T, Albert, be
+as stubborn as that. For their sakes, Al,--yes, and for my sake, for I'm
+one of your family, too, or seems as if I was--don't.”
+
+She hastily wiped her eyes with her apron. He, too was greatly moved.
+
+“Don't cry, Rachel,” he muttered, hurriedly. “Please don't. . . . I
+didn't know you felt this way. I didn't know anybody did. I don't want
+to make trouble in the family--any more trouble. Grandmother has been
+awfully good to me; so, too, has Grandfather, I suppose, in his way.
+But--oh, what am I going to do? I can't stay in that office all my life.
+I'm not good at business. I don't like it. I can't give up--”
+
+“No, no, course you mustn't. I don't want you to give up.”
+
+“Then what do you want me to do?”
+
+“I want you to go to your grandpa and talk to him once more. Not givin'
+up your plans altogether but not forcin' him to give up his either, not
+right away. Tell him you realize he wants you to go on with Z. Snow and
+Company and that you will--for a while--”
+
+“But--”
+
+“For a while, I said; three or four years, say. You won't be so dreadful
+old then, not exactly what you'd call a Methusalem. Tell him you'll
+do that and on his side he must let you write as much as you please,
+provided you don't let the writin' interfere with the Z. Snow and Co.
+work. Then, at the end of the three or four years, if you still feel
+the same as you do now, you can tackle your poetry for keeps and he and
+you'll still be friends. Tell him that, Albert, and see what he says.
+. . . Will you?”
+
+Albert took some moments to consider. At length he said: “If I did I
+doubt if he would listen.”
+
+“Oh, yes he would. He'd more than listen, I'm pretty sartin. I think
+he'd agree.”
+
+“You do?”
+
+“Yes, I do. You see,” with a smile, “while I've been talkin' to you
+there's been somebody else talkin' to him. . . . There, there! don't you
+ask any questions. I promised not to tell anybody and if I ain't exactly
+broke that promise, I've sprained its ankle, I'm afraid. Good night,
+Albert, and thank you ever and ever so much for listenin' so long
+without once tellin' me to mind my own business.”
+
+“Good night, Rachel. . . . And thank you for taking so much interest in
+my affairs. You're an awfully good friend, I can see that.”
+
+“Don't--don't talk that way. And you WILL have that talk with your
+grandpa?”
+
+“Yes, I will.”
+
+“Oh, I'm SO glad! There! Good night. I come pretty nigh kissin' you
+then and for a woman that's been engaged to be married for upwards of
+eighteen years that's a nice way to act, ain't it! Good night, good
+night.”
+
+She hurried out of the room. Albert sat down again in his chair by the
+window. He had promised to go to his grandfather and talk to him. As he
+sat there, thinking of the coming interview, he realized more and more
+that the keeping of that promise was likely to be no easy matter. He
+must begin the talk, he must break the ice--and how should he break
+it? Timid and roundabout approaches would be of little use; unless his
+grandfather's state of mind had changed remarkably since their
+parting in the Z. Snow and Co. office they and their motive would be
+misunderstood. No, the only way to break the ice was to break it, to
+plunge immediately into the deepest part of the subject. It promised to
+be a chilly plunge. He shivered at the prospect.
+
+A half hour later he heard the door of the hall open and shut and knew
+that Captain Zelotes had returned. Rising, he descended the stairs.
+He descended slowly. Just as he reached the foot of the narrow flight
+Captain Zelotes entered the hall from the dining-room and turned toward
+him. Both were surprised at the meeting. Albert spoke first.
+
+“Good evening, Grandfather,” he stammered. “I--I was just coming down to
+see you. Were you going to bed?”
+
+Captain Lote shook his head. “No-o,” he said, slowly, “not exactly.”
+
+“Do you mind waiting a minute? I have a few things--I have something to
+say to you and--and I guess I shall sleep better if I say it to-night.
+I--I won't keep you long.”
+
+The captain regarded him intently for an instant, then he turned and led
+the way to the dining-room.
+
+“Go ahead,” he ordered, laconically. Albert squared his shoulders,
+preparatory to the plunge.
+
+“Grandfather,” he began, “first of all I want to tell you I am sorry
+for--for some of the things I said this afternoon.”
+
+He had rehearsed this opening speech over and over again, but in spite
+of the rehearsals it was dreadfully hard to make. If his grandfather
+had helped him even a little it might have been easier, but the captain
+merely stood there, expressionless, saying nothing, waiting for him to
+continue.
+
+Albert swallowed, clenched his fists, and took a new start.
+
+“Of course,” he began, “I am sorry for the mistakes I made in my
+bookkeeping, but that I have told you before. Now--now I want to say
+I am sorry for being so--well, so pig-headed about the rest of it. I
+realize that you have been mighty kind to me and that I owe you about
+everything that I've got in this world.”
+
+He paused again. It had seemed to him that Captain Zelotes was about to
+speak. However, he did not, so the young man stumbled on.
+
+“And--and I realize, too,” he said, “that you have, I guess, been trying
+to give me a real start in business, the start you think I ought to
+have.”
+
+The captain nodded slowly. “That was my idea in startin' you,” he said.
+
+“Yes--and fact that I haven't done more with the chance is because I'm
+made that way, I guess. But I do want to--yes, and I MEAN to try to
+succeed at writing poetry or stories or plays or something. I like
+that and I mean to give it a trial. And so--and so, you see, I've been
+thinking our talk over and I've concluded that perhaps you may be right,
+maybe I'm not old enough to know what I really am fitted for, and yet
+perhaps _I_ may be partly right, too. I--I've been thinking that perhaps
+some sort of--of--”
+
+“Of what?”
+
+“Well, of half-way arrangement--some sort of--of compromise, you know,
+might be arranged. I might agree to stay in the office and do my very
+best with bookkeeping and business for--well, say, three years or so.
+During that time I should be trying to write of course, but I would
+only do that sort of writing evenings or on Saturdays and holidays. It
+shouldn't interfere with your work nor be done in the time you pay me
+for. And at the end of the three or four years--”
+
+He paused again. This time the pause was longer than ever. Captain
+Lote broke the silence. His big right hand had wandered upward and was
+tugging at his beard.
+
+“Well? . . . And then?” he asked.
+
+“Why, then--if--if--Well, then we could see. If business seemed to be
+where I was most likely to succeed we'd call it settled and I would stay
+with Z. Snow and Co. If poetry-making or--or--literature seemed more
+likely to be the job I was fitted for, that would be the job I'd take.
+You--you see, don't you, Grandfather?”
+
+The captain's beard-pulling continued. He was no longer looking his
+grandson straight in the eye. His gaze was fixed upon the braided mat at
+his feet and he answered without looking up.
+
+“Ye-es,” he drawled, “I cal'late I see. Well, was that all you had to
+say?”
+
+“No-o, not quite. I--I wanted to say that which ever way it turned
+out, I--I hoped we--you and I, you know--would agree to be--to be
+good-natured about it and--and friends just the same. I--I--Well, there!
+That's all, I guess. I haven't put it very well, I'm afraid, but--but
+what do you think about it, Grandfather?”
+
+And now Captain Zelotes did look up. The old twinkle was in his eye. His
+first remark was a question and that question was rather surprising.
+
+“Al,” he asked, “Al, who's been talkin' to you?”
+
+The blood rushed to his grandson's face. “Talking to me?” he stammered.
+“Why--why, what do you mean?”
+
+“I mean just that. You didn't think out this scheme all by yourself.
+Somebody's been talkin' to you and puttin' you up to it. Haven't they?”
+
+“Why--why, Grandfather, I--”
+
+“Haven't they?”
+
+“Why--Well, yes, someone has been talking to me, but the whole idea
+isn't theirs. I WAS sorry for speaking to you as I did and sorry to
+think of leaving you and grandmother. I--I was sitting up there in my
+room and feeling blue and mean enough and--and--”
+
+“And then Rachel came aboard and gave you your sailin' orders; eh?”
+
+Albert gasped. “For heaven's sake how did you know that?” he demanded.
+“She--Why, she must have told you, after all! But she said--”
+
+“Hold on, boy, hold on!” Captain Lote chuckled quietly. “No,” he said,
+“Rachel didn't tell me; I guessed she was the one. And it didn't take
+a Solomon in all his glory to guess it, neither. Labe Keeler's been
+talkin' to ME, and when you come down here and began proposin' the same
+scheme that I was just about headin' up to your room with to propose
+to you, then--well, then the average whole-witted person wouldn't need
+more'n one guess. It couldn't be Labe, 'cause he'd been whisperin' in MY
+ear, so it must have been the other partner in the firm. That's all the
+miracle there is to it.”
+
+Albert's brain struggled with the situation. “I see,” he said, after a
+moment. “She hinted that someone had been talking to you along the same
+line. Yes, and she was so sure you would agree. I might have known it
+was Laban.”
+
+“Um-hm, so you might. . . . Well, there have been times when if a man
+had talked to me as Labe did to-night I'd have knocked him down, or told
+him to go to--um--well, the tropics--told him to mind his own business,
+at least. But Labe is Labe, and besides MY conscience was plaguin' me a
+little mite, maybe . . . maybe.”
+
+The young man shook his head. “They must have talked it over, those two,
+and agreed that one should talk to you and the other to me. By George, I
+wonder they had the nerve. It wasn't their business, really.”
+
+“Not a darn bit.”
+
+“Yet--yet I--I'm awfully glad she said it to me. I--I needed it, I
+guess.”
+
+“Maybe you did, son. . . . And--humph--well, maybe I needed it, too.
+. . . Yes, I know that's consider'ble for me to say,” he added dryly.
+
+Albert was still thinking of Laban and Rachel.
+
+“They're queer people,” he mused. “When I first met them I thought
+they were about the funniest pair I ever saw. But--but now I can't
+help liking them and--and--Say, Grandfather, they must think a lot of
+your--of our family.”
+
+“Cal'late they do, son. . . . Well, boy, we've had our sermon, you and
+me, what shall we do? Willin' to sign for the five years trial cruise if
+I will, are you?”
+
+Albert couldn't help smiling. “It was three years Rachel proposed, not
+five,” he said.
+
+“Was, eh? Suppose we split the difference and make it four? Willin' to
+try that?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Agreement bein' that you shall stick close to Z. Snow and Co. durin'
+work hours and write as much poetry as you darned please other times,
+neither side to interfere with those arrangements? That right?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Good! Shall we shake hands on it?”
+
+They shook, solemnly. Captain Lote was the first to speak after
+ratification of the contract.
+
+“There, now I cal'late I'll go aloft and turn in,” he observed. Then he
+added, with a little hesitation, “Say, Al, maybe we'd better not trouble
+your grandma about all this fool business--the row this afternoon
+and all. 'Twould only worry her and--” he paused, looked embarrassed,
+cleared his throat, and said, “to tell you the truth, I'm kind of
+ashamed of my part---er--er--that is, some of it.”
+
+His grandson was very much astonished. It was not often that Captain
+Zelotes Snow admitted having been in the wrong. He blurted out the
+question he had been dying to ask.
+
+“Grandfather,” he queried, “had you--did you really mean what you
+said about starting to come to my room and--and propose this scheme of
+ours--I mean of Rachel's and Labe's--to me?”
+
+“Eh? . . . Ye-es--yes. I was on my way up there when I met you just
+now.”
+
+“Well, Grandfather, I--I--”
+
+“That's all right, boy, that's all right. Don't let's talk any more
+about it.”
+
+“We won't. And--and--But, Grandfather, I just want you to know that I
+guess I understand things a little better than I did, and--and when my
+father--”
+
+The captain's heavy hand descended upon his shoulder.
+
+“Heave short, Al!” he commanded. “I've been doin' consider'ble thinkin'
+since Labe finished his--er--discourse and pronounced the benediction,
+and I've come to a pretty definite conclusion on one matter. I've
+concluded that you and I had better cut out all the bygones from this
+new arrangement of ours. We won't have fathers or--or--elopements--or
+past-and-done-with disapp'intments in it. This new deal--this four year
+trial v'yage of ours--will be just for Albert Speranza and Zelotes Snow,
+and no others need apply. . . . Eh? . . . Well, good night, Al.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+So the game under the “new deal” began. At first it was much easier than
+the old. And, as a matter of fact, it was never as hard as before. The
+heart to heart talk between Captain Zelotes and his grandson had given
+each a glimpse of the other's inner self, a look from the other's
+point of view, and thereafter it was easier to make allowances. But the
+necessity for the making of those allowances was still there and would
+continue to be there. At first Albert made almost no mistakes in his
+bookkeeping, was almost painfully careful. Then the carefulness relaxed,
+as it was bound to do, and some mistakes occurred. Captain Lote
+found little fault, but at times he could not help showing some
+disappointment. Then his grandson would set his teeth and buckle down to
+painstaking effort again. He was resolved to live up to the very letter
+of the agreement.
+
+In his spare time he continued to write and occasionally he sold
+something. Whenever he did so there was great rejoicing among the
+feminine members of the Snow household; his grandmother and Rachel Ellis
+were enraptured. It was amusing to see Captain Zelotes attempt to join
+the chorus. He evidently felt that he ought to praise, or at least that
+praise was expected from him, but it was also evident that he did not
+approve of what he was praising.
+
+“Your grandma says you got rid of another one of your poetry pieces,
+Al,” he would say. “Pay you for it, did they?”
+
+“Not yet, but they will, I suppose.”
+
+“I see, I see. How much, think likely?”
+
+“Oh, I don't know. Ten dollars, perhaps.”
+
+“Um-hm . . . I see. . . . Well, that's pretty good, considerin', I
+suppose. . . . We did first-rate on that Hyannis school-house contract,
+didn't we. Nigh's I can figger it we cleared over fourteen hundred and
+eighty dollars on that.”
+
+He invariably followed any reference to the profit from the sale of
+verses by the casual mention of a much larger sum derived from the sale
+of lumber or hardware. This was so noticeable that Laban Keeler was
+impelled to speak of it.
+
+“The old man don't want you to forget that you can get more for hard
+pine than you can for soft sonnets, sellin' 'em both by the foot,”
+ observed Labe, peering over his spectacles. “More money in shingles
+than there is in jingles, he cal'lates. . . . Um. . . . Yes, yes. . . .
+Consider'ble more, consider'ble.”
+
+Albert smiled, but it astonished him to find that Mr. Keeler knew what a
+sonnet was. The little bookkeeper occasionally surprised him by breaking
+out unexpectedly in that way.
+
+From the indiscriminate praise at home, or the reluctant praise of his
+grandfather, he found relief when he discussed his verses with Helen
+Kendall. Her praise was not indiscriminate, in fact sometimes she
+did not praise at all, but expressed disapproval. They had some
+disagreements, marked disagreements, but it did not affect their
+friendship. Albert was a trifle surprised to find that it did not.
+
+So as the months passed he ground away at the books of Z. Snow and
+Company during office hours and at the poetry mill between times. The
+seeing of his name in print was no longer a novelty and he poetized not
+quite as steadily. Occasionally he attempted prose, but the two or three
+short stories of his composition failed to sell. Helen, however, urged
+him to try again and keep trying. “I know you can write a good story and
+some day you are going to,” she said.
+
+His first real literary success, that which temporarily lifted him into
+the outer circle of the limelight of fame, was a poem written the day
+following that upon which came the news of the sinking of the Lusitania.
+Captain Zelotes came back from the post-office that morning, a crumpled
+newspaper in his hand, and upon his face the look which mutinous
+foremast hands had seen there just before the mutiny ended. Laban Keeler
+was the first to notice the look. “For the land sakes, Cap'n, what's
+gone wrong?” he asked. The captain flung the paper upon the desk. “Read
+that,” he grunted. Labe slowly spread open the paper; the big black
+headlines shrieked the crime aloud.
+
+“Good God Almighty!” exclaimed the little bookkeeper. Captain Zelotes
+snorted. “He didn't have anything to do with it,” he declared. “The
+bunch that pulled that off was handled from the other end of the line.
+And I wish to thunder I was young enough to help send 'em back there,”
+ he added, savagely.
+
+That evening Albert wrote his poem. The next day he sent it to a Boston
+paper. It was published the following morning, spread across two columns
+on the front page, and before the month was over had been copied widely
+over the country. Within the fortnight its author received his first
+request, a bona fida request for verse from a magazine. Even Captain
+Lote's praise of the Lusitania poem was whole-hearted and ungrudging.
+
+That summer was a busy one in South Harniss. There was the usual amount
+of summer gaiety, but in addition there were the gatherings of the
+various committees for war relief work. Helen belonged to many of
+these committees. There were dances and theatrical performances for the
+financial benefit of the various causes and here Albert shone. But
+he did not shine alone. Helen Kendall was very popular at the social
+gatherings, popular not only with the permanent residents but with the
+summer youth as well. Albert noticed this, but he did not notice it so
+particularly until Issy Price called his attention to it.
+
+“Say, Al,” observed Issy, one afternoon in late August of that year,
+“how do YOU like that Raymond young feller?”
+
+Albert looked up absently from the page of the daybook.
+
+“Eh? What?” he asked.
+
+“I say how do YOU like that Eddie Raymond, the Down-at-the-Neck one?”
+
+“Down at the neck? There's nothing the matter with his neck that I know
+of.”
+
+“Who said there was? He LIVES down to the Neck, don't he? I mean that
+young Raymond, son of the New York bank man, the ones that's had the
+Cahoon house all summer. How do you like him?”
+
+Albert's attention was still divided between the day-book and Mr. Price.
+“Oh, I guess he's all right,” he answered, carelessly. “I don't know him
+very well. Don't bother me, Issy, I'm busy.”
+
+Issachar chuckled. “He's busy, too,” he observed. “He, he, he! He's
+busy trottin' after Helen Kendall. Don't seem to have time for much else
+these days. Noticed that, ain't you, Al? He, he!”
+
+Albert had not noticed it. His attention left the day-book altogether.
+Issachar chuckled again.
+
+“Noticed it, ain't you, Al?” he repeated. “If you ain't you're the only
+one. Everybody's cal'latin' you'll be cut out if you ain't careful.
+Folks used to figger you was Helen's steady comp'ny, but it don't look
+as much so as it did. He, he! That's why I asked you how you liked the
+Raymond one. Eh? How do you, Al? Helen, SHE seems to like him fust-rate.
+He, he, he!”
+
+Albert was conscious of a peculiar feeling, partly of irritation at
+Issachar, partly something else. Mr. Price crowed delightedly.
+
+“Hi!” he chortled. “Why, Al, your face is gettin' all redded up. Haw,
+haw! Blushin', ain't you, Al? Haw, haw, haw! Blushin', by crimustee!”
+
+Albert laid down his pen. He had learned by experience that, in Issy's
+case, the maxim of the best defensive being a strong offensive was
+absolutely true. He looked with concern about the office.
+
+“There's a window open somewhere, isn't there, Is?” he inquired.
+“There's a dreadful draught anyhow.”
+
+“Eh? Draught? I don't feel no draught. Course the window's open; it's
+generally open in summer time, ain't it. Haw, haw!”
+
+“There it is again! Where--Oh, _I_ see! It's your mouth that's open,
+Issy. That explains the draught, of course. Yes, yes, of course.”
+
+“Eh? My mouth! Never you mind my mouth. What you've got to think about
+is that Eddie Raymond. Yes sir-ee! Haw, haw!”
+
+“Issy, what makes you make that noise?”
+
+“What noise?”
+
+“That awful cawing. If you're trying to make me believe you're a crow
+you're wasting your time.”
+
+“Say, look here, Al Speranzy, be you crazy?”
+
+“No-o, I'M not. But in your case--well, I'll leave it to any fair-minded
+person--”
+
+And so on until Mr. Price stamped disgustedly out of the office. It was
+easy enough, and required nothing brilliant in the way of strategy or
+repartee, to turn Issachar's attack into retreat. But all the rest
+of that afternoon Albert was conscious of that peculiar feeling of
+uneasiness. After supper that night he did not go down town at once but
+sat in his room thinking deeply. The subjects of his thoughts were Edwin
+Raymond, the young chap from New York, Yale, and “The Neck”--and Helen
+Kendall. He succeeded only in thinking himself into an even more
+uneasy and unpleasant state of mind. Then he walked moodily down to
+the post-office. He was a little late for the mail and the laughing and
+chatting groups were already coming back after its distribution. One
+such group he met was made up of half a dozen young people on their way
+to the drug store for ices and sodas. Helen was among them and with her
+was young Raymond. They called to him to join them, but he pretended not
+to hear.
+
+Now, in all the years of their acquaintance it had not once occurred
+to Albert Speranza that his interest in Helen Kendall was anything
+more than that of a friend and comrade. He liked her, had enjoyed her
+society--when he happened to be in the mood to wish society--and it
+pleased him to feel that she was interested in his literary efforts
+and his career. She was the only girl in South Harniss who would have
+“talked turkey” to him as she had on the day of their adventure at High
+Point Light and he rather admired her for it. But in all his dreams of
+romantic attachments and sentimental adventure, and he had such dreams
+of course, she had never played a part. The heroines of these dreams
+were beautiful and mysterious strangers, not daughters of Cape Cod
+clergymen.
+
+But now, thanks to Issy's mischievous hints, his feelings were in a
+puzzled and uncomfortable state. He was astonished to find that he
+did not relish the idea of Helen's being particularly interested in Ed
+Raymond. He, himself, had not seen her as frequently of late, she having
+been busy with her war work and he with his own interests. But that,
+according to his view, was no reason why she should permit Raymond to
+become friendly to the point of causing people to talk. He was not ready
+to admit that he himself cared, in a sentimental way, for Helen, but
+he resented any other fellow's daring to do so. And she should not
+have permitted it, either. As a matter of fact, Alberto Miguel Carlos
+Speranza, hitherto reigning undisputed king of hearts in South Harniss,
+was for the first time in his imperial life feeling the pangs of
+jealousy.
+
+He stalked gloomily on to the post-office. Gertie Kendrick, on the
+arm of Sam Thatcher, passed him and he did not even notice her. Gertie
+whispered to Sam that he, Albert, was a big stuck-up nothing, but
+she looked back over Sam's shoulder, nevertheless. Albert climbed the
+post-office steps and walked over to the rack of letter boxes. The Snow
+box contained little of interest to him, and he was turning away when he
+heard his name spoken.
+
+“Good evening, Mr. Speranza,” said a feminine voice.
+
+Albert turned again, to find Jane Kelsey and another young lady, a
+stranger, standing beside him. Miss Kelsey was one of South Harniss's
+summer residents. The Kelsey “cottage,” which was larger by considerable
+than the Snow house, was situated on the Bay Road, the most exclusive
+section of the village. Once, and not so many years before, the Bay Road
+was contemptuously referred to as “Poverty Lane” and dwellers along its
+winding, weed-grown track vied with one another in shiftless shabbiness.
+But now all shabbiness had disappeared and many-gabled “cottages”
+ proudly stood where the shanties of the Poverty Laners once humbly
+leaned.
+
+Albert had known Jane Kelsey for some time. They had met at one of the
+hotel tea-dances during his second summer in South Harniss. He and she
+were not intimate friends exactly, her mother saw to that, but they were
+well acquainted. She was short and piquant, had a nose which freckled in
+the Cape Cod sunshine, and she talked and laughed easily.
+
+“Good evening, Mr. Speranza,” she said, again. “You looked so very
+forlorn I couldn't resist speaking. Do tell us why you are so sad; we're
+dying to know.”
+
+Albert, taken by surprise, stammered that he didn't know that he was
+sad. Miss Kelsey laughed merrily and declared that everyone who saw him
+knew it at once. “Oh, excuse me, Madeline,” she added. “I forgot that
+you and Mr. Speranza had not met. Of course as you're going to live
+in South Harniss you must know him without waiting another minute.
+Everybody knows everybody down here. He is Albert Speranza--and we
+sometimes call him Albert because here everybody calls everyone else
+by their first names. There, now you know each other and it's all very
+proper and formal.”
+
+The young lady who was her companion smiled. The smile was distinctly
+worth looking at, as was the young lady herself, for that matter.
+
+“I doubt if Mr. Speranza knows me very well, Jane,” she observed.
+
+“Doesn't know you! Why, you silly thing, haven't I just introduced you?”
+
+“Well, I don't know much about South Harniss introductions, but isn't it
+customary to mention names? You haven't told him mine.”
+
+Miss Kelsey laughed in high delight. “Oh, how perfectly ridiculous!”
+ she exclaimed. “Albert--Mr. Speranza, I mean--this is my friend Miss
+Madeline Fosdick. She is from New York and she has decided to spend her
+summers in South Harniss--which _I_ consider very good judgment. Her
+father is going to build a cottage for her to spend them in down on the
+Bay Road on the hill at the corner above the Inlet. But of course you've
+heard of THAT!”
+
+Of course he had. The purchase of the Inlet Hill land by Fletcher
+Fosdick, the New York banker, and the price paid Solomon Dadgett for
+that land, had been the principal topics of conversation around South
+Harniss supper tables for the past ten days. Captain Lote Snow had
+summed up local opinion of the transaction when he said: “We-ll, Sol
+Dadgett's been talkin' in prayer-meetin' ever since I can remember about
+the comin' of Paradise on earth. Judgin' by the price he got for the
+Inlet Hill sand heap he must have cal'lated Paradise had got here and he
+was sellin' the golden streets by the runnin' foot.” Or, as Laban Keeler
+put it: “They say King Soloman was a wise man, but I guess likely 'twas
+a good thing for him that Sol Dadgett wasn't alive in his time. King Sol
+would have needed all his wisdom to keep Dadgett from talkin' him into
+buying the Jerusalem salt-ma'sh to build the temple on. . . . Um. . . .
+Yes--yes--yes.”
+
+So Albert, as he shook hands with Miss Fosdick, regarded her with
+unusual interest. And, judging by the way in which she looked at him,
+she too was interested. After some minutes of the usual conventional
+summer-time chat the young gentleman suggested that they adjourn to the
+drug store for refreshments. The invitation was accepted, the vivacious
+Miss Kelsey acting as spokesman--or spokeswoman--in the matter.
+
+“I think you must be a mind-reader, Mr. Speranza,” she declared. “I am
+dying for a sundae and I have just discovered that I haven't my purse
+or a penny with me. I should have been reduced to the humiliation of
+borrowing from Madeline here, or asking that deaf old Burgess man to
+trust me until to-morrow. And he is so frightfully deaf,” she added in
+explanation, “that when I asked him the last time he made me repeat it
+until I thought I should die of shame, or exhaustion, one or the other.
+Every time I shouted he would say 'Hey?' and I was obliged to shout
+again. Of course, the place was crowded, and--Oh, well, I don't like
+to even think about it. Bless you, bless you, Albert Speranza! And do
+please let's hurry!”
+
+When they entered the drug store--it also sold, according to its sign,
+“Cigars, soda, ice-cream, patent medicines, candy, knick-knacks, chewing
+gum, souvenirs and notions”--the sextette of which Helen Kendall made
+one was just leaving. She nodded pleasantly to Albert and he nodded in
+return, but Ed Raymond's careless bow he did not choose to see. He had
+hitherto rather liked that young gentleman; now he felt a sudden but
+violent detestation for him.
+
+Sundaes pleasant to the palate and disastrous to all but youthful
+digestions were ordered. Albert's had a slight flavor of gall and
+wormwood, but he endeavored to counterbalance this by the sweetness
+derived from the society of Jane Kelsey and her friend. His conversation
+was particularly brilliant and sparkling that evening. Jane laughed much
+and chatted more. Miss Fosdick was quieter, but she, too, appeared to be
+enjoying herself. Jane demanded to know how the poems were developing.
+She begged him to have an inspiration now--“Do, PLEASE, so that Madeline
+and I can see you.” It seemed to be her idea that having an inspiration
+was similar to having a fit. Miss Fosdick laughed at this, but she
+declared that she adored poetry and specified certain poems which were
+objects of her especial adoration. The conversation thereafter became
+what Miss Kelsey described as “high brow,” and took the form of a
+dialogue between Miss Fosdick and Albert. It was interrupted by the
+arrival of the Kelsey limousine, which rolled majestically up to the
+drug store steps. Jane spied it first.
+
+“Oh, mercy me, here's mother!” she exclaimed. “And your mother, too,
+Madeline. We are tracked to our lair. . . . No, no, Mr. Speranza, you
+mustn't go out. No, really, we had rather you wouldn't. Thanks, ever so
+much, for the sundaes. Come, Madeline.”
+
+Miss Fosdick held out her hand.
+
+“Thank you, Mr. Speranza,” she said. “I have enjoyed our poetry talk SO
+much. It must be wonderful to write as you do. Good night.”
+
+She looked admiringly into his eyes as she said it. In spite of the gall
+and wormwood Albert found it not at all unpleasant to be looked at in
+that way by a girl like Madeline Fosdick. His reflections on that point
+were interrupted by a voice from the car.
+
+“Come, Madeline, come,” it said, fussily. “What ARE you waiting for?”
+
+Albert caught a glimpse of a majestic figure which, seated beside Mrs.
+Kelsey on the rear seat of the limousine, towered above that short,
+plump lady as a dreadnaught towers above a coal barge. He surmised this
+figure to be that of the maternal Fosdick. Madeline climbed in beside
+her parent and the limousine rolled away.
+
+Albert's going-to-bed reflections that evening were divided in flavor,
+like a fruit sundae, a combination of sweet and sour. The sour was
+furnished by thoughts of Edwin Raymond and Helen Kendall, the former's
+presumption in daring to seek her society as he did, and Helen's
+amazing silliness in permitting such a thing. The sweet, of course, was
+furnished by a voice which repeated to his memory the words, “It must be
+wonderful to write as you do.” Also the tone of that voice and the look
+in the eyes.
+
+Could he have been privileged to hear the closing bits of a conversation
+which was taking place at that moment his reflections might have been
+still further saccharined. Miss Jane Kelsey was saying: “And NOW what
+do you think of our Cape Cod poet? Didn't I promise you to show you
+something you couldn't find on Fifth Avenue?” And to this Miss Madeline
+Fosdick made reply: “I think he is the handsomest creature I ever saw.
+And so clever! Why, he is wonderful, Jane! How in the world does he
+happen to be living here--all the time?”
+
+It is perhaps, on the whole, a good thing that Albert Speranza could not
+hear this. It is certainly a good thing that Captain Zelotes Snow did
+not hear it.
+
+And although the balance of sweet and sour in Albert's mind that
+night was almost even, the sour predominated next day and continued to
+predominate. Issachar Price had sowed the seed of jealousy in the mind
+of the assistant bookkeeper of Z. Snow and Company, and that seed took
+root and grew as it is only too likely to do under such circumstances.
+That evening Albert walked again to the post-office. Helen was not
+there, neither was Miss Kelsey or Miss Fosdick. He waited for a time and
+then determined to call at the Kendall home, something he had not done
+for some time. As he came up to the front walk, between the arbor-vitae
+hedges, he saw that the parlor windows were alight. The window shade was
+but partially drawn and beneath it he could see into the room. Helen was
+seated at the piano and Edwin Raymond was standing beside her, ready to
+turn the page of her music.
+
+Albert whirled on his heel and walked out of the yard and down the
+street toward his own home. His attitude of mind was a curious one.
+He had a mind to wait until Raymond left and then go into the Kendall
+parlor and demand of Helen to know what she meant by letting that fellow
+make such a fool of himself. What right had he--Raymond--to call upon
+her, and turn her music and--and set the whole town talking? Why--Oh,
+he could think of many things to ask and say. The trouble was that the
+saying of them would, he felt sure, be distinctly bad diplomacy on his
+part. No one--not even he--could talk to Helen Kendall in that fashion;
+not unless he wished it to be their final conversation.
+
+So he went home, to fret and toss angrily and miserably half the night.
+He had never before considered himself in the slightest degree in love
+with Helen, but he had taken for granted the thought that she liked him
+better than anyone else. Now he was beginning to fear that perhaps
+she did not, and, with his temperament, wounded vanity and poetic
+imagination supplied the rest. Within a fortnight he considered himself
+desperately in love with her.
+
+During this fortnight he called at the parsonage, the Kendall home,
+several times. On the first of these occasions the Reverend Mr. Kendall,
+having just completed a sermon dealing with the war and, being full of
+his subject, read the said sermon to his daughter and to Albert. The
+reading itself lasted for three-quarters of an hour and Mr. Kendall's
+post-argument and general dissertation on German perfidy another hour
+after that. By that time it was late and Albert went home. The second
+call was even worse, for Ed Raymond called also and the two young men
+glowered at each other until ten o'clock. They might have continued to
+glower indefinitely, for neither meant to leave before the other, but
+Helen announced that she had some home-study papers to look over and she
+knew they would excuse her under the circumstances. On that hint
+they departed simultaneously, separating at the gate and walking with
+deliberate dignity in opposite directions.
+
+At his third attempt, however, Albert was successful to the extent
+that Helen was alone when he called and there was no school work to
+interrupt. But in no other respect was the interview satisfactory.
+All that week he had been boiling with the indignation of the landed
+proprietor who discovers a trespasser on his estate, and before this
+call was fifteen minutes old his feelings had boiled over.
+
+“What IS the matter with you, Al?” asked Helen. “Do tell me and let's
+see if I can't help you out of your trouble.”
+
+Her visitor flushed. “Trouble?” he repeated, stiffly. “I don't know what
+you mean.”
+
+“Oh yes, do. You must. What IS the matter?”
+
+“There is nothing the matter with me.”
+
+“Nonsense! Of course there is. You have scarcely spoken a word of
+your own accord since you came, and you have been scowling like a
+thundercloud all the time. Now what is it? Have I done something you
+don't like?”
+
+“There is nothing the matter, I tell you.”
+
+“Please don't be so silly. Of course there is. I thought there must
+be something wrong the last time you were here, that evening, when Ed
+called, too. It seemed to me that you were rather queer then. Now you
+are queerer still. What is it?”
+
+This straightforward attack, although absolutely characteristic of
+Helen, was disconcerting. Albert met it by an attack of his own.
+
+“Helen,” he demanded, “what does that Raymond fellow mean by coming to
+see you as he does?”
+
+Now whether or not Helen was entirely in the dark as to the cause of her
+visitor's “queerness” is a question not to be answered here. She was far
+from being a stupid young person and it is at least probable that she
+may have guessed a little of the truth. But, being feminine, she did not
+permit Albert to guess that she had guessed. If her astonishment at the
+question was not entirely sincere, it certainly appeared to be so.
+
+“What does he mean?” she repeated. “What does he mean by coming to see
+me? Why, what do YOU mean? I should think that was the question. Why
+shouldn't he come to see me, pray?”
+
+Now Albert has a dozen reasons in his mind, each of which was to him
+sufficiently convincing. But expressing those reasons to Helen Kendall
+he found singularly difficult. He grew confused and stammered.
+
+“Well--well, because he has no business to come here so much,” was the
+best he could do. Helen, strange to say, was not satisfied.
+
+“Has no business to?” she repeated. “Why, of course he has. I asked him
+to come.”
+
+“You did? Good heavens, you don't LIKE him, do you?”
+
+“Of course I like him. I think he is a very nice fellow. Don't you?”
+
+“No, I don't.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Well--well, because I don't, that's all. He has no business to
+monopolize you all the time. Why, he is here about every night in the
+week, or you're out with him, down town, or--or somewhere. Everybody is
+talking about it and--”
+
+“Wait a minute, please. You say everybody is talking about Ed Raymond
+and me. What do you mean by that? What are they saying?”
+
+“They're saying. . . . Oh, they're saying you and he are--are--”
+
+“Are what?”
+
+“Are--are--Oh, they're saying all sorts of things. Look here, Helen,
+I--”
+
+“Wait! I want to know more about this. What have you heard said about
+me?”
+
+“Oh, a lot of things. . . . That is--er--well, nothing in particular,
+perhaps, but--”
+
+“Wait! Who have you heard saying it?”
+
+“Oh, never mind! Helen--”
+
+“But I do mind. Who have you heard saying this 'lot of things' about
+me?”
+
+“Nobody, I tell you. . . . Oh, well, if you must know, Issy Price
+said--well, he said you and this Raymond fellow were what he called
+'keeping company' and--and that the whole town was talking about it.”
+
+She slowly shook her head.
+
+“Issy Price!” she repeated. “And you listened to what Issy Price said.
+Issy Price, of all people!”
+
+“Well--well, he said everyone else said the same thing.”
+
+“Did he say more than that?”
+
+“No, but that was enough, wasn't it. Besides, the rest was plain. I
+could see it myself. He is calling here about every night in the week,
+and--and being around everywhere with you and--and--Oh, anyone can see!”
+
+Helen's usually placid temper was beginning to ruffle.
+
+“Very well,” she said, “then they may see. Why shouldn't he call here if
+he wishes--and I wish? Why shouldn't I be 'around with him,' as you say?
+Why not?”
+
+“Well, because I don't like it. It isn't the right thing for you to do.
+You ought to be more careful of--of what people say.”
+
+He realized, almost as soon as this last sentence was blurted out, the
+absolute tactlessness of it. The quiet gleam of humor he had so often
+noticed in Helen's eyes was succeeded now by a look he had never before
+seen there.
+
+“Oh, I'm sorry,” he added, hastily. “I beg your pardon, Helen. I didn't
+mean to say that. Forgive me, will you?”
+
+She did not answer immediately. Then she said, “I don't know whether I
+shall or not. I think I shall have to think it over. And perhaps you had
+better go now.”
+
+“But I'M sorry, Helen. It was a fool thing to say. I don't know why I
+was such an idiot. Do forgive me; come!”
+
+She slowly shook her head. “I can't--yet,” she said. “And this you must
+understand: If Ed Raymond, or anyone else, calls on me and I choose to
+permit it, or if I choose to go out with him anywhere at any time, that
+is my affair and not 'everyone else's'--which includes Issachar Price.
+And my FRIENDS--my real friends--will not listen to mean, ridiculous
+gossip. Good night.”
+
+So that was the end of that attempt at asserting the Divine Right by
+the South Harniss king of hearts. Albert was more miserable than ever,
+angrier than ever--not only at Raymond and Helen, but at himself--and
+his newly-discovered jealousy burned with a brighter and greener flame.
+The idea of throwing everything overboard, going to Canada and enlisting
+in the Canadian Army--an idea which had had a strong and alluring appeal
+ever since the war broke out--came back with redoubled force. But there
+was the agreement with his grandfather. He had given his word; how could
+he break it? Besides, to go away and leave his rival with a clear field
+did not appeal to him, either.
+
+On a Wednesday evening in the middle of September the final social event
+of the South Harniss summer season was to take place. The Society for
+the Relief of the French Wounded was to give a dance in the ballroom of
+the hotel, the proceeds from the sale of tickets to be devoted to the
+purpose defined by the name of this organization. Every last member
+of the summer colony was to attend, of course, and all those of the
+permanent residents who aspired to social distinction and cared to pay
+the high price of admission.
+
+Albert was going, naturally. That is, he had at first planned to go,
+then--after the disastrous call at the parsonage--decided that he would
+go under no circumstances, and at the last changed his mind once more
+to the affirmative. Miss Madeline Fosdick, Jane Kelsey's friend, was
+responsible for the final change. She it was who had sold him his ticket
+and urged him to be present. He and she had met several times since
+the first meeting at the post-office. Usually when they met they talked
+concerning poetry and kindred lofty topics. Albert liked Miss Fosdick.
+It is hard not to like a pretty, attractive young lady who takes such a
+flattering interest in one's aspirations and literary efforts. The “high
+brow chit-chats”--quoting Miss Kelsey again--were pleasant in many
+ways; for instance, they were in the nature of a tonic for weakened
+self-esteem, and the Speranza self-esteem was suffering just at this
+time, from shock.
+
+Albert had, when he first heard that the dance was to take place,
+intended inviting Helen to accompany him. He had taken her acceptance
+for granted, he having acted as her escort to so many dances and
+social affairs. So he neglected inviting her and then came Issy's
+mischief-making remarks and the trouble which followed. So, as inviting
+her was out of the question, he resolved not to attend, himself. But
+Miss Fosdick urged so prettily that he bought his ticket and promised to
+be among those present.
+
+“Provided, of course,” he ventured, being in a reckless mood, “that you
+save me at least four dances.” She raised her brows in mock dismay.
+
+“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “I'm afraid I couldn't do that. Four
+is much too many. One I will promise, but no more.”
+
+However, as he persisted, she yielded another. He was to have two dances
+and, possibly an “extra.”
+
+“And you are a lucky young man,” declared Jane Kelsey, who had also
+promised two. “If you knew how many fellows have begged for just one.
+But, of course,” she added, “THEY were not poets, second editions of
+Tennyson and Keats and all that. It is Keats who was the poet, isn't it,
+Madeline?” she added, turning to her friend. “Oh, I'm so glad I got it
+right the first time. I'm always mixing him up with Watts, the man who
+invented the hymns and wrote the steam-engine--or something.”
+
+The Wednesday evening in the middle of September was a beautiful one
+and the hotel was crowded. The Item, in its account the following week,
+enumerating those present, spoke of “Our new residents, Mrs. Fletcher
+Story Fosdick and Miss Madeline Fosdick, who are to occupy the
+magnificent residence now about being built on the Inlet Hill by their
+husband and father, respectively, Fletcher Story Fosdick, Esquire, the
+well-known New York banker.” The phrasing of this news note caused
+much joy in South Harniss, and the Item gained several new and hopeful
+subscribers.
+
+But when the gushing reporter responsible for this added that “Miss
+Fosdick was a dream of loveliness on this occasion” he was stating only
+the truth. She was very beautiful indeed and a certain young man who
+stepped up to claim his first dance realized the fact. The said young
+man was outwardly cool, but red-hot within, the internal rise in
+temperature being caused by the sight of Helen Kendall crossing the
+floor arm in arm with Edwin Raymond. Albert's face was white with anger,
+except for two red spots on his cheeks, and his black eyes flashed.
+Consequently he, too, was considered quite worth the looking at and
+feminine glances followed him.
+
+“Who is that handsome, foreign-looking fellow your friend is dancing
+with?” whispered one young lady, a guest at the hotel, to Miss Kelsey.
+Jane told her.
+
+“But he isn't a foreigner,” she added. “He lives here in South Harniss
+all the year. He is a poet, I believe, and Madeline, who knows about
+such things--inherits it from her mother, I suppose--says his poetry is
+beautiful.”
+
+Her companion watched the subject of their conversation as, with Miss
+Fosdick, he moved lightly and surely through the crowd on the floor.
+
+“He LOOKS like a poet,” she said, slowly. “He is wonderfully handsome,
+so distinguished, and SUCH a dancer! But why should a poet live
+here--all the year? Is that all he does for a living--write poetry?”
+
+Jane pretended not to hear her and, a masculine friend coming to claim
+his dance, seized the opportunity to escape. However, another “sitter
+out” supplied the information.
+
+“He is a sort of assistant bookkeeper at the lumber yard by the railroad
+station,” said this person. “His grandfather owns the place, I believe.
+One would never guess it to look at him now. . . . Humph! I wonder if
+Mrs. Fosdick knows. They say she is--well, not democratically inclined,
+to say the least.”
+
+Albert had his two promised dances with Madeline Fosdick, but the
+“extra” he did not obtain. Mrs. Fosdick, the ever watchful, had seen
+and made inquiries. Then she called her daughter to her and issued an
+ultimatum.
+
+“I am SO sorry,” said the young lady, in refusing the plea for the
+“extra.” “I should like to, but I--but Mother has asked me to dance with
+a friend of ours from home. I--I AM sorry, really.”
+
+She looked as if she meant it. Albert was sorry, too. This had been
+a strange evening, another combination of sweet and sour. He glanced
+across the floor and saw Helen and the inevitable Raymond emerge
+together from the room where the refreshments were served. Raging
+jealousy seized him at the sight. Helen had not been near him, had
+scarcely spoken to him since his arrival. He forgot that he had not been
+near nor spoken to her.
+
+He danced twice or thrice more with acquaintances, “summer” or
+permanent, and then decided to go home. Madeline Fosdick he saw at the
+other end of the room surrounded by a group of young masculinity.
+Helen he could not see at the moment. He moved in the direction of the
+coatroom. Just as he reached the door he was surprised to see Ed Raymond
+stride by him, head down and looking anything but joyful. He watched and
+was still more astonished to see the young man get his coat and hat from
+the attendant and walk out of the hotel. He saw him stride away
+along the drive and down the moonlit road. He was, apparently, going
+home--going home alone.
+
+He got his own coat and hat and, before putting them on, stepped back
+for a final look at the ballroom. As he stood by the cloakroom door
+someone touched his arm. Turning he saw Helen.
+
+“Why--why, Helen!” he exclaimed, in surprise.
+
+“Are you going home?” she asked, in a low tone.
+
+“Yes, I--”
+
+“And you are going alone?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Would you mind--would it trouble you too much to walk with me as far as
+our house?”
+
+“Why--why of course not. I shall be delighted. But I thought you--I
+thought Ed Raymond--”
+
+“No, I'm alone. Wait here; I will be ready in just a minute.”
+
+She hurried away. He gazed after her in bewilderment. She and he had
+scarcely exchanged a word during the evening, and now, when the evening
+was almost over, she came and asked him to be her escort. What in the
+wide world--?
+
+The minute she had specified had hardly elapsed when she reappeared,
+ready for out of doors. She took his arm and they walked down the steps
+of the hotel, past the group of lights at the head of the drive and
+along the road, with the moon shining down upon it and the damp, salt
+breeze from the ocean blowing across it. They walked for the first few
+minutes in silence. There were a dozen questions he would have liked to
+ask, but his jealous resentment had not entirely vanished and his pride
+forbade. It was she who spoke first.
+
+“Albert,” she said, “you must think this very odd.”
+
+He knew what she meant, but he did not choose to admit it.
+
+“What?” he asked.
+
+“Why, my asking you to walk home with me, after--after our trouble. It
+is strange, I suppose, particularly as you had not spoken before this
+whole evening.”
+
+“_I_--spoken to YOU? Why, you bowed to me when I came into the room and
+that was the only sign of recognition you gave me until just now. Not a
+dance--not one.”
+
+“Did you expect me to look you up and beg you to dance with me?”
+
+“Did you expect me to trot at that fellow's heels and wait my chance to
+get a word with you, to take what he left? I should say not! By George,
+Helen, I--”
+
+She interrupted him. “Hush, hush!” she pleaded. “This is all so silly,
+so childish. And we mustn't quarrel any more. I have made up my mind to
+that. We mustn't.”
+
+“Humph! All right, _I_ had no thought of quarreling in the beginning.
+But there are some things a self-respecting chap can't stand. I have
+SOME pride, I hope.”
+
+She caught her breath quickly. “Do you think,” she asked, “that it was
+no sacrifice to my pride to beg you to walk home with me? After--after
+the things you said the other evening? Oh, Albert, how could you say
+them!”
+
+“Well--” he hesitated, and then added, “I told you I was sorry.”
+
+“Yes, but you weren't really sorry. You must have believed the things
+that hateful Issachar Price said or you wouldn't have repeated them.
+. . . Oh, but never mind that now, I didn't mean to speak of it at all. I
+asked you to walk home with me because I wanted to make up our quarrel.
+Yes, that was it. I didn't want to go away and feel that you and I were
+not as good friends as ever. So, you see, I put all MY pride to one
+side--and asked.”
+
+One phrase in one sentence of this speech caught and held the young
+man's attention. He forgot the others.
+
+“You are going away?” he repeated. “What do you mean? Where are you
+going?”
+
+“I am going to Cambridge to study. I am going to take some courses at
+Radcliffe. You know I told you I hoped to some day. Well, it has
+been arranged. I am to live with my cousin, father's half sister in
+Somerville. Father is well enough to leave now and I have engaged a
+capable woman, Mrs. Peters, to help Maria with the housework. I am going
+Friday morning, the day after to-morrow.”
+
+He stopped short to stare at her.
+
+“You are going away?” he asked, again. “You are going to do that
+and--and--Why didn't you tell me before?”
+
+It was a characteristic return to his attitude of outraged royalty. She
+had made all these plans, had arranged to do this thing, and he had
+not been informed. At another time Helen might have laughed at him; she
+generally did when he became what she called the “Grand Bashaw.” She did
+not laugh now, however, but answered quietly.
+
+“I didn't know I was going to do it until a little more than a week
+ago,” she said. “And I have not seen you since then.”
+
+“No, you've been too busy seeing someone else.”
+
+She lost patience for the instant. “Oh, don't, don't, don't!” she cried.
+“I know who you mean, of course. You mean Ed Raymond. Don't you know why
+he has been at the house so much of late? Why he and I have been so much
+together? Don't you really know?”
+
+“What? . . . No, I don't--except that you and he wanted to be together.”
+
+“And it didn't occur to you that there might be some other reason? You
+forgot, I suppose, that he and I were appointed on the Ticket Committee
+for this very dance?”
+
+He had forgotten it entirely. Now he remembered perfectly the meeting
+of the French Relief Society at which the appointment had been made. In
+fact Helen herself had told him of it at the time. For the moment he was
+staggered, but he rallied promptly.
+
+“Committee meetings may do as an excuse for some things,” he said, “but
+they don't explain the rest--his calls here every other evening and--and
+so on. Honest now, Helen, you know he hasn't been running after you in
+this way just because he is on that committee with you; now don't you?”
+
+They were almost at the parsonage. The light from Mr. Kendall's study
+window shone through the leaves of the lilac bush behind the white
+fence. Helen started to speak, but hesitated. He repeated his question.
+
+“Now don't you?” he urged.
+
+“Why, why, yes, I suppose I do,” she said, slowly. “I do know--now. But
+I didn't even think of such a thing until--until you came that evening
+and told me what Issy Price said.”
+
+“You mean you didn't guess at all?”
+
+“Well--well, perhaps I--I thought he liked to come--liked to--Oh, what
+is the use of being silly! I did think he liked to call, but only as a
+friend. He was jolly and lots of fun and we were both fond of music. I
+enjoyed his company. I never dreamed that there was anything more than
+that until you came and were so--disagreeable. And even then I didn't
+believe--until to-night.”
+
+Again she hesitated. “To-night?” he repeated. “What happened to-night?”
+
+“Oh nothing. I can't tell you. Oh, why can't friends be friends and not.
+. . . That is why I spoke to you, Albert, why I wanted to have this talk
+with you. I was going away so soon and I couldn't bear to go with any
+unfriendliness between us. There mustn't be. Don't you see?”
+
+He heard but a part of this. The memory of Raymond's face as he had seen
+it when the young man strode out of the cloakroom and out of the hotel
+came back to him and with it a great heart-throbbing sense of relief, of
+triumph. He seized her hand.
+
+“Helen,” he cried, “did he--did you tell him--Oh, by George, Helen,
+you're the most wonderful girl in the world! I'm--I--Oh, Helen, you know
+I--I--”
+
+It was not his habit to be at a loss for words, but he was just then. He
+tried to retain her hand, to put his arm about her.
+
+“Oh, Helen!” he cried. “You're wonderful! You're splendid! I'm crazy
+about you! I really am! I--”
+
+She pushed him gently away. “Don't! Please don't!” she said. “Oh,
+don't!”
+
+“But I must. Don't you see I. . . . Why, you're crying!”
+
+Her face had, for a moment, been upturned. The moon at that moment had
+slipped behind a cloud, but the lamplight from the window had shown
+him the tears in her eyes. He was amazed. He could have shouted, have
+laughed aloud from joy or triumphant exultation just then, but to weep!
+What occasion was there for tears, except on Ed Raymond's part?
+
+“You're crying!” he repeated. “Why, Helen--!”
+
+“Don't!” she said, again. “Oh, don't! Please don't talk that way.”
+
+“But don't you want me to, Helen? I--I want you to know how I feel. You
+don't understand. I--”
+
+“Hush! . . . Don't, Al, don't, please. Don't talk in that way. I don't
+want you to.”
+
+“But why not?”
+
+“Oh, because I don't. It's--it is foolish. You're only a boy, you know.”
+
+“A boy! I'm more than a year older than you are.”
+
+“Are you? Why yes, I suppose you are, really. But that doesn't make any
+difference. I guess girls are older than boys when they are our age,
+lots older.”
+
+“Oh, bother all that! We aren't kids, either of us. I want you to
+listen. You don't understand what I'm trying to say.”
+
+“Yes, I do. But I'm sure you don't. You are glad because you have
+found you have no reason to be jealous of Ed Raymond and that makes you
+say--foolish things. But I'm not going to have our friendship spoiled
+in that way. I want us to be real friends, always. So you mustn't be
+silly.”
+
+“I'm not silly. Helen, if you won't listen to anything else, will you
+listen to this? Will you promise me that while you are away you won't
+have other fellows calling on you or--or anything like that? And I'll
+promise you that I'll have nothing to say to another girl--in any way
+that counts, I mean. Shall we promise each other that, Helen? Come!”
+
+She paused for some moment before answering, but her reply, when it
+came, was firm.
+
+“No,” she said, “I don't think we should promise anything, except to
+remain friends. You might promise and then be sorry, later.”
+
+“_I_ might? How about you?”
+
+“Perhaps we both might. So we won't take the risk. You may come and see
+me to-morrow evening and say good-by, if you like. But you mustn't stay
+long. It is my last night with father for some time and I mustn't cheat
+him out of it. Good night, Albert. I'm so glad our misunderstanding is
+over, aren't you?”
+
+“Of course I am. But, Helen--”
+
+“I must go in now. Good night.”
+
+The reflections of Alberto Speranza during his walk back to the Snow
+place were varied but wonderful. He thought of Raymond's humiliation
+and gloried in it. He thought of Helen and rhapsodized. And if,
+occasionally, he thought also of the dance and of Madeline Fosdick,
+forgive him. He was barely twenty-one and the moon was shining.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+The good-by call the following evening was, to him at least, not very
+satisfactory. Helen was tired, having been busy all day with the final
+preparations for leaving, and old Mr. Kendall insisted on being present
+during the entire visit and in telling long and involved stories of the
+trip abroad he had made when a young man and the unfavorable opinion
+which he had then formed of Prussians as traveling companions. Albert's
+opinion of Prussians was at least as unfavorable as his own, but his
+complete and even eager agreement with each of the old gentleman's
+statements did not have the effect of choking the latter off, but rather
+seemed to act as encouragement for more. When ten o'clock came and it
+was time to go Albert felt as if he had been listening to a lecture on
+the Hohenzollerns. “Great Scott, Helen,” he whispered, as she came to
+the door with him, “I don't feel as if I had talked with you a minute.
+Why, I scarcely--”
+
+But just here Mr. Kendall came hurrying from the sitting-room to tell
+of one incident which he had hitherto forgotten, and so even this brief
+interval of privacy was denied. But Albert made one more attempt.
+
+“I'm going to run over to the station to-morrow morning to see you off,”
+ he called from the gate. “Good night.”
+
+The morning train left at nine o'clock, and at a quarter to nine Albert,
+who had kept his eye on the clock ever since eight, his hour of arriving
+at the office, called to Mr. Price.
+
+“I say,” he said, in a low tone and one as casual as he could assume, “I
+am going to run out for a few minutes. I'll be right back.”
+
+Issachar's response was as usual anything but low.
+
+“Eh?” he shouted. “Goin' out? Where you goin'?”
+
+“Oh, I'm just going out--er--on an errand.”
+
+“What kind of an errand? I was cal'latin' to run out myself for a little
+spell. Can't I do your errand for you?”
+
+“No, no. . . There, there, don't bother me any more. I'm in a hurry.”
+
+“Hurry! So'm I in a hurry. I was cal'latin' to run acrost to the deepo
+and see Helen Kendall start for Boston. She's goin' this morning; did
+you know it?”
+
+Before the somewhat flustered assistant bookkeeper could reply Captain
+Zelotes called from the inner office:
+
+“Wouldn't wonder if that was where Al was bound, too,” he observed. “And
+I was thinkin' of the same thing. Suppose we all go together. Labe'll
+keep shop, won't you, Labe?”
+
+Mr. Keeler looked over his spectacles. “Eh?” he observed. “Oh, yes, yes
+. . . yes, yes, yes. And say good-by to Helen for me, some of you, if
+you happen to think of it. Not that 'twill make much difference to her,”
+ he added, “whether she gets my good-bys or not, but it might make some
+to me. . . . Um, yes, yes.”
+
+Mr. Price was eager to oblige.
+
+“I'll tell her you sent 'em, Labe,” he said, patronizingly. “Set your
+mind to rest; I'll tell her.”
+
+Laban's lip twitched. “Much obliged, Is,” he chirruped. “That's a great
+relief! My mind's rested some already.”
+
+So, instead of going alone to the railway station, Albert made one of a
+delegation of three. And at the station was Mr. Kendall, and two of the
+school committee, and one or two members of the church sewing circle,
+and the president and secretary of the Society for the Relief of the
+French Wounded. So far from being an intimate confidential farewell,
+Helen's departure was in the nature of a public ceremony with
+speech-making. Mr. Price made most of the speeches, in fact the lower
+portion of his countenance was in violent motion most of the ten
+minutes.
+
+“Take care of yourself, Helen,” he urged loudly. “Don't you worry about
+your pa, we'll look out for him. And don't let none of them Boston
+fellers carry you off. We'll watch and see that Eddie Raymond and Al
+here don't get into mischief while you're gone. I . . . Crimustee! Jim
+Young, what in time's the matter with you? Can't ye see nothin'?”
+
+This last outburst was directed at the driver of the depot-wagon, who,
+wheeling a trunk on a baggage truck, had bumped violently into the rear
+of Mr. Price's legs, just at the knee joint, causing their owner to bend
+backward unexpectedly, and with enthusiasm.
+
+“Can't you see nothin' when it's right in front of ye?” demanded
+Issachar, righteously indignant.
+
+Jim Young winked over his shoulder at Albert. “Sorry, Is,” he said, as
+he continued toward the baggage car. “I didn't notice you WAS in front
+of me.”
+
+“Well, then, you'd better. . . . Eh? See here, what do you mean by
+that?”
+
+Even after Mr. Price had thus been pushed out of the foreground, so to
+speak, Albert was denied the opportunity of taking his place by Helen's
+side. Her father had a few last messages to deliver, then Captain
+Zelotes shook her hand and talked for a moment, and, after that, the
+ladies of the sewing circle and the war work society felt it their duty
+to, severally and jointly, kiss her good-by. This last was a trying
+operation to watch.
+
+Then the engine bell rang and the train began to move. Albert, running
+beside the platform of the last car, held up his hand for a farewell
+clasp.
+
+“Good-by,” he said, and added in a whisper, “You'll write, won't you?”
+
+“Of course. And so must you. Good-by.”
+
+The last car and the handkerchief waving figure on its platform
+disappeared around the curve. The little group by the station broke up.
+Albert and his grandfather walked over to the office together.
+
+“There goes a good girl, Al,” was Captain Lote's only comment. “A mighty
+good capable girl.”
+
+Albert nodded. A moment later he lifted his hat to a group in a passing
+automobile.
+
+“Who were those folks?” asked the Captain.
+
+“The Fosdicks,” was the reply. “The people who are going to build down
+by the Inlet.”
+
+It was Madeline and her mother. The latter had been serenely
+indifferent, but the young lady had smiled and bowed behind the maternal
+shoulders.
+
+“Oh; that so?” observed Captain Zelotes, looking after the flying car
+with interest. “That's who 'tis, eh? Nice lookin', the young one, ain't
+she?”
+
+Albert did not answer. With the noise of the train which was carrying
+Helen out of his life still ringing in his ears it seemed wicked even to
+mention another girl's name, to say nothing of commenting upon her good
+looks. For the rest of that day he was a gloomy spirit, a dark shadow in
+the office of Z. Snow and Co.
+
+Before the end of another fortnight the season at South Harniss was
+definitely over. The hotel closed on the Saturday following the dance,
+and by October first the last of the cottages was locked and shuttered.
+The Kelseys went on the twentieth and the Fosdicks went with them.
+Albert met Madeline and Jane at the post-office in the evening of the
+nineteenth and there more farewells were said.
+
+“Don't forget us down here in the sand, will you?” he suggested to Miss
+Fosdick. It was Jane Kelsey who answered.
+
+“Oh, she won't forget,” returned that young lady. “Why she has your
+photograph to remember you by.”
+
+Madeline colored becomingly and was, as Jane described it, “awfully
+fussed.”
+
+“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, with much indignation, “I haven't any such
+thing. You know I haven't, Jane.”
+
+“Yes, you have, my dear. You have a photograph of him standing in front
+of the drug store and looking dreamily in at--at the strawberry sundaes.
+It is a most romantic pose, really.”
+
+Albert laughed. He remembered the photograph. It was one of a series of
+snapshots taken with Miss Kelsey's camera one Saturday afternoon when
+a party of young people had met in front of the sundae dispensary. Jane
+had insisted on “snapping” everyone.
+
+“That reminds me that I have never seen the rest of those photographs,”
+ he said.
+
+“Haven't you?” exclaimed Jane. “Well, you ought to see them. I have
+Madeline's with me. It is a dream, if I do say it as I took it.”
+
+She produced the snapshot, which showed her friend standing beside the
+silver-leaf tree before the druggist's window and smiling at the camera.
+It was a good likeness and, consequently, a very pretty picture.
+
+“Isn't it a dream, just as I said?” demanded the artist. “Honest now,
+isn't it?”
+
+Albert of course declared it to be beyond praise.
+
+“May I have this one?” he asked, on the impulse of the moment.
+
+“Don't ask me, stupid,” commanded Jane, mischievously. “It isn't my
+funeral--or my portrait, either.”
+
+“May I?” he repeated, turning to Madeline. She hesitated.
+
+“Why--why yes, you may, if you care for it,” she said. “That particular
+one is Jane's, anyway, and if she chooses to give it away I don't see
+how I can prevent her. But why you should want the old thing I can't
+conceive. I look as stiff and wooden as a sign-post.”
+
+Jane held up a protesting finger.
+
+“Fibs, fibs, fibs,” she observed. “Can't conceive why he should want it!
+As if you weren't perfectly aware that he will wear it next his heart
+and--Oh, don't put it in THAT pocket! I said next your heart, and that
+isn't on your RIGHT side.”
+
+Albert took the photograph home and stuck it between the frame and glass
+of his bureau. Then came a sudden remembrance of his parting with Helen
+and with it a twinge of conscience. He had begged her to have nothing
+to do with any other fellow. True she had refused to promise and
+consequently he also was unbound, but that made no difference--should
+not make any. So he put the photograph at the back of the drawer where
+he kept his collars and ties, with a resolve never to look at it. He did
+not look at it--very often.
+
+Then came another long winter. He ground away at the bookkeeping--he was
+more proficient at it, but he hated it as heartily as ever--and wrote
+a good deal of verse and some prose. For the first time he sold a prose
+article, a short story, to a minor magazine. He wrote long letters to
+Helen and she replied. She was studying hard, she liked her work, and
+she had been offered the opportunity to tutor in a girls' summer camp in
+Vermont during July and August and meant to accept provided her father's
+health continued good. Albert protested violently against her being
+absent from South Harniss for so long. “You will scarcely be home at
+all,” he wrote. “I shall hardly see you. What am I going to do? As it
+is now I miss you--” and so on for four closely written pages. Having
+gotten into the spirit of composition he, so to speak, gloried in his
+loneliness, so much so that Helen was moved to remonstrate. “Your letter
+made me almost miserable,” she wrote, “until I had read it over twice.
+Then I began to suspect that you were enjoying your wretchedness,
+or enjoying writing about it. I truly don't believe anyone--you
+especially--could be quite as lonesome as all that. Honestly now,
+Albert, weren't you exaggerating a little? I rather think you were?”
+
+He had been, of course, but it irritated him to think that she
+recognized the fact. She had an uncanny faculty of seeing through his
+every pretense. In his next letter he said nothing whatever about being
+lonesome.
+
+At home, and at the office, the war was what people talked about most
+of the time. Since the Lusitania's sinking Captain Zelotes had been a
+battle charger chafing at the bit. He wanted to fight and to fight at
+once.
+
+“We've got to do it, Mother,” he declared, over and over again. “Sooner
+or later we've got to fight that Kaiser gang. What are we waitin' for;
+will somebody tell me that?”
+
+Olive, as usual, was mild and unruffled.
+
+“Probably the President knows as much about it as you and me, Zelotes,”
+ she suggested. “I presume likely he has his own reasons.”
+
+“Humph! When Seth Bassett got up in the night and took a drink out of
+the bottle of Paris Green by mistake 'Bial Cahoon asked him what in time
+he kept Paris Green in his bedroom for, anyhow. All that Seth would say
+was that he had his own reasons. The rest of the town was left to guess
+what those reasons was. That's what the President's doin'--keepin' us
+guessin'. By the everlastin', if I was younger I'd ship aboard a British
+lime-juicer and go and fight, myself!”
+
+It was Rachel Ellis who caused the Captain to be a bit more restrained
+in his remarks.
+
+“You hadn't ought to talk that way, Cap'n Lote,” she said. “Not when
+Albert's around, you hadn't.”
+
+“Eh? Why not?”
+
+“Because the first thing you know he'll be startin' for Canada to
+enlist. He's been crazy to do it for 'most a year.”
+
+“He has? How do you know he has?”
+
+“Because he's told me so, more'n once.”
+
+Her employer looked at her.
+
+“Humph!” he grunted. “He seems to tell you a good many things he doesn't
+tell the rest of us.”
+
+The housekeeper nodded. “Yes,” she said gravely, “I shouldn't wonder
+if he did.” A moment later she added, “Cap'n Lote, you will be careful,
+won't you? You wouldn't want Al to go off and leave Z. Snow and Company
+when him and you are gettin' on so much better. You ARE gettin' on
+better, ain't you?”
+
+The captain pulled at his beard.
+
+“Yes,” he admitted, “seems as if we was. He ain't any wonder at
+bookkeepin', but he's better'n he used to be; and he does seem to try
+hard, I'll say that for him.”
+
+Rachael beamed gratification. “He'll be a Robert Penfold yet,” she
+declared; “see if he isn't. So you musn't encourage him into enlistin'
+in the Canadian army. You wouldn't want him to do that any more'n the
+rest of us would.”
+
+The captain gazed intently into the bowl of the pipe which he had been
+cleaning. He made no answer.
+
+“You wouldn't want him to do that, would you?” repeated the housekeeper.
+
+Captain Lote blew through the pipe stem. Then he said, “No, I wouldn't
+. . . but I'm darn glad he's got the spunk to WANT to do it. We may
+get that Portygee streak out of him, poetry and all, give us time; eh,
+Rachael?”
+
+It was the first time in months that he had used the word “Portygee” in
+connection with his grandson. Mrs. Ellis smiled to herself.
+
+In April the arbutus buds began to appear above the leaf mold between
+the scrub oaks in the woods, and the walls of Fletcher Fosdick's new
+summer home began to rise above the young pines on the hill by the
+Inlet in the Bay Road. The Item kept its readers informed, by weekly
+installments, of the progress made by the builders.
+
+
+The lumber for Mr. Fletcher Fosdick's new cottage is beginning to be
+hauled to his property on Inlet Hill in this town. Our enterprising firm
+of South Harniss dealers, Z. Snow & Co., are furnishing said lumber.
+Mr. Nehemiah Nickerson is to do the mason work. Mr. Fosdick shows good
+judgment as well as a commendable spirit in engaging local talent in
+this way. We venture to say he will never regret it.
+
+
+A week later:
+
+
+Mr. Fletcher Fosdick's new residence is beginning building, the
+foundation being pretty near laid.
+
+
+And the following week:
+
+
+The Fosdick mansion is growing fast. South Harniss may well be proud of
+its new ornament.
+
+
+The rise in three successive numbers from “cottage” to “mansion” is
+perhaps sufficient to indicate that the Fosdick summer home was to be,
+as Issachar Price described it, “Some considerable house! Yes sir, by
+crimus, some considerable!”
+
+In June, Helen came home for a week. At the end of the week she left to
+take up her new duties at the summer camp for girls in Vermont. Albert
+and she were together a good deal during that week. Anticipating her
+arrival, the young man's ardent imagination had again fanned what he
+delighted to think of as his love for her into flame. During the
+last months of the winter he had not played the languishing swain as
+conscientiously as during the autumn. Like the sailor in the song
+“is 'eart was true to Poll” always, but he had broken away from his
+self-imposed hermitage in his room at the Snow place several times
+to attend sociables, entertainments and, even, dances. Now, when
+she returned he was eagerly awaiting her and would have haunted the
+parsonage before and after working hours of every day as well as the
+evening, if she had permitted, and when with her assumed a proprietary
+air which was so obvious that even Mr. Price felt called upon to comment
+on it.
+
+“Say, Al,” drawled Issachar, “cal'late you've cut out Eddie Raymond
+along with Helen, ain't ye? Don't see him hangin' around any since she
+got back, and the way you was actin' when I see you struttin' into the
+parsonage yard last night afore mail time made me think you must have a
+first mortgage on Helen and her pa and the house and the meetin'-house
+and two-thirds of the graveyard. I never see such an important-lookin'
+critter in MY life. Haw, haw! Eh? How 'bout it?”
+
+Albert did not mind the Price sarcasm; instead he felt rather grateful
+to have the proletariat recognize that he had triumphed again. The fly
+in his ointment, so to speak, was the fact that Helen herself did not in
+the least recognize that triumph. She laughed at him.
+
+“Don't look at me like that, please, please, don't,” she begged.
+
+“Why not?” with a repetition of the look.
+
+“Because it is silly.”
+
+“Silly! Well, I like that! Aren't you and I engaged? Or just the same as
+engaged?”
+
+“No, of course we are not.”
+
+“But we promised each other--”
+
+“No, we did not. And you know we didn't.”
+
+“Helen, why do you treat me that way? Don't you know that--that I just
+worship the ground you tread on? Don't you know you're the only girl in
+this world I could ever care for? Don't you know that?”
+
+They were walking home from church Sunday morning and had reached the
+corner below the parsonage. There, screened by the thicket of young
+silver-leafs, she stopped momentarily and looked into his face. Then she
+walked on.
+
+“Don't you know how much I care?” he repeated.
+
+She shook her head. “You think you do now, perhaps,” she said, “but you
+will change your mind.”
+
+“What do you mean by that? How do you know I will?”
+
+“Because I know you. There, there, Albert, we won't quarrel, will we?
+And we won't be silly. You're an awfully nice boy, but you are just a
+boy, you know.”
+
+He was losing his temper.
+
+“This is ridiculous!” he declared. “I'm tired of being grandmothered
+by you. I'm older than you are, and I know what I'm doing. Come, Helen,
+listen to me.”
+
+But she would not listen, and although she was always kind and frank and
+friendly, she invariably refused to permit him to become sentimental. It
+irritated him, and after she had gone the irritation still remained. He
+wrote her as before, although not quite so often, and the letters were
+possibly not quite so long. His pride was hurt and the Speranza pride
+was a tender and important part of the Speranza being. If Helen noted
+any change in his letters she did not refer to it nor permit it to
+influence her own, which were, as always, lengthy, cheerful, and full of
+interest in him and his work and thoughts.
+
+During the previous fall, while under the new influence aroused in him
+by his discovery that Helen Kendall was “the most wonderful girl in the
+world,” said discovery of course having been previously made for him by
+the unfortunate Raymond, he had developed a habit of wandering off into
+the woods or by the seashore to be alone and to seek inspiration. When
+a young poet is in love, or fancies himself in love, inspiration is
+usually to be found wherever sought, but even at that age and to one in
+that condition solitude is a marked aid in the search. There were two
+or three spots which had become Albert Speranza's favorites. One was a
+high, wind-swept knoll, overlooking the bay, about a half mile from the
+hotel, another was a secluded nook in the pine grove beside Carver's
+Pond, a pretty little sheet of water on the Bayport boundary. On
+pleasant Saturday afternoons or Sundays, when the poetic fit was on
+him, Albert, with a half dozen pencils in his pocket, and a rhyming
+dictionary and a scribbling pad in another, was wont to stroll towards
+one or the other of these two retreats. There he would sprawl amid the
+beachgrass or upon the pine-needles and dream and think and, perhaps,
+ultimately write.
+
+One fair Saturday in late June he was at the first of these respective
+points. Lying prone on the beach grass at the top of the knoll and
+peering idly out between its stems at the water shimmering in the summer
+sun, he was endeavoring to find a subject for a poem which should deal
+with love and war as requested by the editor of the Columbian Magazine.
+“Give us something with a girl and a soldier in it,” the editor had
+written. Albert's mind was lazily drifting in search of the pleasing
+combination.
+
+The sun was warm, the breeze was light, the horizon was veiled with a
+liquid haze. Albert's mind was veiled with a similar haze and the idea
+he wanted would not come. He was losing his desire to find it and was,
+in fact, dropping into a doze when aroused by a blood-curdling outburst
+of barks and yelps and growls behind him, at his very heels. He came
+out of his nap with a jump and, scrambling to a sitting position and
+turning, he saw a small Boston bull-terrier standing within a yard of
+his ankles and, apparently, trying to turn his brindled outside in, or
+his inside out, with spiteful ferocity. Plainly the dog had come upon
+him unexpectedly and was expressing alarm, suspicion and disapproval.
+
+Albert jerked his ankles out of the way and said “Hello, boy,” in as
+cheerfully cordial a tone as he could muster at such short notice. The
+dog took a step forward, evidently with the idea of always keeping the
+ankles within jumping distance, showed a double row of healthy teeth and
+growled and barked with renewed violence.
+
+“Nice dog,” observed Albert. The nice dog made a snap at the nearest
+ankle and, balked of his prey by a frenzied kick of the foot attached to
+the ankle, shrieked, snarled and gurgled like a canine lunatic.
+
+“Go home, you ugly brute,” commanded the young man, losing patience, and
+looking about for a stone or stick. On the top of that knoll the largest
+stone was the size of a buckshot and the nearest stick was, to be Irish,
+a straw.
+
+“Nice doggie! Nice old boy! Come and be patted! . . . Clear out with
+you! Go home, you beast!”
+
+Flatteries and threats were alike in their result. The dog continued to
+snarl and growl, darting toward the ankles occasionally. Evidently he
+was mustering courage for the attack. Albert in desperation scooped up
+a handful of sand. If worst came to worst he might blind the creature
+temporarily. What would happen after that was not clear. Unless he might
+by a lucky cast fill the dog's interior so full of sand that--like the
+famous “Jumping Frog”--it would be too heavy to navigate, he saw no
+way of escape from a painful bite, probably more than one. What Captain
+Zelotes had formerly called his “Portygee temper” flared up.
+
+“Oh, damn you, clear out!” he shouted, springing to his feet.
+
+From a little way below him; in fact, from behind the next dune, between
+himself and the beach, a feminine voice called his name.
+
+“Oh, Mr. Speranza!” it said. “Is it you? I'm so glad!”
+
+Albert turned, but the moment he did so the dog made a dash at his legs,
+so he was obliged to turn back again and kick violently.
+
+“Oh, I am so glad it is you,” said the voice again. “I was sure it was a
+dreadful tramp. Googoo loathes tramps.”
+
+As an article of diet that meant, probably. Googoo--if that was the
+dog's name--was passionately fond of poets, that was self-evident, and
+intended to make a meal of this one, forthwith. He flew at the Speranza
+ankles. Albert performed a most undignified war dance, and dashed his
+handful of sand into Googoo's open countenance. For a minute or so there
+was a lively shindy on top of that knoll. At the end of the minute the
+dog, held tightly in a pair of feminine arms, was emitting growls
+and coughs and sand, while Madeline Fosdick and Albert Speranza were
+kneeling in more sand and looking at each other.
+
+“Oh, did he bite you?” begged Miss Fosdick.
+
+“No . . . no, I guess not,” was the reply. “I--I scarcely know yet.
+. . . Why, when did you come? I didn't know you were in town.”
+
+“We came yesterday. Motored from home, you know. I--be still, Goo, you
+bad thing! It was such a lovely day that I couldn't resist going for
+a walk along the beach. I took Googoo because he does love it so,
+and--Goo, be still, I tell you! I am sure he thinks you are a tramp, out
+here all alone in the--in the wilderness. And what were you doing here?”
+
+Albert drew a long breath. “I was half asleep, I guess,” he said, “when
+he broke loose at my heels. I woke up quick enough then, as you may
+imagine. And so you are here for the summer? Your new house isn't
+finished, is it?”
+
+“No, not quite. Mother and Goo and I are at the hotel for a month.
+But you haven't answered my question. What were you doing off here all
+alone? Have you been for a walk, too?”
+
+“Not exactly. I--well, I come here pretty often. It is one of my
+favorite hiding places. You see, I . . . don't laugh if I tell you, will
+you?”
+
+“Of course not. Go on; this is very mysterious and interesting.”
+
+“Well, I come here sometimes on pleasant days, to be alone--and write.”
+
+“Write? Write poetry, do you mean?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Oh, how wonderful! Were you writing when I--when Goo interrupted you?”
+
+“No; I had made two or three attempts, but nothing that I did satisfied
+me. I had just about decided to tear them up and to give up trying for
+this afternoon.”
+
+“Oh, I hope you won't tear them up. I'm sure they shouldn't be. Perhaps
+you were not in a proper mood to judge, yourself.”
+
+“Perhaps not. Perhaps they might look a little less hopeless to some one
+else. But that person would have to be really interested, and there are
+few people in South Harniss who know or care anything about poetry.”
+
+“I suppose that is true. I--I don't suppose you would care to show them
+to me, would you?”
+
+“Why,” eagerly, “would you really care to see them?”
+
+“Indeed I should! Not that my judgment or advice is worth anything, of
+course. But I am very, very fond of poetry, and to see how a real poet
+wrote would be wonderful. And if I could help you, even the least little
+bit, it would be such an honor.”
+
+This sort of thing was balm to the Speranza spirit. Albert's
+temperamental ego expanded under it like a rosebud under a summer sun.
+Yet there was a faint shadow of doubt--she might be making fun of him.
+He looked at her intently and she seemed to read his thoughts, for she
+said:
+
+“Oh, I mean it! Please believe I do. I haven't spoken that way when Jane
+was with me, for she wouldn't understand and would laugh, but I mean it,
+Mr. Speranza. It would be an honor--a great honor.”
+
+So the still protesting and rebellious Googoo was compelled to go a few
+feet away and lie down, while his mistress and the young man whom he had
+attempted to devour bent their heads together over a scribbling-pad
+and talked and exclaimed during the whole of that hour and a full
+three-quarters of the next. Then the distant town clock in the steeple
+of the Congregational church boomed five times and Miss Fosdick rose to
+her feet.
+
+“Oh,” she said, “it can't really be five o'clock, can it? But it is!
+What WILL mother fancy has become of me? I must go this minute. Thank
+you, Mr. Speranza. I have enjoyed this so much. It has been a wonderful
+experience.”
+
+Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were shining. She had grown
+handsomer than ever during the winter months. Albert's eyes were shining
+also as he impulsively seized her hand.
+
+“Thank you, Miss Fosdick,” he said. “You have helped me more than I
+can tell you. I was about to give up in despair before you came, and
+now--now I KNOW I shall write the best thing I have ever done. And you
+will be responsible for it.”
+
+She caught her breath. “Oh, not really!” she exclaimed. “You don't mean
+it, really?”
+
+“Indeed I do! If I might have your help and sympathy once in awhile, I
+believe--I believe I could do almost anything. Will you help me again
+some day? I shall be here almost every pleasant Saturday and Sunday
+afternoon. Will you come again?”
+
+She hesitated. “I--I'll see; perhaps,” she answered hurriedly. “But I
+must go now. Come, Goo.”
+
+She hastened away, down the knoll and along the beach toward the hotel.
+Googoo followed her, turning occasionally to cast diabolical glances at
+the Speranza ankles. Albert gazed until the graceful figure in the trim
+sport costume disappeared behind the corner of the point of the beach.
+Just at the point she paused to wave to him. He waved in return. Then
+he tramped homeward. There was deep sand beneath his feet and, later,
+pine-needles and grass. They were all alike to him, for he was traveling
+on air.
+
+That evening at supper his radiant appearance caused comment.
+
+“What makes you look so happy, Albert?” asked his grandmother. “Seems to
+me I never saw you look so sort of--well, glorified, as you might say.
+What is the reason?”
+
+The glorified one reddened and was confused. He stammered that he did
+not know, he was not aware of any particular reason.
+
+Mrs. Ellis beamed upon him. “I presume likely his bookkeepin' at the
+office has been goin' pretty well lately,” she suggested.
+
+Captain Zelote's gray eyes twinkled. “Cal'late he's been makin' up more
+poetry about girls,” was his offering. “Another one of those pieces
+about teeth like pearls and hair all curls, or somethin' like that. Say,
+Al, why don't you poetry-makin' fellers try a new one once in a while?
+Say, 'Her hair's like rope and her face has lost hope.' Eh? Why not, for
+a change?”
+
+The protests on the part of Olive and the housekeeper against the
+captain's innovation in poetry-making had the effect of distracting
+attention from Albert's “glorified” appearance. The young man himself
+was thankful for the respite.
+
+That night before he retired he took Madeline Fosdick's photograph from
+the back of the drawer among the ties and collars and looked at it for
+five minutes at least. She was a handsome girl, certainly. Not that
+that made any difference to him. And she was an intelligent girl; she
+understood his poetry and appreciated it. Yes, and she understood him,
+too, almost as well as Helen. . . . Helen! He hastily returned the
+Fosdick photograph to the drawer; but this time he did not put it quite
+so near the back.
+
+On the following Saturday he was early at the knoll, a brand-new
+scribbling-pad in his pocket and in his mind divine gems which
+were later, and with Miss Fosdick's assistance, to be strung into
+a glittering necklace of lyric song and draped, with the stringer's
+compliments, about the throat of a grateful muse. But no gems were
+strung that day. Madeline did not put in an appearance, and by and by
+it began to rain, and Albert walked home, damp, dejected, and disgusted.
+When, a day or two later, he met Miss Fosdick at the post office and
+asked why she had not come he learned that her mother had insisted upon
+a motor trip to Wapatomac that afternoon.
+
+“Besides,” she said, “you surely mustn't expect me EVERY Saturday.”
+
+“No,” he admitted grudgingly, “I suppose not. But you will come
+sometimes, won't you? I have a perfectly lovely idea for a ballad and I
+want to ask your advice about it.”
+
+“Oh, do you really? You're not making fun? You mean that my advice is
+really worth something? I can't believe it.”
+
+He convinced her that it was, and the next Saturday afternoon they spent
+together at the inspiration point among the dunes, at work upon the
+ballad. It was not finished on that occasion, nor on the next, for it
+was an unusually long ballad, but progress was made, glorious progress.
+
+And so, during that Summer, as the Fosdick residence upon the Bay Road
+grew and grew, so did the acquaintanceship, the friendship, the poetic
+partnership between the Fosdick daughter and the grandson of Captain
+Zelotes Snow grow and grow. They met almost every Saturday, they met at
+the post office on week evenings, occasionally they saw each other for a
+moment after church on Sunday mornings. Mrs. Fletcher Fosdick could not
+imagine why her only child cared to attend that stuffy little country
+church and hear that prosy Kendall minister drone on and on. “I hope,
+my dear, that I am as punctilious in my religious duties as the average
+woman, but one Kendall sermon was sufficient for me, thank you. What you
+see in THAT church to please you, _I_ can't guess.”
+
+If she had attended as often as Madeline did she might have guessed and
+saved herself much. But she was busy organizing, in connection with
+Mrs. Seabury Calvin, a Literary Society among the summer people of South
+Harniss. The Society was to begin work with the discussion of the poetry
+of Rabindranath Tagore. Mrs. Fosdick said she doted on Tagore; Mrs.
+Calvin expressed herself as being positively insane about him. A
+warm friendship had sprung up between the two ladies, as each was
+particularly fond of shining as a literary light and neither under any
+circumstances permitted a new lion to roar unheard in her neighborhood,
+provided, of course, that the said roarings had been previously endorsed
+and well advertised by the critics and the press.
+
+So Mrs. Fosdick was too busy to accompany Madeline to church on Sunday
+or to walk on Saturday, and the young lady was left to wander pretty
+much at her own sweet will. That sweet will led her footsteps to trails
+frequented by Albert Speranza and they walked and talked and poetized
+together. As for Mr. Fletcher Fosdick, he was busy at his office in New
+York and came to South Harniss only for infrequent week-ends.
+
+The walks and talks and poetizings were innocent enough. Neither of the
+partners in poesy had the least idea of anything more than being just
+that. They liked each other, they had come to call each other by their
+Christian names, and on Albert's bureau Madeline's photograph now stood
+openly and without apology. Albert had convinced himself there was
+nothing to apologize for. She was his friend, that was all. He liked to
+write and she liked to help him--er--well, just as Helen used to when
+she was at home. He did not think of Helen quite as often as formerly,
+nor were his letters to her as frequent or as long.
+
+So the summer passed and late August came, the last Saturday afternoon
+of that month. Albert and Madeline were together, walking together along
+the beach from the knoll where they had met so often. It was six o'clock
+and the beach was deserted. There was little wind, the tiny waves were
+lapping and plashing along the shore, and the rosy light of the sinking
+sun lay warm upon the water and the sand. They were thinking and
+speaking of the summer which was so near its end.
+
+“It has been a wonderful summer, hasn't it?” said Albert.
+
+“Yes, wonderful,” agreed Madeline.
+
+“Yes, I--I--by George, I never believed a summer could be so wonderful.”
+
+“Nor I.”
+
+Silence. Then Albert, looking at her, saw her eyes looking into his and
+saw in them--
+
+He kissed her.
+
+That morning Albert Speranza had arisen as usual, a casual, careless,
+perfectly human young fellow. He went to bed that night a superman, an
+archangel, a demi-god, with his head in the clouds and the earth a cloth
+of gold beneath his feet. Life was a pathway through Paradise arched
+with rainbows.
+
+He and Madeline Fosdick loved each other madly, devotedly. They were
+engaged to be married. They had plighted troth. They were to be each
+other's, and no one else's, for ever--and ever--and ever.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+The remainder of that summer was a paradisical meandering over the cloth
+of gold beneath the rainbows. Albert and his Madeline met often, very
+often. Few poems were written at these meetings. Why trouble to put
+penciled lines on paper when the entire universe was a poem especially
+composed for your benefit? The lovers sat upon the knoll amid the
+sand dunes and gazed at the bay and talked of themselves separately,
+individually, and, more especially, collectively. They strolled through
+the same woody lanes and discussed the same satisfactory subjects. They
+met at the post office or at the drug store and gazed into each other's
+eyes. And, what was the most astonishing thing about it all, their
+secret remained undiscovered. Undiscovered, that is to say, by those
+by whom discovery would have meant calamity. The gossips among the
+townspeople winked and chuckled and cal'lated Fletcher Fosdick had
+better look out or his girl would be took into the firm of Z. Snow and
+Co. Issachar Price uttered sarcastic and sly innuendoes. Jane Kelsey
+and her set ragged the pair occasionally. But even these never really
+suspected that the affair was serious. And neither Mrs. Fletcher Fosdick
+nor Captain and Mrs. Zelotes Snow gave it a minute's attention.
+
+It was serious enough with the principals, however. To them it was the
+only serious matter in the world. Not that they faced or discussed the
+future with earnest and complete attention. Some day or other--that was
+of course the mutually accepted idea--some day or other they were to
+marry. In the meantime here was the blissful present with its roses
+and rainbows and here, for each, was the other. What would be likely to
+happen when the Fosdick parents learned of the engagement of their
+only child to the assistant bookkeeper of the South Harniss lumber and
+hardware company was unpleasant to contemplate, so why contemplate it?
+Upon one point they were agreed--never, never, NEVER would they
+give each other up. No power on earth--which included parents and
+grandparents--should or could separate them.
+
+Albert's conscience troubled him slightly at first when he thought of
+Helen Kendall. It had been in reality such a short time--although of
+course it seemed ages and ages--since he had fancied himself in love
+with her. Only the previous fall--yes, even that very spring, he
+had asked her to pledge herself to him. Fortunately--oh, how very
+fortunately!--she had refused, and he had been left free. Now he knew
+that his fancied love for her had been merely a passing whim, a delusion
+of the moment. This--THIS which he was now experiencing was the grand
+passion of his life. He wrote a poem with the title, “The Greater
+Love”--and sold it, too, to a sensational periodical which circulated
+largely among sentimental shopgirls. It is but truthful to state that
+the editor of the magazine to which he first submitted it sent it back
+with the brief note--“This is a trifle too syrupy for our use. Fear the
+pages might stick. Why not send us another war verse?” Albert treated
+the note and the editor with the contempt they deserved. He pitied the
+latter; poor soul, doubtless HE had never known the greater love.
+
+He and Madeline had agreed that they would tell no one--no one at
+all--of their betrothal. It should be their own precious secret for the
+present. So, under the circumstances, he could not write Helen the
+news. But ought he to write her at all? That question bothered him not
+a little. He no longer loved her--in fact, he was now certain that he
+never had loved her--but he liked her, and he wanted her to keep on
+liking him. And she wrote to him with regularity. What ought he to do
+about writing her?
+
+He debated the question with himself and, at last, and with some
+trepidation, asked Madeline's opinion of his duty in the matter. Her
+opinion was decisive and promptly given. Of course he must not write
+Helen again. “How would you like it if I corresponded with another
+fellow?” she asked. Candor forced him to admit that he should not like
+it at all. “But I want to behave decently,” he said. “She is merely a
+friend of mine”--oh, how short is memory!--“but we have been friends for
+a long time and I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings.” “No, instead
+you prefer to hurt mine.” “Now, dearest, be reasonable.” It was their
+nearest approach to a quarrel and was a very, very sad affair.
+The making-up was sweet, of course, but the question of further
+correspondence with Helen Kendall remained just where it was at the
+beginning. And, meanwhile, the correspondence lapsed.
+
+September came far, far too soon--came and ended. And with it ended
+also the stay of the Fosdicks in South Harniss. Albert and Madeline said
+good-by at their rendezvous by the beach. It was a sad, a tearful, but
+a very precious farewell. They would write each other every day, they
+would think of each other every minute of every day, they would live
+through the winter somehow and look forward to the next spring and their
+next meeting.
+
+“You will write--oh, ever and ever so many poems, won't you, dear?”
+ begged Madeline. “You know how I love them. And whenever I see one of
+your poems in print I shall be so proud of you--of MY poet.”
+
+Albert promised to write ever and ever so many. He felt that there would
+be no difficulty in writing reams of poems--inspired, glorious poems.
+The difficulty would be in restraining himself from writing too many
+of them. With Madeline Fosdick as an inspiration, poetizing became as
+natural as breathing.
+
+Then, which was unusual for them, they spoke of the future, the dim,
+vague, but so happy future, when Albert was to be the nation's poet
+laureate and Madeline, as Mrs. Laureate, would share his glory and
+wear, so to speak, his second-best laurels. The disagreeable problems
+connected with the future they ignored, or casually dismissed with,
+“Never mind, dear, it will be all right by and by.” Oh, it was a
+wonderful afternoon, a rosy, cloudy, happy, sorrowful, bitter-sweet
+afternoon.
+
+And the next morning Albert, peeping beneath Z. Snow and Co.'s office
+window shade, saw his heart's desire step aboard the train, saw that
+train puff out of the station, saw for just an instant a small hand
+waved behind the dingy glass of the car window. His own hand waved in
+reply. Then the raucous voice of Mr. Price broke the silence.
+
+“Who was you flappin' your flipper at?” inquired Issachar. “Girl, I'll
+bet you! Never saw such a critter as you be to chase after the girls.
+Which one is it this time?”
+
+Albert made no reply. Between embarrassment and sorrow he was incapable
+of speech. Issachar, however, was not in that condition; at all times
+when awake, and sometimes when asleep, Mr. Price could, and usually did,
+speak.
+
+“Which one is it this time, Al?” demanded Issy. “Eh? Crimus, see him get
+red! Haw, haw! Labe,” to Mr. Keeler, who came into the office from the
+inner room, “which girl do you cal'late Al here is wavin' by-bye to this
+mornin'? Who's goin' away on the cars this mornin', Labe?”
+
+Laban, his hands full of the morning mail, absently replied that he
+didn't know.
+
+“Yes, you do, too,” persisted Issy. “You ain't listenin', that's all.
+Who's leavin' town on the train just now?”
+
+“Eh? Oh, I don't know. The Small folks are goin' to Boston, I believe.
+And George Bartlett's goin' to Ostable on court business, he told me.
+Oh, yes, I believe Cap'n Lote said that Fosdick woman and her daughter
+were goin' back to New York. Back to New York--yes--yes--yes.”
+
+Mr. Price crowed triumphantly. “Ah, ha!” he crowed. “Ah, ha! That's the
+answer. That's the one he's shakin' day-days to, that Fosdick girl. I've
+seen you 'round with her at the post office and the ice cream s'loon.
+I'm onto you, Al. Haw, haw! What's her name? Adeline? Dandelion?
+Madeline?--that's it! Say, how do you think Helen Kendall's goin' to
+like your throwin' kisses to the Madeline one, eh?”
+
+The assistant bookkeeper was still silent. The crimson, however, was
+leaving his face and the said face was paling rapidly. This was an
+ominous sign had Mr. Price but known it. He did not know it and cackled
+merrily on,
+
+“Guess I'll have to tell Helen when she comes back home,” he announced.
+“Cal'late I'll put a flea in her ear. 'Helen,' I'll say, 'don't feel
+too bad now, don't cry and get your handkerchief all soakin', or nothin'
+like that. I just feel it's my duty to tell ye that your little Albert
+is sparkin' up to somebody else. He's waitin' on a party by the name of
+Padeline--no, Madeline--Woodtick--no, Fosdick--and . . .' Here! let go
+of me! What are you doin'?”
+
+That last question was in the nature of a gurgle. Albert, his face now
+very white indeed, had strode across the office, seized the speaker by
+the front of his flannel shirt and backed him against the wall.
+
+“Stop,” commanded Albert, between his teeth. “That's enough of that.
+Don't you say any more!”
+
+“Eh? Ugh! Ur-gg! Leggo of my shirt.”
+
+Albert let go, but he did not step back. He remained where he was,
+exactly in front of Mr. Price.
+
+“Don't you say any more about--about what you were saying,” he repeated.
+
+“Eh? Not say any more? Why not? Who's goin' to stop me, I'd like to
+know?”
+
+“I am.”
+
+“I want to know! What'll you do?”
+
+“I don't know. If you weren't so old, I would--but I'll stop you,
+anyhow.”
+
+Albert felt a hand on his arm and heard Mr. Keeler's voice at his ear.
+
+“Careful, Al, careful,” it said. “Don't hit him.”
+
+“Of course I shan't hit him,” indignantly. “What do you think I am? But
+he must promise not to mention--er--Miss Fosdick's name again.”
+
+“Better promise, Is,” suggested Laban. Issachar's mouth opened, but no
+promise came forth.
+
+“Promise be darned!” he yelled furiously. “Mention her name! I'll
+mention any name I set out to, and no Italyun Portygee is goin' to stop
+me, neither.”
+
+Albert glanced about the office. By the wall stood two brimming pails of
+water, brought in by Mr. Price for floor-washing purposes. He lifted one
+of the pails.
+
+“If you don't promise I'll duck you,” he declared. “Let go of me,
+Keeler, I mean it.”
+
+“Careful, Al, careful,” said Mr. Keeler. “Better promise, Is.”
+
+“Promise nawthin'! Fosdick! What in time do I care for Fosdicks,
+Madelines or Padelines or Dandelions or--”
+
+His sentence stopped just there. The remainder of it was washed back
+and down his throat by the deluge from the bucket. Overcome by shock and
+surprise, Mr. Price leaned back against the wall and slid slowly down
+that wall until he reclined in a sitting posture, upon the floor.
+
+“Crimustee,” he gasped, as soon as he could articulate, “I'm--awk--I'm
+drownded.”
+
+Albert put down the empty bucket and picked up the full one.
+
+“Promise,” he said again.
+
+Laban Keeler rubbed his chin.
+
+“I'd promise if I was you, Is,” he said. “You're some subject to
+rheumatism, you know.”
+
+Issachar, sitting in a spreading puddle, looked damply upward at the
+remaining bucket. “By crimustee--” he began. Albert drew the bucket
+backward; the water dripped from its lower brim.
+
+“I--I--darn ye, I promise!” shouted Issachar. Albert put down the bucket
+and walked back to his desk. Laban watched him curiously, smiling just a
+little. Then he turned to Mr. Price, who was scrambling to his feet.
+
+“Better get your mop and swab up here, Is,” he said. “Cap'n Lote'll be
+in 'most any minute.”
+
+When Captain Zelotes did return to the office, Issachar was
+industriously sweeping out, Albert was hard at work at the books, and
+Laban was still rubbing his chin and smiling at nothing in particular.
+
+The next day Albert and Issachar made it up. Albert apologized.
+
+“I'm sorry, Issy,” he said. “I shouldn't have done it, but you made me
+mad. I have a--rather mean temper, I'm afraid. Forgive me, will you?”
+
+He held out his hand, and Issachar, after a momentary hesitation, took
+it.
+
+“I forgive you this time, Al,” he said solemnly, “but don't never do
+nothin' like it again, will ye? When I went home for dinner yesterday
+noon I give you my word my clothes was kind of dampish even then. If
+it hadn't been nice warm sunshine and I was out doors and dried off
+considerable I'd a had to change everything, underclothes and all, and
+'tain't but the middle of the week yet.”
+
+His ducking had an effect which Albert noticed with considerable
+satisfaction--he was never quite as flippantly personal in his comments
+concerning the assistant bookkeeper. He treated the latter, if not with
+respect, at least with something distantly akin to it.
+
+After Madeline's departure the world was very lonely indeed. Albert
+wrote long, long letters and received replies which varied in length
+but never in devotion. Miss Fosdick was obliged to be cautious in her
+correspondence with her lover. “You will forgive me if this is not much
+more than a note, won't you, dear?” she wrote. “Mother seems to be very
+curious of late about my letters and to whom I write and I had to just
+steal the opportunity this morning.” An older and more apprehensive
+person might have found Mrs. Fosdick's sudden interest in her daughter's
+correspondence suspicious and a trifle alarming, but Albert never
+dreamed of being alarmed.
+
+He wrote many poems, all dealing with love and lovers, and sold some of
+them. He wrote no more letters to Helen. She, too, had ceased to write
+him, doubtless because of the lack of reply to her last two or three
+letters. His conscience still troubled him about Helen; he could not
+help feeling that his treatment of her had not been exactly honorable.
+Yet what else under the circumstances could he do? From Mr. Kendall he
+learned that she was coming home to spend Thanksgiving. He would see her
+then. She would ask him questions? What should his answer be? He faced
+the situation in anticipation many, many times, usually after he had
+gone to bed at night, and lay awake through long torturing hours in
+consequence.
+
+But when at last Helen and he did meet, the day before Thanksgiving,
+their meeting was not at all the dreadful ordeal he had feared. Her
+greeting was as frank and cordial as it had always been, and there was
+no reproach in her tone or manner. She did not even ask him why he had
+stopped writing. It was he, himself, who referred to that subject,
+and he did so as they walked together down the main road. Just why he
+referred to it he could not probably have told. He was aware only that
+he felt mean and contemptible and that he must offer some explanation.
+His not having any to offer made the task rather difficult.
+
+But she saved him the trouble. She interrupted one of his blundering,
+stumbling sentences in the middle.
+
+“Never mind, Albert,” she said quietly. “You needn't explain. I think I
+understand.”
+
+He stopped and stared at her. “You understand?” he repeated. “Why--why,
+no, you don't. You can't.”
+
+“Yes, I can, or I think I can. You have changed your mind, that is all.”
+
+“Changed my mind?”
+
+“Yes. Don't you remember I told you you would change your mind
+about--well, about me? You were so sure you cared so very, very much for
+me, you know. And I said you mustn't promise anything because I thought
+you would change your mind. And you have. That is it, isn't it? You have
+found some one else.”
+
+He gazed at her as if she were a witch who had performed a miracle.
+
+“Why--why--well, by George!” he exclaimed. “Helen--how--how did you
+know? Who told you?”
+
+“No one told me. But I think I can even guess who it is you have found.
+It is Madeline Fosdick, isn't it?”
+
+His amazement now was so open-mouthed as well as open-eyed that she
+could not help smiling.
+
+“Don't! Don't stare at me like that,” she whispered. “Every one is
+looking at you. There is old Captain Pease on the other side of the
+street; I'm sure he thinks you have had a stroke or something. Here!
+Walk down our road a little way toward home with me. We can talk as we
+walk. I'm sure,” she added, with just the least bit of change in her
+tone, “that your Madeline won't object to our being together to that
+extent.”
+
+She led the way down the side street toward the parsonage and he
+followed her. He was still speechless from surprise.
+
+“Well,” she went on, after a moment, “aren't you going to say anything?”
+
+“But--but, Helen,” he faltered, “how did you know?”
+
+She smiled again. “Then it IS Madeline,” she said. “I thought it must
+be.”
+
+“You--you thought--What made you think so?”
+
+For an instant she seemed on the point of losing her patience.
+
+Then she turned and laid her hand on his arm.
+
+“Oh, Al,” she said, “please don't think I am altogether an idiot.
+I surmised when your letters began to grow shorter and--well,
+different--that there was something or some one who was changing them,
+and I suspected it was some one. When you stopped writing altogether, I
+KNEW there must be. Then father wrote in his letters about you and about
+meeting you, and so often Madeline Fosdick was wherever he met you. So I
+guessed--and, you see, I guessed right.”
+
+He seized her hand.
+
+“Oh, Helen,” he cried, “if you only knew how mean I have felt and how
+ashamed I am of the way I have treated you! But, you see, I--I COULDN'T
+write you and tell you because we had agreed to keep it a secret. I
+couldn't tell ANY ONE.”
+
+“Oh, it is as serious as that! Are you two really and truly engaged?”
+
+“Yes. There! I've told it, and I swore I would never tell.”
+
+“No, no, you didn't tell. I guessed. Now tell me all about her. She is
+very lovely. Is she as sweet as she looks?”
+
+He rhapsodized for five minutes. Then all at once he realized what he
+was saying and to whom he was saying it. He stopped, stammering, in the
+very middle of a glowing eulogium.
+
+“Go on,” said Helen reassuringly. But he could not go on, under the
+circumstances. Instead he turned very red. As usual, she divined his
+thought, noticed his confusion, and took pity on it.
+
+“She must be awfully nice,” she said. “I don't wonder you fell in love
+with her. I wish I might know her better.”
+
+“I wish you might. By and by you must. And she must know you. Helen,
+I--I feel so ashamed of--of--”
+
+“Hush, or I shall begin to think you are ashamed because you liked
+me--or thought you did.”
+
+“But I do like you. Next to Madeline there is no one I like so much.
+But, but, you see, it is different.”
+
+“Of course it is. And it ought to be. Does her mother--do her people
+know of the engagement?”
+
+He hesitated momentarily. “No-o,” he admitted, “they don't yet. She and
+I have decided to keep it a secret from any one for the present. I want
+to get on a little further with my writing, you know. She is like you in
+that, Helen--she's awfully fond of poetry and literature.”
+
+“Especially yours, I'm sure. Tell me about your writing. How are you
+getting on?”
+
+So he told her and, until they stood together at the parsonage gate,
+Madeline's name was not again mentioned. Then Helen put out her hand.
+
+“Good morning, Albert,” she said. “I'm glad we have had this talk, ever
+so glad.”
+
+“By George, so am I! You're a corking friend, Helen. The chap who does
+marry you will be awfully lucky.”
+
+She smiled slightly. “Perhaps there won't be any such chap,” she said.
+“I shall always be a schoolmarm, I imagine.”
+
+“Indeed you won't,” indignantly. “I have too high an opinion of men for
+that.”
+
+She smiled again, seemed about to speak, and then to change her mind. An
+instant later she said,
+
+“I must go in now. But I shall hope to see you again before I go back to
+the city. And, after your secret is out and the engagement is announced,
+I want to write Madeline, may I?”
+
+“Of course you may. And she'll like you as much as I do.”
+
+“Will she? . . . Well, perhaps; we'll hope so.”
+
+“Certainly she will. And you won't let my treating you as--as I have
+make any difference in our friendship?”
+
+“No. We shall always be friends, I hope. Good-by.”
+
+She went into the house. He waited a moment, hoping she might turn again
+before entering, but she did not. He walked home, pondering deeply, his
+thoughts a curious jumble of relief and dissatisfaction. He was glad
+Helen had seen her duty and given him over to Madeline, but he felt a
+trifle piqued to think she had done it with such apparent willingness.
+If she had wept or scolded it would have been unpleasant but much more
+gratifying to his self-importance.
+
+He could not help realizing, however, that her attitude toward him was
+exceptionally fine. He knew well that he, if in her place, would not
+have behaved as she had done. No spite, no sarcasm, no taunts, no
+unpleasant reminders of things said only a few months before. And with
+all her forgiveness and forbearance and understanding there had been
+always that sense of greater age and wisdom; she had treated him as she
+might have treated a boy, younger brother, perhaps.
+
+“She IS older than I am,” he thought, “even if she really isn't. It's
+funny, but it's a fact.”
+
+December came and Christmas, and then January and the new year, the year
+1917. In January, Z. Snow and Co. took its yearly account of stock, and
+Captain Lote and Laban and Albert and Issachar were truly busy during
+the days of stock-taking week and tired when evening came. Laban worked
+the hardest of the quartette, but Issy made the most fuss about it.
+Labe, who had chosen the holiday season to go on one of his periodical
+vacations, as rather white and shaky and even more silent than usual.
+Mr. Price, however, talked with his customary fluency and continuity, so
+there was no lack of conversation. Captain Zelotes was moved to comment.
+
+“Issy,” he suggested gravely, looking up from a long column of figures,
+“did you ever play 'Door'?”
+
+Issachar stared at him.
+
+“Play 'Door'?” he repeated. “What's that?”
+
+“It's a game. Didn't you ever play it?”
+
+“No, don't know's I ever did.”
+
+“Then you'd better begin right this minute. The first thing to do is to
+shut up and the next is to stay that way. You play 'Door' until I tell
+you to do somethin' else; d'you hear?”
+
+At home the week between Christmas and the New Year was rather dismal.
+Mr. Keeler's holiday vacation had brought on one of his fiancee's
+“sympathetic attacks,” and she tied up her head and hung crape upon
+her soul, as usual. During these attacks the Snow household walked on
+tiptoe, as if the housekeeper were an invalid in reality. Even consoling
+speeches from Albert, who with Laban when the latter was sober, enjoyed
+in her mind the distinction of being the reincarnation of “Robert
+Penfold,” brought no relief to the suffering Rachel. Nothing but the
+news brought by the milkman, that “Labe was taperin' off,” and would
+probably return to his desk in a few days, eased her pain.
+
+One forenoon about the middle of the month Captain Zelotes himself
+stopped in at the post office for the morning mail. When he returned to
+the lumber company's building he entered quietly and walked to his own
+desk with a preoccupied air. For the half hour before dinner time he sat
+there, smoking his pipe, and speaking to no one unless spoken to. The
+office force noticed his preoccupation and commented upon it.
+
+“What ails the old man, Al?” whispered Issachar, peering in around the
+corner of the door at the silent figure tilted back in the revolving
+chair, its feet upon the corner of the desk. “Ain't said so much as
+'Boo' for up'ards of twenty minutes, has he? I was in there just now
+fillin' up his ink-stand and, by crimus, I let a great big gob of ink
+come down ker-souse right in the middle of the nice, clean blottin'
+paper in front of him. I held my breath, cal'latin' to catch what
+Stephen Peter used to say he caught when he went fishin' Sundays. Stevey
+said he generally caught cold when he went and always caught the Old
+Harry when he got back. I cal'lated to catch the Old Harry part sure,
+'cause Captain Lote is always neat and fussy 'bout his desk. But no, the
+old man never said a word. I don't believe he knew the ink was spilled
+at all. What's on his mind, Al; do you know?”
+
+Albert did not know, so he asked Laban. Laban shook his head.
+
+“Give it up, Al,” he whispered. “Somethin's happened to bother him,
+that's sartin'. When Cap'n Lote gets his feet propped up and his head
+tilted back that way I can 'most generally cal'late he's doin' some real
+thinkin'. Real thinkin'--yes, sir-ee--um-hm--yes--yes. When he h'ists
+his boots up to the masthead that way it's safe to figger his brains
+have got steam up. Um-hm--yes indeed.”
+
+“But what is he thinking about? And why is he so quiet?”
+
+“I give up both riddles, Al. He's the only one's got the answers and
+when he gets ready enough maybe he'll tell 'em. Until then it'll pay us
+fo'mast hands to make believe we're busy, even if we ain't. Hear that,
+do you, Is?”
+
+“Hear what?” demanded Issachar, who was gazing out of the window, his
+hands in his pockets.
+
+“I say it will pay us--you and Al and me--to make believe we're workin'
+even if we ain't.”
+
+“'Workin'!” indignantly. “By crimus, I AM workin'! I don't have to make
+believe.”
+
+“That so? Well, then, I'd pick up that coal-hod and make believe
+play for a spell. The fire's 'most out. Almost--um-hm--pretty
+nigh--yes--yes.”
+
+Albert and his grandfather walked home to dinner together, as was their
+custom, but still the captain remained silent. During dinner he spoke
+not more than a dozen words and Albert several times caught Mrs. Snow
+regarding her husband intently and with a rather anxious look. She did
+not question him, however, but Rachel was not so reticent.
+
+“Mercy on us, Cap'n Lote,” she demanded, “what IS the matter? You're as
+dumb as a mouthful of mush. I don't believe you've said ay, yes or no
+since we sat down to table. Are you sick?”
+
+Her employer's calm was unruffled.
+
+“No-o,” he answered, with deliberation.
+
+“That's a comfort. What's the matter, then; don't you WANT to talk?”
+
+“No-o.”
+
+“Oh,” with a toss of the head, “well, I'm glad I know. I was beginnin'
+to be afraid you'd forgotten how.”
+
+The captain helped himself to another fried “tinker” mackerel.
+
+“No danger of that around here, Rachel,” he said serenely. “So long as
+my hearin's good I couldn't forget--not in this house.”
+
+Olive detained her grandson as he was following Captain Zelotes from the
+dining room.
+
+“What's wrong with him, Albert?” she whispered. “Do you know?”
+
+“No, I don't, Grandmother. Do you think there is anything wrong?”
+
+“I know there's somethin' troublin' him. I've lived with him too many
+years not to know the signs. Oh, Albert--you haven't done anything to
+displease him, have you?”
+
+“No, indeed, Grandmother. Whatever it is, it isn't that.”
+
+When they reached the office, the captain spoke to Mr. Keeler.
+
+“Had your dinner, Labe?” he asked.
+
+“Yes--yes, indeed. Don't take me long to eat--not at my boardin' house.
+A feller'd have to have paralysis to make eatin' one of Lindy Dadgett's
+meals take more'n a half hour. Um-hm--yes.”
+
+Despite his preoccupation, Captain Zelotes could not help smiling.
+
+“To make it take an hour he'd have to be ossified, wouldn't he, like the
+feller in the circus sideshow?” he observed.
+
+Laban nodded. “That--or dead,” he replied. “Yes--just about--just so,
+Cap'n.”
+
+“Where's Issachar?”
+
+“He's eatin' yet, I cal'late. He don't board at Lindy's.”
+
+“When he gets back set him to pilin' that new carload of spruce under
+Number Three shed. Keep him at it.”
+
+“Yes, sir. Um-hm. All right.”
+
+Captain Zelotes turned to his grandson. “Come in here, Al,” he said. “I
+want to see you for a few minutes.”
+
+Albert followed him into the inner office. He wondered what in the world
+his grandfather wished to see him about, in this very private fashion.
+
+“Sit down, Al,” said the captain, taking his own chair and pointing to
+another. “Oh, wait a minute, though! Maybe you'd better shut that hatch
+first.”
+
+The “hatch” was the transom over the door between the offices. Albert,
+remembering how a previous interview between them had been overheard
+because of that open transom, glanced at his grandfather. The twinkle
+in the latter's eye showed that he too, remembered. Albert closed the
+“hatch.” When he came back to his seat the twinkle had disappeared;
+Captain Zelotes looked serious enough.
+
+“Well, Grandfather?” queried the young man, after waiting a moment. The
+captain adjusted his spectacles, reached into the inside pocket of his
+coat and produced an envelope. It was a square envelope with either
+a trade-mark or a crest upon the back. Captain Lote did not open the
+envelope, but instead tapped his desk with it and regarded his grandson
+in a meditative way.
+
+“Al,” he said slowly, “has it seemed to you that your cruise aboard this
+craft of ours here had been a little smoother the last year or two than
+it used to be afore that?”
+
+Albert, by this time well accustomed to his grandfather's nautical
+phraseology, understood that the “cruise” referred to was his voyage as
+assistant bookkeeper with Z. Snow and Co. He nodded.
+
+“I have tried to make it so,” he answered. “I mean I have tried to make
+it smoother for you.”
+
+“Um-hm, I think you have tried. I don't mind tellin' you that it has
+pleased me consid'ble to watch you try. I don't mean by that,” he
+added, with a slight curve of the lip, “that you'd win first prize as
+a lightnin'-calculator even yet, but you're a whole lot better one than
+you used to be. I've been considerable encouraged about you; I don't
+mind tellin' you that either. . . . And,” he added, after another
+interval during which he was, apparently, debating just how much of
+an admission it was safe to make, “so far as I can see, this poetry
+foolishness of yours hasn't interfered with your work any to speak of.”
+
+Albert smiled. “Thanks, Grandfather,” he said.
+
+“You're welcome. So much for that. But there's another side to our
+relations together, yours and mine, that I haven't spoken of to you
+afore. And I have kept still on purpose. I've figgered that so long as
+you kept straight and didn't go off the course, didn't drink or gamble,
+or go wild or the like of that, what you did was pretty much your own
+business. I've noticed you're considerable of a feller with the girls,
+but I kept an eye on the kind of girls and I will say that so far as I
+can see, you've picked the decent kind. I say so far as I can see. Of
+course I ain't fool enough to believe I see all you do, or know all you
+do. I've been young myself, and when I get to thinkin' how much I know
+about you I try to set down and remember how much my dad didn't know
+about me when I was your age. That--er--helps some toward givin' me my
+correct position on the chart.”
+
+He paused. Albert's brain was vainly striving to guess what all
+this meant. What was he driving at? The captain crossed his legs and
+continued.
+
+“I did think for a spell,” he said, “that you and Helen Kendall were
+gettin' to understand each other pretty well. Well, Helen's a good girl
+and your grandma and I like her. Course we didn't cal'late anything
+very serious was liable to come of the understandin', not for some time,
+anyhow, for with your salary and--well, sort of unsettled prospects, I
+gave you credit for not figgerin' on pickin' a wife right away. . . .
+Haven't got much laid by to support a wife on, have you, Al?”
+
+Albert's expression had changed during the latter portion of the speech.
+Now he was gazing intently at his grandfather and at the letter in the
+latter's hands. He was beginning to guess, to dread, to be fearful.
+
+“Haven't got much to support a wife on, Al, have you?” repeated Captain
+Zelotes.
+
+“No, sir, not now.”
+
+“Um. . . . But you hope to have by and by, eh? Well, I hope you will.
+But UNTIL you have it would seem to older folks like me kind of risky
+navigatin' to--to . . . Oh, there was a letter in the mail for you this
+mornin, Al.”
+
+He put down the envelope he had hitherto held in his hand and, reaching
+into his pocket, produced another. Even before he had taken it from
+his grandfather's hand Albert recognized the handwriting. It was from
+Madeline.
+
+Captain Zelotes, regarding him keenly, leaned back again in his chair.
+“Read it if you want to, Al,” he said. “Maybe you'd better. I can wait.”
+
+Albert hesitated a moment and then tore open the envelope. The note
+within was short, evidently written in great haste and agitation and
+was spotted with tear stains. He read it, his cheeks paling and his
+hand shaking as he did so. Something dreadful had happened. Mother--Mrs.
+Fosdick, of course--had discovered everything. She had found all
+his--Albert's--letters and read them. She was furious. There had been
+the most terrible scene. Madeline was in her own room and was smuggling
+him this letter by Mary, her maid, who will do anything for me, and
+has promised to mail it. Oh, dearest, they say I must give you up. They
+say--Oh, they say dreadful things about you! Mother declares she will
+take me to Japan or some frightful place and keep me there until I
+forget you. I don't care if they take me to the ends of the earth, I
+shall NEVER forget you. I will never--never--NEVER give you up. And you
+mustn't give me up, will you, darling? They say I must never write you
+again. But you see I have--and I shall. Oh, what SHALL we do? I was SO
+happy and now I am so miserable. Write me the minute you get this, but
+oh, I KNOW they won't let me see your letters and then I shall die. But
+write, write just the same, every day. Oh what SHALL we do?
+
+Yours, always and always, no matter what everyone does or says, lovingly
+and devotedly,
+
+MADELINE.
+
+
+When the reading was finished Albert sat silently staring at the floor,
+seeing it through a wet mist. Captain Zelotes watched him, his heavy
+brows drawn together and the smoke wreaths from his pipe curling slowly
+upward toward the office ceiling. At length he said:
+
+“Well, Al, I had a letter, too. I presume likely it came from the same
+port even if not from the same member of the family. It's about you,
+and I think you'd better read it, maybe. I'll read it to you, if you'd
+rather.”
+
+Albert shook his head and held out his hand for the second letter. His
+grandfather gave it to him, saying as he did so: “I'd like to have you
+understand, Al, that I don't necessarily believe all that she says about
+you in this thing.”
+
+“Thanks, Grandfather,” mechanically.
+
+“All right, boy.”
+
+The second letter was, as he had surmised, from Mrs. Fosdick. It had
+evidently been written at top speed and at a mental temperature well
+above the boiling point. Mrs. Fosdick addressed Captain Zelotes Snow
+because she had been given to understand that he was the nearest
+relative, or guardian, or whatever it was, of the person concerning whom
+the letter was written and therefore, it was presumed, might be expected
+to have some measure of control over that person's actions. The person
+was, of course, one Albert Speranza, and Mrs. Fosdick proceeded to set
+forth her version of his conduct in sentences which might almost have
+blistered the paper. Taking advantage of her trust in her daughter's
+good sense and ability to take care of herself--which trust it
+appeared had been in a measure misplaced--he, the Speranza person, had
+sneakingly, underhandedly and in a despicably clandestine fashion--the
+lady's temper had rather gotten away from her here--succeeded in meeting
+her daughter in various places and by various disgraceful means and had
+furthermore succeeded in ensnaring her youthful affections, et cetera,
+et cetera.
+
+
+“The poor child actually believes herself in love with him,” wrote the
+poor child's mother. “She protests ridiculously that she is engaged to
+him and will marry him in spite of her father or myself or the protests
+of sensible people. I write to you, therefore, assuming you likewise to
+be a sensible person, and requesting that you use your influence with
+the--to put the most charitable interpretation of his conduct--misguided
+and foolish young man and show him the preposterous folly of his
+pretended engagement to my daughter. Of course the whole affair,
+CORRESPONDENCE INCLUDED, must cease and terminate AT ONCE.”
+
+
+And so on for two more pages. The color had returned to Albert's cheeks
+long before he finished reading. When he had finished he rose to his
+feet and, throwing the letter upon his grandfather's desk, turned away.
+
+“Well, Al?” queried Captain Zelotes.
+
+Albert's face, when he turned back to answer, was whiter than ever, but
+his eyes flashed fire.
+
+“Do you believe that?” he demanded.
+
+“What?”
+
+“That--that stuff about my being a--a sneak and--and ensnaring her--and
+all the rest? Do you?”
+
+The captain took his pipe from his mouth.
+
+“Steady, son, steady,” he said. “Didn't I tell you before you begun
+to read at all that I didn't necessarily believe it because that woman
+wrote it.”
+
+“You--you or no one else had better believe it. It's a lie.”
+
+“All right, I'm glad to hear you say so. But there's a little mite of
+truth here and there amongst the lies, I presume likely. For instance,
+you and this Fosdick girl have been--er--keepin' company?”
+
+“Her name is Madeline--and we are engaged to be married.”
+
+“Oh! Hum--I see--I see. And, bein' as the old lady--her mother, Mrs.
+Fosdick, I mean--hasn't suspected anything, or, at any rate, hasn't
+found out anything until now, yesterday, or whenever it was, I judge you
+have been meetin'--er--Madeline at places where there wasn't--well, too
+large a crowd. Eh?”
+
+Albert hesitated and was, momentarily, a trifle embarrassed. But he
+recovered at once.
+
+“I met her first at the drug store last summer,” he said defiantly.
+“Then I met her after that at the post office and at the hotel dance
+last fall, and so on. This year I met her--well, I met her first down by
+the beach, where I went to write. She liked poetry and--and she helped
+me with mine. After that she came--well, she came to help me again. And
+after that--after that--”
+
+“After that it just moved along kind of natural, eh? Um-hm, I see.”
+
+“Look here, Grandfather, I want you to understand that she is--is--by
+George, she is the cleanest, finest, best girl in the world. Don't you
+get the idea that--that she isn't. She came to meet me just because she
+was interested in my verse and wanted to help. It wasn't until the very
+last that we--that we found out we cared for each other.”
+
+“All right, boy, all right. Go on, tell me the whole yarn, if you feel
+like it. I don't want to pry too much into your affairs, but, after all,
+I AM interested in those affairs, Al. Tell me as much as you can.”
+
+“I'll tell you the whole. There's nothing I can't tell, nothing I'm not
+proud to tell. By George, I ought to be proud! Why, Grandfather, she's
+wonderful!”
+
+“Sartin, son, sartin. They always are. I mean she is, of course. Heave
+ahead.”
+
+So Albert told his love story. When he had finished Captain Zelote's
+pipe was empty, and he put it down.
+
+“Albert,” he said slowly, “I judge you mean this thing seriously. You
+mean to marry her some day.”
+
+“Yes, indeed I do. And I won't give her up, either. Her mother--why,
+what right has her mother got to say--to treat her in this way? Or to
+call me what she calls me in that letter? Why, by George--”
+
+“Easy, son. As I understand it, this Madeline of yours is the only child
+the Fosdicks have got and when our only child is in danger of bein'
+carried off by somebody else--why, well, their mothers and fathers are
+liable to be just a little upset, especially if it comes on 'em sudden.
+. . . Nobody knows that better than I do,” he added slowly.
+
+Albert recognized the allusion, but he was not in the mood to be
+affected by it. He was not, just then, ready to make allowances for any
+one, particularly the parental Fosdicks.
+
+“They have no business to be upset--not like that, anyhow,” he declared.
+“What does that woman know about me? What right has she to say that I
+ensnared Madeline's affection and all that rot? Madeline and I fell in
+love with each other, just as other people have, I suppose.”
+
+“You suppose right,” observed Captain Zelotes, dryly. “Other people
+have--a good many of 'em since Adam's time.”
+
+“Well, then! And what right has she to give orders that I stop
+writing or seeing Madeline,--all that idiotic stuff about ceasing
+and terminating at once? She--she--” His agitation was making him
+incoherent--“She talks like Lord Somebody-or-other in an old-fashioned
+novel or play or something. Those old fools were always rejecting
+undesirable suitors and ordering their daughters to do this and that,
+breaking their hearts, and so on. But that sort of thing doesn't go
+nowadays. Young people have their own ideas.”
+
+“Um-hm, Al; so I've noticed.”
+
+“Yes, indeed they have. Now, if Madeline wants to marry me and I want to
+marry her, who will stop us?”
+
+The captain pulled at his beard.
+
+“Why, nobody, Al, as I know of,” he said; “provided you both keep on
+wantin' to marry each other long enough.”
+
+“Keep on wanting long enough? What do you mean by that?”
+
+“Why, nothin' much, perhaps; only gettin' married isn't all just goin'
+to the parson. After the ceremony the rent begins and the grocers' bills
+and the butchers' and the bakers' and a thousand or so more. Somebody's
+got to pay 'em, and the money's got to come from somewhere. Your wages
+here, Al, poetry counted in, ain't so very big yet. Better wait a spell
+before you settle down to married life, hadn't you?”
+
+“Well--well, I--I didn't say we were to be married right away,
+Grandfather. She and I aren't unreasonable. I'm doing better and better
+with my writings. Some day I'll make enough, and more. Why not?”
+
+There was enough of the Speranza egotism in this confident assurance to
+bring the twinkle to the captain's eye. He twisted his beard between his
+finger and thumb and regarded his grandson mildly.
+
+“Have you any idea how much 'enough' is liable to be, Al?” he inquired.
+“I don't know the facts about 'em, of course, but from what I have heard
+I judge the Fosdicks have got plenty of cash. I've heard it estimated
+around town from one million to fifty millions. Allowin' it's only one
+million, it seems likely that your--er--what's-her-name--Madeline has
+been used to havin' as much as fifty cents to spend whenever she wanted
+it. Do you cal'late to be able to earn enough makin' up poetry to keep
+her the way her folks have been doin'?”
+
+“No, of course not--not at first.”
+
+“Oh, but later on--when the market price of poetry has gone up--you can,
+eh?”
+
+“Look here, Grandfather, if you're making fun of me I tell you I won't
+stand it. This is serious; I mean it. Madeline and I are going to be
+married some time and no one can stop us.”
+
+“All right, son, all right. But it did seem to me that in the light of
+this letter from--er--your mother-in-law that's goin' to be, we ought
+to face the situation moderately square, anyhow. First comes marriage.
+Well, that's easy; any fool can get married, lots of 'em do. But then,
+as I said, comes supportin' yourself and wife--bills, bills, and more
+bills. You'll say that you and she will economize and fight it out
+together. Fine, first-rate, but later on there may be more of you, a
+child, children perhaps--”
+
+“Grandfather!”
+
+“It's possible, son. Such things do happen, and they cost money. More
+mouths to feed. Now I take it for granted that you aren't marryin' the
+Fosdick girl for her money--”
+
+The interruption was prompt and made with fiery indignation.
+
+“I never thought of her money,” declared Albert. “I don't even know that
+she has any. If she has, I don't want it. I wouldn't take it. She is all
+I want.”
+
+Captain Zelotes' lip twitched.
+
+“Judgin' from the tone of her ma's last letter to me,” he observed, “she
+is all you would be liable to get. It don't read as if many--er--weddin'
+presents from the bride's folks would come along with her. But, there,
+there, Al don't get mad. I know this is a long ways from bein' a joke to
+you and, in a way, it's no joke for me. Course I had realized that some
+day you'd be figgerin', maybe, on gettin' married, but I did hope the
+figgerin' wouldn't begin for some years yet. And when you did, I rather
+hoped--well, I--I hoped. . . . However, we won't stop to bother with
+that now. Let's stick to this letter of Mrs. Fosdick's here. I must
+answer that, I suppose, whether I want to or not, to-day. Well, Al,
+you tell me, I understand that there has been nothin' underhand in your
+acquaintance with her daughter. Other than keepin' the engagement a
+secret, that is?”
+
+“Yes, I do.”
+
+“And you mean to stick by your guns and. . . . Well, what is it? Come
+in!”
+
+There had been a knock upon the office door. In answer to his employer's
+summons, Mr. Keeler appeared. He held a card in his hand.
+
+“Sorry to disturb you, Cap'n Lote,” he said. “Yes, I be, yes, sir. But
+I judged maybe 'twas somethin' important about the lumber for his
+house and he seemed anxious to see you, so I took the risk and knocked.
+Um-hm--yes, yes, yes.”
+
+Captain Zelotes looked at the card. Then he adjusted his spectacles and
+looked again.
+
+“Humph!” he grunted. “Humph! . . . We-ell, Labe, I guess likely you
+might show him in here. Wait just a minute before you do it, though.
+I'll open the door when I want him to come.”
+
+“All right, Cap'n Lote. Yes, yes,” observed Mr. Keeler and departed. The
+captain looked thoughtfully at the card.
+
+“Al,” he said, after a moment's reflection, “we'll have to cut this
+talk of ours short for a little spell. You go back to your desk and wait
+there until I call you. Hold on,” as his grandson moved toward the door
+of the outer office. “Don't go that way. Go out through the side door
+into the yard and come in the front way. There's--er--there's a man
+waitin' to see me, and--er--perhaps he'd better not see you first.”
+
+Albert stared at him uncomprehendingly.
+
+“Better not see ME?” he repeated. “Why shouldn't he see me?”
+
+Captain Zelotes handed the card to Albert.
+
+“Better let me talk with him first, Al,” he said. “You can have your
+chance later on.”
+
+The card bore the name of Mr. Fletcher Story Fosdick.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+Albert read the name on the card. He was too astonished to speak. Her
+father! He was here! He--
+
+His grandfather spoke again, and his tone was brisk and businesslike.
+
+“Go on, Al,” he ordered. “Out through this side door and around to the
+front. Lively, son, lively!”
+
+But the young man's wits were returning. He scowled at the card.
+
+“No,” he said stoutly, “I'm not going to run away. I'm not afraid of
+him. I haven't done anything to be ashamed of.”
+
+The captain nodded. “If you had, I should ASK you to run away,” he said.
+“As it is, I just ask you to step out and wait a little while, that's
+all.”
+
+“But, Grandfather, I WANT to see him.”
+
+“All right, I want you to--but not until he and I have talked first.
+Come, boy, come! I've lived a little longer than you have, and maybe I
+know about half as much about some things. This is one of 'em. You clear
+out and stand by. I'll call you when I want you.”
+
+Albert went, but reluctantly. After he had gone his grandfather walked
+to the door of the outer office and opened it.
+
+“Step aboard, Mr. Fosdick,” he said. “Come in, sir.”
+
+Mr. Fletcher Fosdick was a large man, portly, and with a head which was
+rapidly losing its thatch. His smoot-shaven face was ruddy and his blue
+eye mild. He entered the private office of Z. Snow and Co. and shook the
+hand which Captain Zelotes proffered.
+
+“How do you do, Captain Snow?” he asked pleasantly. “You and I have had
+some business dealings, but we have never met before, I believe.”
+
+The captain waved toward a chair. “That's a fact, Mr. Fosdick,” he said.
+“I don't believe we ever have, but it's better late than by and by, as
+the feller said. Sit down, sit down, Mr. Fosdick. Throw off your coat,
+won't you? It's sort of warm in here compared to out door.”
+
+The visitor admitted the difference in temperature between the interior
+and exterior of the building, and removed his overcoat. Also he sat
+down. Captain Zelotes opened a drawer of his desk and produced a box of
+cigars.
+
+“Have a smoke, won't you?” he inquired.
+
+Mr. Fosdick glanced at the label on the box.
+
+“Why--why, I was rather hoping you would smoke one of mine,” he said. “I
+have a pocket full.”
+
+“When I come callin' on you at your place in New York I will smoke
+yours. Now it kind of looks to me as if you'd ought to smoke mine. Seems
+reasonable when you think it over, don't it?”
+
+Fosdick smiled. “Perhaps you're right,” he said. He took one of the
+gaudily banded perfectos from his host's box and accepted a light from
+the match the captain held. Both men blew a cloud of smoke and through
+those clouds each looked at the other. The preliminaries were over, but
+neither seemed particularly anxious to begin the real conversation. It
+was the visitor who, at last, began it.
+
+“Captain Snow,” he said, “I presume your clerk told you I wished to see
+you on a matter of business.”
+
+“Who? Oh, Labe, you mean? Yes, he told me.”
+
+“I told him to tell you that. It may surprise you, however, to learn
+that the business I wished to see you about--that I came on from New
+York to see you about--has nothing whatever to do with the house I'm
+building down here.”
+
+Captain Zelotes removed his cigar from his lips and looked meditatively
+at its burning end. “No-o,” he said slowly, “that don't surprise me very
+much. I cal'lated 'twasn't about the house you wished to see me.”
+
+“Oh, I see! . . . Humph!” The Fosdick mild blue eye lost, for the
+moment, just a trifle of its mildness and became almost keen, as its
+owner flashed a glance at the big figure seated at the desk. “I see,”
+ said Mr. Fosdick. “And have you--er--guessed what I did come to see you
+about?”
+
+“No-o. I wouldn't call it guessin', exactly.”
+
+“Wouldn't you? What would you call it?”
+
+“We-ll, I don't know but I'd risk callin' it knowin'. Yes, I think
+likely I would.”
+
+“Oh, I see. . . . Humph! Have you had a letter--on the subject?”
+
+“Ye-es.”
+
+“I see. From Mrs. Fosdick, of course. She said she was going to
+write--I'm not sure she didn't say she had written; but I had the
+impression it was to--well, to another member of your family, Captain
+Snow.”
+
+“No, 'twas to me. Come this mornin's mail.”
+
+“I see. My mistake. Well, I'm obliged to her in a way. If the news has
+been broken to you, I shan't have to break it and we can get down to
+brass tacks just so much sooner. The surprise being over--I take it, it
+WAS a surprise, Captain?”
+
+“You take it right. Just as much of a surprise to me as you.”
+
+“Of course. Well, the surprise being over for both of us, we can talk of
+the affair--calmly and coolly. What do you think about it, Captain?”
+
+“Oh, I don't know as I know exactly what to think. What do YOU think
+about it, Mr. Fosdick?”
+
+“I think--I imagine I think very much as you do.”
+
+“I shouldn't be surprised. And--er--what's your notion of what I think?”
+
+Captain Zelotes' gray eye twinkled as he asked the question, and the
+Fosdick blue eye twinkled in return. Both men laughed.
+
+“We aren't getting very far this way, Captain,” observed the visitor.
+“There's no use dodging, I suppose. I, for one, am not very well
+pleased. Mrs. Fosdick, for another, isn't pleased at all; she is
+absolutely and entirely opposed to the whole affair. She won't hear of
+it, that's all, and she said so much that I thought perhaps I had better
+come down here at once, see you, and--and the young fellow with the
+queer name--”
+
+“My grandson.”
+
+“Why yes. He is your grandson, isn't he? I beg your pardon.”
+
+“That's all right. I shan't fight with you because you don't like his
+name. Go ahead. You decided to come and see him--and me--?”
+
+“Yes, I did. I decided to come because it has been my experience that
+a frank, straight talk is better, in cases like this, than a hundred
+letters. And that the time to talk was now, before matters between the
+young foo--the young people went any further. Don't you agree with me?”
+
+Captain Zelotes nodded.
+
+“That now is a good time to talk? Yes, I do,” he said.
+
+“Good! Then suppose we talk.”
+
+“All right.”
+
+There was another interval of silence. Then Fosdick broke it with a
+chuckle. “And I'm the one to do the talking, eh?” he said.
+
+Captain Lote's eye twinkled. “We-ll, you came all the way from New
+York on purpose, you know,” he observed. Then he added: “But there, Mr.
+Fosdick, I don't want you to think I ain't polite or won't talk, myself.
+I'll do my share when the time comes. But it does seem to me that you
+ought to do yours first as it's your family so far that's done the
+objectin'. . . . Your cigar's gone out. Have another light, won't you?”
+
+The visitor shook his head. “No, thank you, not now,” he said hastily,
+placing the defunct cigar carefully on the captain's desk. “I won't
+smoke for the minute. So you want me to begin the talking, do you? It
+seems to me I have begun it. I told you that I do not like the idea
+of my daughter's being engaged to--to say nothing of marrying--your
+grandson. My wife likes it even less than I do. That is enough of a
+statement to begin with, isn't it?”
+
+“Why, no, not exactly, if you'll excuse my sayin' so. Your daughter
+herself--how does she feel about it?”
+
+“Oh, she is enthusiastic, naturally. She appears to be suffering from
+temporary insanity on the subject.”
+
+“She don't seem to think it's quite as--er--preposterous, and ridiculous
+and outrageous--and Lord knows what all--as your wife does, eh?”
+
+“No. I say, Snow, I hope you're not too deeply offended by what my wife
+wrote you. I judge you are quoting from her letter and apparently she
+piled it on red-hot. You'll have to excuse her; she was almost wild all
+day yesterday. I'll ask your pardon on her behalf.”
+
+“Sho, sho! No need, Mr. Fosdick, no need at all. I know what women
+are, even the easy-goin' kind, when they've got steam up. I've got a
+wife--and I had a daughter. But, gettin' back on the course again, you
+think your daughter's crazy because she wants to marry my grandson. Is
+that it?”
+
+“Why, no, I wouldn't say that, exactly. Of course, I wouldn't say that.”
+
+“But, you see, you did say it. However, we'll leave that to one side
+for a spell. What objection--what real objection is there to those two
+marryin'--my grandson and your daughter--provided that they care for
+each other as they'd ought to?”
+
+Mr. Fosdick's expression changed slightly. His tone, as he replied to
+the question, was colder and his manner less cordial.
+
+“I don't know that it is worth while answering that in detail,” he said,
+after an instant's pause. “Frankly, Captain Snow, I had rather hoped
+you would see, for yourself, the reasons why such a marriage wouldn't be
+desirable. If you don't see them, if you are backing up your grandson
+in his business, why--well, there is no use in our discussing the matter
+any further, is there? We should only lose our tempers and not gain
+much. So we had better end it now, I think.”
+
+He rose to his feet. Captain Zelotes, leaning forward, held up a
+protesting hand.
+
+“Now--now, Mr. Fosdick,” he said earnestly, “I don't want you to
+misunderstand me. And I'm sorry if what I said has made you mad.”
+
+Fosdick smiled. “Oh, I'm not mad,” he answered cheerfully. “I make it
+a rule in all my business dealings not to get mad, or, more especially,
+not to let the other fellow know that I'm getting that way. My temper
+hasn't a ruffle in it just now, and I am leaving merely because I want
+it to remain smooth. I judge that you and I aren't going to agree. All
+right, then we'll differ, but we'll differ without a fight, that's all.
+Good afternoon, Captain.”
+
+But Captain Lote's hand still remained uplifted.
+
+“Mr. Fosdick,” he said, “just a minute now--just a minute. You never
+have met Albert, my grandson, have you? Never even seen him, maybe?”
+
+“No, but I intend to meet him and talk with him before I leave South
+Harniss. He was one of the two people I came here to meet.”
+
+“And I was the other, eh? Um-hm. . . . I see. You think you've found out
+where I stand and now you'll size him up. Honest, Mr. Fosdick, I . . .
+Humph! Mind if I tell you a little story? 'Twon't take long. When I was
+a little shaver, me and my granddad, the first Cap'n Lote Snow--there's
+been two since--were great chums. When he was home from sea he and I
+stuck together like hot pitch and oakum. One day we were sittin' out in
+the front yard of his house--it's mine, now--watchin' a hoptoad catch
+flies. You've seen a toad catch flies, haven't you, Mr. Fosdick? Mr.
+Toad sits there, lookin' half asleep and as pious and demure as a
+pickpocket at camp-meetin', until a fly comes along and gets too near.
+Then, Zip! out shoots about six inches of toad tongue and that fly's
+been asked in to dinner. Well, granddad and I sat lookin' at our
+particular toad when along came a bumble-bee and lighted on a
+honeysuckle blossom right in front of the critter. The toad didn't take
+time to think it over, all he saw was a square meal, and his tongue
+flashed out and nailed that bumble-bee and snapped it into the pantry.
+In about a half second, though, there was a change. The pantry had been
+emptied, the bumble-bee was on his way again, and Mr. Toad was on
+his, hoppin' lively and huntin' for--well, for ice water or somethin'
+coolin', I guess likely. Granddad tapped me on the shoulder. 'Sonny,'
+says he, 'there's a lesson for you. That hoptoad didn't wait to make
+sure that bumble-bee was good to eat; he took it for granted, and was
+sorry afterward. It don't pay to jump at conclusions, son,' he says.
+'Some conclusions are like that bumble-bee's, they have stings in 'em.'”
+
+Captain Lote, having finished his story, felt in his pocket for a match.
+Fosdick, for an instant, appeared puzzled. Then he laughed.
+
+“I see,” he said. “You think I made too quick a jump when I concluded
+you were backing your grandson in this affair. All right, I'm glad to
+hear it. What do you want me to do, sit down again and listen?”
+
+He resumed his seat as he asked the question. Captain Zelotes nodded.
+
+“If you don't mind,” he answered. “You see, you misunderstood me, Mr.
+Fosdick. I didn't mean any more than what I said when I asked you
+what real objection there was, in your opinion to Albert's marryin'
+your--er--Madeline, that's her name, I believe. Seems to me the way for
+us to get to an understandin'--you and I--is to find out just how the
+situation looks to each of us. When we've found out that, we'll know how
+nigh we come to agreein' or disagreein' and can act accordin'. Sounds
+reasonable, don't it?”
+
+Fosdick nodded in his turn. “Perfectly,” he admitted. “Well, ask your
+questions, and I'll answer them. After that perhaps I'll ask some
+myself. Go ahead.”
+
+“I have gone ahead. I've asked one already.”
+
+“Yes, but it is such a general question. There may be so many
+objections.”
+
+“I see. All right, then I'll ask some: What do the lawyers call
+'em?--Atlantic? Pacific? I've got it--I'll ask some specific questions.
+Here's one. Do you object to Al personally? To his character?”
+
+“Not at all. We know nothing about his character. Very likely he may be
+a young saint.”
+
+“Well, he ain't, so we'll let that slide. He's a good boy, though, so
+far as I've ever been able to find out. Is it his looks? You've never
+seen him, but your wife has. Don't she like his looks?”
+
+“She hasn't mentioned his looks to me.”
+
+“Is it his money? He hasn't got any of his own.”
+
+“We-ell, of course that does count a little bit. Madeline is our only
+child, and naturally we should prefer to have her pick out a husband
+with a dollar or so in reserve.”
+
+“Um-hm. Al's twenty-one, Mr. Fosdick. When I was twenty-one I had some
+put by, but not much. I presume likely 'twas different with you, maybe.
+Probably you were pretty well fixed.”
+
+Fosdick laughed aloud. “You make a good cross-examiner, Snow,” he
+observed. “As a matter of fact, when I was twenty-one I was assistant
+bookkeeper in a New Haven broker's office. I didn't have a cent except
+my salary, and I had that only for the first five days in the week.”
+
+“However, you got married?”
+
+“Yes, I did. More fool I! If I had known anything, I should have waited
+five years at least. I didn't have any one to tell me so. My father and
+mother were both dead.”
+
+“Think you'd have listened to 'em if they had been alive and had told
+you? However, however, that's all to one side. Well, Albert's havin' no
+money to speak of is an objection--and a good honest one from your point
+of view. His prospects here in this business of mine are fair, and he
+is doin' better at it than he was, so he may make a comf'table livin'--a
+comf'table South Harniss livin', that is--by and by.”
+
+“Oh, he is with you, then? Oh, yes, I remember my wife said he worked in
+your office. But she said more about his being some sort of a--a poet,
+wasn't it?”
+
+For the first time since the interview began the captain looked ill at
+ease and embarrassed.
+
+“Thunderation!” he exclaimed testily, “you mustn't pay attention to
+that. He does make up poetry' pieces--er--on the side, as you might say,
+but I keep hopin' all the time he'll grow out of it, give him time. It
+'ain't his regular job, you mustn't think 'tis.”
+
+The visitor laughed again. “I'm glad of that,” he said, “both for your
+sake and mine. I judge that you and I, Snow, are in complete agreement
+as far as our opinion of poetry and that sort of stuff is concerned.
+Of course I'm not condemning all poetry, you understand. Longfellow and
+Tennyson and the regular poets are all right. You understand what I'm
+getting at?”
+
+“Sartin. I used to know 'Down went the R'yal George with all her crew
+complete,' and a lot more. Used to say 'em over to myself when I first
+went to sea and stood watch alone nights. But they were different, you
+know; they--they--”
+
+“Sure! My wife--why, I give you my word that my own wife and her set
+go perfectly daffy over chaps who write stuff that rhymes and that the
+papers are printing columns about. Snow, if this grandson of yours was
+a genuine press-touted, women's club poet instead of a would-be--well,
+I don't know what might happen. In that case she might be as strong FOR
+this engagement as she is now against it.”
+
+He paused, seeming a bit ashamed of his own heat. Captain Zelotes,
+however, regarded him with more approval than he had yet shown.
+
+“It's been my observation that women are likely to get off the course
+chasin' false signals like that,” he observed. “When a man begins
+lettin' his hair and his mouth run wild together seems as if the
+combination had an attraction for a good many women folks. Al keeps his
+hair cut, though, I'll say that for him,” he added. “It curls some, but
+it ain't long. I wouldn't have him in the office if 'twas.”
+
+“Well, Mr. Fosdick,” he continued, “what other objections are they?
+Manners? Family and relations? Education? Any objections along that
+line?”
+
+“No-o, no; I--well, I don't know; you see, I don't know much about the
+young fellow.”
+
+“Perhaps I can help you out. As to manners--well, you can judge them for
+yourself when you see him. He seems to be in about every kind of social
+doin's there is down here, and he's as much or more popular with the
+summer folks than with the year-'rounders. Education? Well, that's
+fair to middlin', as I see it. He spent nine or ten years in a mighty
+expensive boardin' school up in New York State.”
+
+“Did he? What school?”
+
+The captain gave the name of the school. Fosdick looked surprised.
+
+“Humph! That IS a good school,” he said.
+
+“Is it? Depends on what you call good, I cal'late. Al learned a good
+deal of this and that, a little bit of foreign language, some that they
+call dead and some that ought to be dead--and buried, 'cordin' to my
+notion. When he came to me he couldn't add up a column of ten figgers
+without makin' a mistake, and as for business--well, what he knew about
+business was about equal to what Noah knew about a gas engine.”
+
+He paused to chuckle, and Fosdick chuckled with him.
+
+“As to family,” went on Captain Lote, “he's a Snow on his mother's side,
+and there's been seven generations of Snow's in this part of the Cape
+since the first one landed here. So far as I know, they've all managed
+to keep out of jail, which may have been more good luck than deservin'
+in some cases.”
+
+“His father?” queried Fosdick.
+
+The captain's heavy brows drew together. “His father was a Portygee--or
+Spaniard, I believe is right--and he was a play-actor, one of
+those--what do you call 'em?--opera singers.”
+
+Fosdick seemed surprised and interested. “Oh, indeed,” he exclaimed, “an
+opera singer? . . . Why, he wasn't Speranza, the baritone, was he?”
+
+“Maybe; I believe he was. He married my daughter and--well, we won't
+talk about him, if you don't mind.”
+
+“But Speranza was a--”
+
+“IF you don't mind, Mr. Fosdick.”
+
+Captain Lote lapsed into silence, drumming the desk with his big
+fingers. His visitor waited for a few moments. At length he said:
+
+“Well, Captain Snow, I have answered your questions and you have
+answered mine. Do you think we are any nearer an agreement now?”
+
+Captain Zelotes seemed to awake with a start. “Eh?” he queried.
+“Agreement? Oh, I don't know. Did you find any--er--what you might call
+vital objections in the boy's record?”
+
+“No-o. No, all that is all right. His family and his education and all
+the rest are good enough, I'm sure. But, nevertheless--”
+
+“You still object to the young folks gettin' married.”
+
+“Yes, I do. Hang it all, Snow, this isn't a thing one can reason out,
+exactly. Madeline is our only child; she is our pet, our baby. Naturally
+her mother and I have planned for her, hoped for her, figured that some
+day, when we had to give her up, it would be to--to--”
+
+“To somebody that wasn't Albert Speranza of South Harniss, Mass. . . .
+Eh?”
+
+“Yes. Not that your grandson isn't all right. I have no doubt he is a
+tip-top young fellow. But, you see--”
+
+Captain Lote suddenly leaned forward. “Course I see, Mr. Fosdick,” he
+interrupted. “Course I see. You object, and the objection ain't a mite
+weaker on account of your not bein' able to say exactly what 'tis.”
+
+“That's the idea. Thank you, Captain.”
+
+“You're welcome. I can understand. I know just how you feel, because
+I've been feelin' the same way myself.”
+
+“Oh, you have? Good! Then you can sympathize with Mrs. Fosdick and with
+me. You see--you understand why we had rather our daughter did not marry
+your grandson.”
+
+“Sartin. You see, I've had just the same sort of general kind of
+objection to Al's marryin' your daughter.”
+
+Mr. Fletcher Fosdick leaned slowly backward in his chair. His appearance
+was suggestive of one who has received an unexpected thump between the
+eyes.
+
+“Oh, you have!” he said again, but not with the same expression.
+
+“Um-hm,” said Captain Zelotes gravely. “I'm like you in one way; I've
+never met your Madeline any more than you have met Al. I've seen her
+once or twice, and she is real pretty and nice-lookin'. But I don't know
+her at all. Now I don't doubt for a minute but that she's a real nice
+girl and it might be that she'd make Al a fairly good wife.”
+
+“Er--well,--thanks.”
+
+“Oh, that's all right, I mean it. It might be she would. And I ain't got
+a thing against you or your folks.”
+
+“Humph,--er--thanks again.”
+
+“That's all right; you don't need to thank me. But it's this way with
+me--I live in South Harniss all the year round. I want to live here till
+I die, and--after I die I'd like first-rate to have Al take up the Z.
+Snow and Co. business and the Snow house and land and keep them goin'
+till HE dies. Mind, I ain't at all sure that he'll do it, or be capable
+of doin' it, but that's what I'd like. Now you're in New York most of
+the year, and so's your wife and daughter. New York is all right--I
+ain't sayin' a word against it--but New York and South Harniss are
+different.”
+
+The Fosdick lip twitched. “Somewhat different,” he admitted.
+
+“Um-hm. That sounds like a joke, I know; but I don't mean it so, not
+now. What I mean is that I know South Harniss and South Harniss folks. I
+don't know New York--not so very well, though I've been there plenty of
+times--and I don't know New York ways. But I do know South Harniss ways,
+and they suit me. Would they suit your daughter--not just for summer,
+but as a reg'lar thing right straight along year in and out? I doubt
+it, Mr. Fosdick, I doubt it consid'able. Course I don't know your
+daughter--”
+
+“I do--and I share your doubts.”
+
+“Um-hm. But whether she liked it or not she'd have to come here if she
+married my grandson. Either that or he'd have to go to New York. And if
+he went to New York, how would he earn his livin'? Get a new bookkeepin'
+job and start all over again, or live on poetry?”
+
+Mr. Fosdick opened his mouth as if to speak, seemed to change his mind
+and closed it again, without speaking. Captain Zelotes, looking keenly
+at him, seemed to guess his thoughts.
+
+“Of course,” he said deliberately, but with a firmness which permitted
+no misunderstanding of his meaning, “of course you mustn't get it into
+your head for one minute that the boy is figgerin' on your daughter's
+bein' a rich girl. He hasn't given that a thought. You take my word for
+that, Mr. Fosdick. He doesn't know how much money she or you have got
+and he doesn't care. He doesn't care a continental darn.”
+
+His visitor smiled slightly. “Nevertheless,” he began. The captain
+interrupted him.
+
+“No, there ain't any nevertheless,” he said. “Albert has been with me
+enough years now so that I know a little about him. And I know that all
+he wants is your daughter. As to how much she's worth in money or how
+they're goin' to live after he's got her--I know that he hasn't given it
+one thought. I don't imagine she has, either. For one reason,” he added,
+with a smile, “he is too poor a business man to think of marriage as a
+business, bill-payin' contract, and for another,--for another--why, good
+Lord, Fosdick!” he exclaimed, leaning forward, “don't you know what this
+thing means to those two young folks? It means just moonshine and mush
+and lookin' into each other's eyes, that's about all. THEY haven't
+thought any practical thoughts about it. Why, think what their ages are!
+Think of yourself at that age! Can't you remember. . . . Humph! Well,
+I'm talkin' fifty revolutions to the second. I beg your pardon.”
+
+“That's all right, Snow. And I believe you have the situation sized up
+as it is. Still--”
+
+“Excuse me, Mr. Fosdick, but don't you think it's about time you had a
+look at the boy himself? I'm goin' to ask him to come in here and meet
+you.”
+
+Fosdick looked troubled. “Think it is good policy?” he asked doubtfully.
+“I want to see him and speak with him, but I do hate a scene.”
+
+“There won't be any scene. You just meet him face to face and talk
+enough with him to get a little idea of what your first impression is.
+Don't contradict or commit yourself or anything. And I'll send him out
+at the end of two or three minutes.”
+
+Without waiting for a reply, he rose, opened the door to the outer
+office and called, “Al, come in here!” When Albert had obeyed the
+order he closed the door behind him and turning to the gentleman in
+the visitor's chair, said: “Mr. Fosdick, this is my grandson, Albert
+Speranza. Al, shake hands with Mr. Fosdick from New York.”
+
+While awaiting the summons to meet the father of his adored, Albert had
+been rehearsing and re-rehearsing the speeches he intended making when
+that meeting took place. Sitting at his desk, pen in hand and pretending
+to be busy with the bookkeeping of Z. Snow and Company, he had seen,
+not the ruled page of the day book, but the parental countenance of the
+Honorable Fletcher Fosdick. And, to his mind's eye, that countenance
+was as rugged and stern as the rock-bound coast upon which the Pilgrims
+landed, and about as unyielding and impregnable as the door of the
+office safe. So, when his grandfather called him, he descended from the
+tall desk stool and crossed the threshold of the inner room, a trifle
+pale, a little shaky at the knees, but with the set chin and erect head
+of one who, facing almost hopeless odds, intends fighting to the last
+gasp.
+
+To his astonishment the Fosdick countenance was not as his imagination
+had pictured it. The blue eyes met his, not with a glare or a glower,
+but with a look of interest and inquiry. The Fosdick hand shook his with
+politeness, and the Fosdick manner was, if not genial, at least quiet
+and matter of fact. He was taken aback. What did it mean? Was it
+possible that Madeline's father was inclined to regard her engagement
+to him with favor? A great throb of joy accompanied the thought. Then
+he remembered the letter he had just read, the letter from Madeline's
+mother, and the hope subsided.
+
+“Albert,” said Captain Zelotes, “Mr. Fosdick has come on here to talk
+with us; that is, with me and you, about your affairs. He and I have
+talked up to the point where it seemed to me you ought to come in for
+a spell. I've told him that the news that you and his daughter
+were--er--favorably disposed toward each other was as sudden and as big
+a surprise to me as 'twas to him. Even your grandma don't know it yet.
+Now I presume likely he'd like to ask you a few questions. Heave ahead,
+Mr. Fosdick.”
+
+He relit his cigar stump and leaned back in his chair. Mr. Fosdick
+leaned forward in his. Albert stood very straight, his shoulders braced
+for the encounter. The quizzical twinkle shone in Captain Lote's eye as
+he regarded his grandson. Fosdick also smiled momentarily as he caught
+the expression of the youth's face.
+
+“Well, Speranza,” he began, in so cheerful a tone that Albert's
+astonishment grew even greater, “your grandfather has been kind enough
+to get us through the preliminaries, so we'll come at once to the
+essentials. You and my daughter consider yourselves engaged to marry?”
+
+“Yes, sir. We ARE engaged.”
+
+“I see. How long have you--um--been that way, so to speak?”
+
+“Since last August.”
+
+“Why haven't you said anything about it to us--to Mrs. Fosdick or me or
+your people here? You must excuse these personal questions. As I have
+just said to Captain Snow, Madeline is our only child, and her happiness
+and welfare mean about all there is in life to her mother and me. So,
+naturally, the man she is going to marry is an important consideration.
+You and I have never met before, so the quickest way of reaching an
+understanding between us is by the question route. You get my meaning?”
+
+“Yes, sir, I guess I do.”
+
+“Good! Then we'll go ahead. Why have you two kept it a secret so long?”
+
+“Because--well, because we knew we couldn't marry yet a while, so we
+thought we had better not announce it for the present.”
+
+“Oh! . . . And the idea that perhaps Mrs. Fosdick and I might be
+slightly interested didn't occur to you?”
+
+“Why, yes, sir, it did. But,--but we thought it best not to tell you
+until later.”
+
+“Perhaps the suspicion that we might not be overjoyed by the news had
+a little weight with you, eh? Possibly that helped to delay
+the--er--announcement?”
+
+“No, sir, I--I don't think it did.”
+
+“Oh, don't you! Perhaps you thought we WOULD be overjoyed?”
+
+“No, sir. We didn't think so very much about it. Well, that's not quite
+true. Madeline felt that her mother--and you, too, sir, I suppose,
+although she didn't speak as often of you in that way--she felt that her
+mother would disapprove at first, and so we had better wait.”
+
+“Until when?”
+
+“Until--until by and by. Until I had gone ahead further, you know.”
+
+“I'm not sure that I do know. Gone ahead how? Until you had a better
+position, more salary?”
+
+“No, not exactly. Until my writings were better known. Until I was a
+little more successful.”
+
+“Successful? Until you wrote more poetry, do you mean?”
+
+“Yes, sir. Poetry and other things, stories and plays, perhaps.”
+
+“Do you mean--Did you figure that you and Madeline were to live on what
+you made by writing poetry and the other stuff?”
+
+“Yes, sir, of course.”
+
+Fosdick looked across at Captain Zelotes. The Captain's face was worth
+looking at.
+
+“Here, here, hold on!” he exclaimed, jumping into the conversation. “Al,
+what are you talkin' about? You're bookkeeper for me, ain't you; for
+this concern right here where you are? What do you mean by talkin' as
+if your job was makin' up poetry pieces? That's only what you do on the
+side, and you know it. Eh, ain't that so?”
+
+Albert hesitated. He had, momentarily, forgotten his grandfather and
+the latter's prejudices. After all, what was the use of stirring up
+additional trouble.
+
+“Yes, Grandfather,” he said.
+
+“Course it's so. It's in this office that you draw your wages.”
+
+“Yes, Grandfather.”
+
+“All right. Excuse me for nosin' in, Mr. Fosdick, but I knew the boy
+wasn't puttin' the thing as plain as it ought to be, and I didn't want
+you to get the wrong notion. Heave ahead.”
+
+Fosdick smiled slightly. “All right, Captain,” he said. “I get it, I
+think. Well, then,” turning again to Albert, “your plan for supporting
+my daughter was to wait until your position here, plus the poetry,
+should bring in sufficient revenue. It didn't occur to you that--well,
+that there might be a possibility of getting money--elsewhere?”
+
+Albert plainly did not understand, but it was just as plain that his
+grandfather did. Captain Zelotes spoke sharply.
+
+“Mr. Fosdick,” he said, “I just answered that question for you.”
+
+“Yes, I know. But if you were in my place you might like to have him
+answer it. I don't mean to be offensive, but business is business, and,
+after all, this is a business talk. So--”
+
+The Captain interrupted. “So we'll talk it in a business way, eh?” he
+snapped. “All right. Al, what Mr. Fosdick means is had you cal'lated
+that, if you married his daughter, maybe her dad's money might help you
+and her to keep goin'? To put it even plainer: had you planned some on
+her bein' a rich girl?”
+
+Fosdick looked annoyed. “Oh, I say, Snow!” he cried. “That's too strong,
+altogether.”
+
+“Not a mite. It's what you've had in the back of your head all along.
+I'm just helpin' it to come out of the front. Well, Al?”
+
+The red spots were burning in the Speranza cheeks. He choked as he
+answered.
+
+“No,” he cried fiercely. “Of course I haven't planned on any such thing.
+I don't know how rich she is. I don't care. I wish she was as poor
+as--as I am. I want HER, that's all. And she wants me. We don't either
+of us care about money. I wouldn't take a cent of your money, Mr.
+Fosdick. But I--I want Madeline and--and--I shall have her.”
+
+“In spite of her parents, eh?”
+
+“Yes. . . . I'm sorry to speak so, Mr. Fosdick, but it is true. We--we
+love each other. We--we've agreed to wait for each other, no matter--no
+matter if it is years and years. And as for the money and all that, if
+you disinherit her, or--or whatever it is they do--we don't care. I--I
+hope you will. I--she--”
+
+Captain Zelotes' voice broke in upon the impassioned outburst.
+
+“Steady, Al; steady, son,” he cautioned quietly. “I cal'late you've said
+enough. I don't think any more's necessary. You'd better go back to your
+desk now.”
+
+“But, Grandfather, I want him to understand--”
+
+“I guess likely he does. I should say you'd made it real plain. Go now,
+Al.”
+
+Albert turned, but, with a shaking hand upon the doorknob, turned back
+again.
+
+“I'm--I--I'm sorry, Mr. Fosdick,” he faltered. “I--I didn't mean to say
+anything to hurt your feelings. But--but, you see, Madeline--she and
+I--we--”
+
+He could not go on. Fosdick's nod and answer were not unkindly. “All
+right, Speranza,” he said, “I'm not offended. Hope I wasn't too blunt,
+myself. Good-day.”
+
+When the door had closed behind the young man he turned to Captain Lote.
+
+“Sorry if I offended you, Snow,” he observed. “I threw in that hint
+about marrying just to see what effect it would have, that's all.”
+
+“Um-hm. So I judged. Well, you saw, didn't you?”
+
+“I did. Say, Captain, except as a prospective son-in-law, and then only
+because I don't see him in that light--I rather like that grandson of
+yours. He's a fine, upstanding young chap.”
+
+The captain made no reply. He merely pulled at his beard. However, he
+did not look displeased.
+
+“He's a handsome specimen, isn't he?” went on Fosdick. “No wonder
+Madeline fell for his looks. Those and the poetry together are a
+combination hard to resist--at her age. And he's a gentleman. He handled
+himself mighty well while I was stringing him just now.”
+
+The beard tugging continued. “Um-hm,” observed Captain Zelotes dryly;
+“he does pretty well for a--South Harniss gentleman. But we're kind
+of wastin' time, ain't we, Mr. Fosdick? In spite of his looks and his
+manners and all the rest, now that you've seen him you still object to
+that engagement, I take it.”
+
+“Why, yes, I do. The boy is all right, I'm sure, but--”
+
+“Sartin, I understand. I feel the same way about your girl. She's all
+right, I'm sure, but--”
+
+“We're agreed on everything, includin' the 'but.' And the 'but' is that
+New York is one place and South Harniss is another.”
+
+“Exactly.”
+
+“So we don't want 'em to marry. Fine. First rate! Only now we come
+to the most important 'but' of all. What are we going to do about it?
+Suppose we say no and they say yes and keep on sayin' it? Suppose they
+decide to get married no matter what we say. How are we goin' to stop
+it?”
+
+His visitor regarded him for a moment and then broke into a hearty
+laugh.
+
+“Snow,” he declared, “you're all right. You surely have the faculty of
+putting your finger on the weak spots. Of course we can't stop it. If
+these two young idiots have a mind to marry and keep that mind, they
+WILL marry and we can't prevent it any more than we could prevent the
+tide coming in to-morrow morning. _I_ realized that this was a sort of
+fool's errand, my coming down here. I know that this isn't the age when
+parents can forbid marriages and get away with it, as they used to on
+the stage in the old plays. Boys and girls nowadays have a way of going
+their own gait in such matters. But my wife doesn't see it in exactly
+that way, and she was so insistent on my coming down here to stop the
+thing if I could that--well, I came.”
+
+“I'm glad you did, Mr. Fosdick, real glad. And, although I agree with
+you that the very worst thing to do, if we want to stop this team from
+pullin' together, is to haul back on the bits and holler 'Whoa,' still
+I'm kind of hopeful that, maybe . . . humph! I declare, it looks as if
+I'd have to tell you another story. I'm gettin' as bad as Cap'n Hannibal
+Doane used to be, and they used to call him 'The Rope Walk' 'cause he
+spun so many yarns.”
+
+Fosdick laughed again. “You may go as far as you like with your stories,
+Captain,” he said. “I can grow fat on them.”
+
+“Thanks. Well, this ain't a story exactly; it just kind of makes the
+point I'm tryin' to get at. Calvin Bangs had a white mare one time and
+the critter had a habit of runnin' away. Once his wife, Hannah J., was
+in the buggy all by herself, over to the Ostable Fair, Calvin havin' got
+out to buy some peanuts or somethin'. The mare got scared of the noise
+and crowd and bolted. As luck would have it, she went right through the
+fence and out onto the trottin' track. And around that track she went,
+hell bent for election. All hands was runnin' alongside hollerin' 'Stop
+her! Stop her! 'but not Calvin--no SIR! He waited till the mare was
+abreast of him, the mare on two legs and the buggy on two wheels and
+Hannah 'most anywheres between the dasher and the next world, and then
+he sung out: 'Give her her head, Hannah! Give her her head. She'll stop
+when she runs down.'”
+
+He laughed and his visitor laughed with him.
+
+“I gather,” observed the New Yorker, “that you believe it the better
+policy to give our young people their heads.”
+
+“In reason--yes, I do. It's my judgment that an affair like this will
+hurry more and more if you try too hard to stop it. If you don't try at
+all so any one would notice it, it may run down and stop of itself, the
+way Calvin's mare did.”
+
+Fosdick nodded reflectively. “I'm inclined to agree with you,” he said.
+“But does that mean that they're to correspond, write love letters, and
+all that?”
+
+“Why, in reason, maybe. If we say no to that, they'll write anyhow,
+won't they?”
+
+“Of course. . . . How would it do to get them to promise to write
+nothing that their parents might not see? Of course I don't mean for
+your grandson to show you his letters before he sends them to Madeline.
+He's too old for that, and he would refuse. But suppose you asked him
+to agree to write nothing that Madeline would not be willing to show her
+mother--or me. Do you think he would?”
+
+“Maybe. I'll ask him. . . . Yes, I guess likely he'd do that.”
+
+“My reason for suggesting it is, frankly, not so much on account of the
+young people as to pacify my wife. I am not afraid--not very much afraid
+of this love affair. They are young, both of them. Give them time,
+and--as you say, Snow, the thing may run down, peter out.”
+
+“I'm in hopes 'twill. It's calf love, as I see it, and I believe 'twill
+pay to give the calves rope enough.”
+
+“So do I. No, I'm not much troubled about the young people. But Mrs.
+Fosdick--well, my trouble will be with her. She'll want to have your boy
+shot or jailed or hanged or something.”
+
+“I presume likely. I guess you'll have to handle her the way another
+feller who used to live here in South Harniss said he handled his wife.
+'We don't never have any trouble at all,' says he. 'Whenever she says
+yes or no, I say the same thing. Later on, when it comes to doin', I do
+what I feel like.' . . . Eh? You're not goin', are you, Mr. Fosdick?”
+
+His visitor had risen and was reaching for his coat. Captain Zelotes
+also rose.
+
+“Don't hurry, don't hurry,” he begged.
+
+“Sorry, but I must. I want to be back in New York tomorrow morning.”
+
+“But you can't, can you? To do that you'll have to get up to Boston or
+Fall River, and the afternoon train's gone. You'd better stay and have
+supper along with my wife and me, stay at our house over night, and take
+the early train after breakfast to-morrow.”
+
+“I wish I could; I'd like nothing better. But I can't.”
+
+“Sure?” Then, with a smile, he added: “Al needn't eat with us, you know,
+if his bein' there makes either of you feel nervous.”
+
+Fosdick laughed again. “I think I should be willing to risk the
+nervousness,” he replied. “But I must go, really. I've hired a chap
+at the garage here to drive me to Boston in his car and I'll take the
+midnight train over.”
+
+“Humph! Well, if you must, you must. Hope you have a comf'table trip,
+Mr. Fosdick. Better wrap up warm; it's pretty nigh a five-hour run to
+Boston and there's some cool wind over the Ostable marshes this time of
+year. Good-by, sir. Glad to have had this talk with you.”
+
+His visitor held out his hand. “So am I, Snow,” he said heartily.
+“Mighty glad.”
+
+“I hope I wasn't too short and brisk at the beginnin'. You see, I'd
+just read your wife's letter, and--er--well, of course, I didn't
+know--just--you see, you and I had never met, and so--”
+
+“Certainly, certainly. I quite understand. And, fool's errand or not,
+I'm very glad I came here. If you'll pardon my saying so, it was worth
+the trip to get acquainted with you. I hope, whatever comes of the other
+thing, that our acquaintanceship will continue.”
+
+“Same here, same here. Go right out the side door, Mr. Fosdick, saves
+goin' through the office. Good day, sir.”
+
+He watched the bulky figure of the New York banker tramping across the
+yard between the piles of lumber. A moment later he entered the
+outer office. Albert and Keeler were at their desks. Captain Zelotes
+approached the little bookkeeper.
+
+“Labe,” he queried, “there isn't anything particular you want me to talk
+about just now, is there?”
+
+Lahan looked up in surprise from his figuring.
+
+“Why--why, no, Cap'n Lote, don't know's there is,” he said. “Don't
+know's there is, not now, no, no, no.”
+
+His employer nodded. “Good!” he exclaimed. “Then I'm goin' back inside
+there and sit down and rest my chin for an hour, anyhow. I've talked so
+much to-day that my jaws squeak. Don't disturb me for anything short of
+a fire or a mutiny.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+He was not disturbed and that evening, after supper was over, he
+was ready to talk again. He and Albert sat together in the sitting
+room--Mrs. Snow and Rachel were in the kitchen washing dishes--and
+Captain Zelotes told his grandson as much as he thought advisable to
+tell of his conversation with the Honorable Fletcher Fosdick. At first
+Albert was inclined to rebel at the idea of permitting his letters to
+Madeline to be read by the latter's parents, but at length he agreed.
+
+“I'll do it because it may make it easier for her,” he said. “She'll
+have a dreadful time, I suppose, with that unreasonable mother of
+hers. But, by George, Grandfather,” he exclaimed, “isn't she splendid,
+though!”
+
+“Who? Mrs. Fosdick?”
+
+“No, of course not,” indignantly. “Madeline. Isn't she splendid and fine
+and loyal! I want you to know her, Grandfather, you and Grandmother.”
+
+“Um-hm. Well, we'll hope to, some day. Now, son, I'm goin' to ask for
+another promise. It may seem a hard one to make, but I'm askin' you to
+make it. I want you to give me your word that, no matter what happens
+or how long you have to wait, you and Madeline won't get married without
+tellin' her folks and yours beforehand. You won't run away and marry.
+Will you promise me that?”
+
+Albert looked at him. This WAS a hard promise to make. In their talks
+beneath the rainbows, whenever he and Madeline had referred to the
+future and its doubts, they had always pushed those doubts aside with
+vague hints of an elopement. If the unreasonableness of parents and
+grandparents should crowd them too far, they had always as a last
+resort, the solution of their problem by way of a runaway marriage. And
+now Captain Zelotes was asking him to give up this last resort.
+
+The captain, watching him keenly, divined what was in his grandson's
+mind.
+
+“Think it over, Al,” he said kindly. “Don't answer me now, but think it
+over, and to-morrow mornin' tell me how you feel about it.” He hesitated
+a moment and then added: “You know your grandmother and I, we--well,
+we have maybe cause to be a little mite prejudiced against this elopin'
+business.”
+
+So Albert thought, and the next morning, as the pair were walking
+together to the office, he spoke his thought. Captain Zelotes had not
+mentioned the subject.
+
+“Grandfather,” said Albert, with some embarrassment, “I'm going to give
+you that promise.”
+
+His grandfather, who had been striding along, his heavy brows drawn
+together and his glance fixed upon the frozen ground beneath his feet,
+looked up.
+
+“Eh?” he queried, uncomprehendingly.
+
+“You asked me last night to promise you something, you know. . . .
+You asked me to think it over. I have, and I'm going to promise you
+that--Madeline and I won't marry without first telling you.”
+
+Captain Zelotes stopped in his stride; then he walked on again.
+
+“Thank you, Al,” he said quietly. “I hoped you'd see it that way.”
+
+“Yes--yes, I--I do. I don't want to bring any more--trouble of that kind
+to you and Grandmother. . . . It seems to me that you--that you have had
+too much already.”
+
+“Thank you, son. . . . Much obliged.”
+
+The captain's tone was almost gruff and that was his only reference to
+the subject of the promise; but somehow Albert felt that at that moment
+he and his grandfather were closer together, were nearer to a mutual
+understanding and mutual appreciation than they had ever been before.
+
+To promise, however, is one thing, to fulfill the obligation another. As
+the days passed Albert found his promise concerning letter-writing very,
+very hard to keep. When, each evening he sat down at the table in
+his room to pour out his soul upon paper it was a most unsatisfactory
+outpouring. The constantly enforced recollection that whatever he wrote
+would be subject to the chilling glance of the eye of Fosdick mater was
+of itself a check upon the flow. To write a love letter to Madeline had
+hitherto been a joy, a rapture, to fill pages and pages a delight. Now,
+somehow, these pages were hard to fill. Omitting the very things you
+were dying to say, the precious, the intimate things--what was
+there left? He and she had, at their meetings and in their former
+correspondence, invented many delightful little pet names for each
+other. Now those names were taboo; or, at any rate, they might as well
+be. The thought of Mrs. Fosdick's sniff of indignant disgust at finding
+her daughter referred to as some one's ownest little rosebud withered
+that bud before it reached the paper.
+
+And Madeline's letters to him were quite as unsatisfactory. They were
+lengthy, but oh, so matter of fact! Saharas of fact without one oasis of
+sentiment. She was well and she had done this and that and had been
+to see such and such plays and operas. Father was well and very busy.
+Mother, too, was well, so was Googoo--but these last two bits of news
+failed to comfort him as they perhaps should. He could only try to glean
+between the lines, and as Mrs. Fosdick had raked between those lines
+before him, the gleaning was scant picking indeed.
+
+He found himself growing disconsolate and despondent. Summer seemed ages
+away. And when at last it should come--what would happen then? He could
+see her only when properly chaperoned, only when Mother, and probably
+Googoo, were present. He flew for consolation to the Muse and the
+Muse refused to console. The poems he wrote were “blue” and despairing
+likewise. Consequently they did not sell. He was growing desperate,
+ready for anything. And something came. Germany delivered to our
+Government its arrogant mandate concerning unlimited submarine warfare.
+A long-suffering President threw patience overboard and answered that
+mandate in unmistakable terms. Congress stood at his back and behind
+them a united and indignant people. The United States declared war upon
+the Hun.
+
+South Harniss, like every other community, became wildly excited.
+Captain Zelotes Snow's gray eyes flashed fiery satisfaction. The flags
+at the Snow place and at the lumber yard flew high night and day. He
+bought newspapers galore and read from them aloud at meals, in the
+evenings, and before breakfast. Issachar, as usual, talked much and said
+little. Laban Keeler's comments were pithy and dryly pointed. Albert was
+very quiet.
+
+But one forenoon he spoke. Captain Lote was in the inner office, the
+morning newspaper in his hand, when his grandson entered and closed the
+door behind him. The captain looked up.
+
+“Well, Al, what is it?” he asked.
+
+Albert came over and stood beside the desk. The captain, after a
+moment's scrutiny of the young man's face, put down his newspaper.
+
+“Well, Al?” he said, again.
+
+Albert seemed to find it hard to speak.
+
+“Grandfather,” he began, “I--I--Grandfather, I have come to ask a favor
+of you.”
+
+The captain nodded, slowly, his gaze fixed upon his grandson's face.
+
+“All right; heave ahead,” he said quietly.
+
+“Grandfather, you and I have had a four years' agreement to work
+together in this office. It isn't up yet, but--but I want to break it. I
+want you to let me off.”
+
+“Humph! . . . Let you off, eh? . . . What for?”
+
+“That's what I came here to tell you. Grandfather, I can't stay
+here--now. I want to enlist.”
+
+Captain Zelotes did not answer. His hand moved upward and pulled at his
+beard.
+
+“I want to enlist,” repeated Albert. “I can't stand it another minute.
+I must. If it hadn't been for you and our promise and--and Madeline, I
+think I should have joined the Canadian Army a year or more ago. But now
+that we have gone into the war, I CAN'T stay out. Grandfather, you don't
+want me to, do you? Of course you don't.”
+
+His grandfather appeared to ponder.
+
+“If you can wait a spell,” he said slowly, “I might be able to fix it
+so's you can get a chance for an officer's commission. I'd ought to have
+some pull somewheres, seems so.”
+
+Albert sniffed impatient disgust. “I don't want to get a commission--in
+that way,” he declared.
+
+“Humph! You'll find there's plenty that do, I shouldn't wonder.”
+
+“Perhaps, but I'm not one of them. And I don't care so much for a
+commission, unless I can earn it. And I don't want to stay here and
+study for it. I want to go now. I want to get into the thing. I don't
+want to wait.”
+
+Captain Lote leaned forward. His gray eyes snapped.
+
+“Want to fight, do you?” he queried.
+
+“You bet I do!”
+
+“All right, my boy, then go--and fight. I'd be ashamed of myself if I
+held you back a minute. Go and fight--and fight hard. I only wish to God
+I was young enough to go with you.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+
+And so, in this unexpected fashion, came prematurely the end of the
+four year trial agreement between Albert Speranza and Z. Snow and Co.
+Of course neither Captain Zelotes nor Albert admitted that it had ended.
+Each professed to regard the break as merely temporary.
+
+“You'll be back at that desk in a little while, Al,” said the captain,
+“addin' up figgers and tormentin' Issy.” And Albert's reply was
+invariably, “Why, of course, Grandfather.”
+
+He had dreaded his grandmother's reception of the news of his intended
+enlistment. Olive worshiped her daughter's boy and, although an ardent
+patriot, was by no means as fiercely belligerent as her husband. She
+prayed each night for the defeat of the Hun, whereas Captain Lote was
+for licking him first and praying afterwards. Albert feared a scene; he
+feared that she might be prostrated when she learned that he was to
+go to war. But she bore it wonderfully well, and as for the dreaded
+“scene,” there was none.
+
+“Zelotes says he thinks it's the right thing for you to do, Albert,” she
+said, “so I suppose I ought to think so, too. But, oh, my dear, DO you
+really feel that you must? I--it don't seem as I could bear to . . . but
+there, I mustn't talk so. It ain't a mite harder for me than it is for
+thousands of women all over this world. . . . And perhaps the government
+folks won't take you, anyway. Rachel said she read in the Item about
+some young man over in Bayport who was rejected because he had fat feet.
+She meant flat feet, I suppose, poor thing. Oh, dear me, I'm laughin',
+and it seems wicked to laugh a time like this. And when I think of you
+goin', Albert, I--I . . . but there, I promised Zelotes I wouldn't.
+. . . And they MAY not take you. . . . But oh, of course they will, of
+course they will! . . . I'm goin' to make you a chicken pie for dinner
+to-day; I know how you like it. . . . If only they MIGHT reject you!
+. . . But there, I said I wouldn't and I won't.”
+
+Rachel Ellis's opinion on the subject and her way of expressing that
+opinion were distinctly her own. Albert arose early in the morning
+following the announcement of his decision to enter the service. He had
+not slept well; his mind was too busy with problems and speculations
+to resign itself to sleep. He had tossed about until dawn and had then
+risen and sat down at the table in his bedroom to write Madeline of
+the step he had determined to take. He had not written her while he was
+considering that step. He felt, somehow, that he alone with no pressure
+from without should make the decision. Now that it was made, and
+irrevocably made, she must of course be told. Telling her, however, was
+not an easy task. He was sure she would agree that he had done the right
+thing, the only thing, but--
+
+“It is going to be very hard for you, dear,” he wrote, heedless of
+the fact that Mrs. Fosdick's censorious eye would see and condemn the
+“dear.” “It is going to be hard for both of us. But I am sure you will
+feel as I do that I COULDN'T do anything else. I am young and strong and
+fit and I am an American. I MUST go. You see it, don't you, Madeline. I
+can hardly wait until your letter comes telling me that you feel I did
+just the thing you would wish me to do.”
+
+He hesitated and then, even more regardless of the censor, added the
+quotation which countless young lovers were finding so apt just then:
+
+
+     “I could not love thee, dear, so much,
+        Loved I not honor more.”
+
+
+So when, fresh from the intimacy of this communication with his adored
+and with the letter in his hand, he entered the sitting-room at that
+early hour he was not overjoyed to find the housekeeper there ahead
+of him. And her first sentence showed that she had been awaiting his
+coming.
+
+“Good mornin', Albert,” she said. “I heard you stirrin' 'round up in
+your room and I came down here so's you and I could talk together for a
+minute without anybody's disturbin' us. . . . Humph! I guess likely you
+didn't sleep any too well last night, did you?”
+
+Albert shook his head. “Not too well, Rachel,” he replied.
+
+“I shouldn't wonder. Well, I doubt if there was too much sleep anywheres
+in this house last night. So you're really goin' to war, are you,
+Albert?”
+
+“Yes. If the war will let me I certainly am.”
+
+“Dear, dear! . . . Well, I--I think it's what Robert Penfold would have
+done if he was in your place. I've been goin' over it and goin' over it
+half the night, myself, and I've come to that conclusion. It's goin' to
+be awful hard on your grandma and grandfather and me and Labe, all us
+folks here at home, but I guess it's the thing you'd ought to do, the
+Penfold kind of thing.”
+
+Albert smiled. “I'm glad you think so, Rachel,” he said.
+
+“Well, I do, and if I'm goin' to tell the truth I might as well say I
+tried terrible hard to find some good reasons for thinkin' 'twan't. I
+did SO! But the only good reasons I could scare up for makin' you stay
+to home was because home was safe and comf'table and where you was goin'
+wan't. And that kind of reasonin' might do fust-rate for a passel
+of clams out on the flats, but it wouldn't be much credit to decent,
+self-respectin' humans. When General Rolleson came to that island and
+found his daughter and Robert Penfold livin' there in that house made
+out of pearls he'd built for her--Wan't that him all over! Another man,
+the common run of man, would have been satisfied to build her a house
+out of wood and lucky to get that, but no, nothin' would do him
+but pearls, and if they'd have been di'monds he'd have been better
+satisfied. Well. . . . Where was I? . . . Oh yes! When General Rolleson
+came there and says to his daughter, 'Helen, you come home along of
+me,' and she says, 'No, I shan't leave him,' meanin' Robert Penfold, you
+understand--When she says that did Robert Penfold say, 'That's the talk!
+Put that in your pipe, old man, and smoke it?' No, SIR, he didn't! He
+says, 'Helen, you go straight home along with your pa and work like fury
+till you find out who forged that note and laid it onto me. You find
+that out,' he says, 'and then you can come fetch me and not afore.'
+That's the kind of man HE was! And they sailed off and left him behind.”
+
+Albert shook his head. He had heard only about half of the housekeeper's
+story. “Pretty rough on him, I should say,” he commented, absently.
+
+“I GUESS 'twas rough on him, poor thing! But 'twas his duty and so he
+done it. It was rough on Helen, havin' to go and leave him, but 'twas
+rougher still on him. It's always roughest, seems to me,” she added,
+“on the ones that's left behind. Those that go have somethin' to take up
+their minds and keep 'em from thinkin' too much. The ones that stay to
+home don't have much to do EXCEPT think. I hope you don't get the notion
+that I feel your part of it is easy, Al. Only a poor, crazy idiot could
+read the papers these days and feel that any part of this war was EASY!
+It's awful, but--but it WILL keep you too busy to think, maybe.”
+
+“I shouldn't wonder, Rachel. I understand what you mean.”
+
+“We're all goin' to miss you, Albert. This house is goin' to be a pretty
+lonesome place, I cal'late. Your grandma'll miss you dreadful and so
+will I, but--but I have a notion that your grandpa's goin' to miss you
+more'n anybody else.”
+
+He shook his head. “Oh, not as much as all that, Rachel,” he said. “He
+and I have been getting on much better than we used to and we have come
+to understand each other better, but he is still disappointed in me. I'm
+afraid I don't count for much as a business man, you see; and, besides,
+Grandfather can never quite forget that I am the son of what he calls a
+Portygee play actor.”
+
+Mrs. Ellis looked at him earnestly. “He's forgettin' it better every
+day, Albert,” she said. “I do declare I never believed Capt'n Lote Snow
+could forget it the way he's doin'. And you--well, you've forgot a whole
+lot, too. Memory's a good thing, the land knows,” she added, sagely,
+“but a nice healthy forgetery is worth consider'ble--some times and in
+some cases.”
+
+Issachar Price's comments on his fellow employee's decision to become a
+soldier were pointed. Issy was disgusted.
+
+“For thunder sakes, Al,” he demanded, “'tain't true that you've enlisted
+to go to war and fight them Germans, is it?”
+
+Albert smiled. “I guess it is, Issy,” he replied.
+
+“Well, by crimus!”
+
+“Somebody had to go, you see, Is.”
+
+“Well, by crimustee!”
+
+“What's the matter, Issy? Don't you approve?”
+
+“Approve! No, by crimus, I don't approve! I think it's a divil of a
+note, that's what I think.”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“WHY? Who's goin' to do the work in this office while you're gone? Labe
+and me, that's who; and I'll do the heft of it. Slavin' myself half to
+death as 'tis and now--Oh, by crimustee! This war is a darned nuisance.
+It hadn't ought to be allowed. There'd ought to be a law against it.”
+
+But of all the interviews which followed Albert's decision the most
+surprising and that which he was the least likely to forget was his
+interview with Laban Keeler. It took place on the evening of the third
+day following the announcement of his intention to enlist. All that day,
+and indeed for several days, Albert had noted in the little bookkeeper
+certain symptoms, familiar symptoms they were and from experience the
+young man knew what they portended. Laban was very nervous, his fingers
+twitched as he wrote, occasionally he rose from his chair and walked
+up and down the room, he ran his hand through his scanty hair, he was
+inclined to be irritable--that is, irritable for him. Albert had noted
+the symptoms and was sorry. Captain Zelotes noted them and frowned and
+pulled his beard.
+
+“Al,” he said to his grandson, “if you can put off goin' up to enlist
+for a little spell, a few days, I wish you would. Labe's gettin' ready
+to go on one of his vacations.”
+
+Albert nodded. “I'm afraid he is,” he said.
+
+“Oh, it's as sartin as two and two makes four. I've lived with him
+too many years not to know the signs. And I did hope,” he added,
+regretfully, “that maybe he was tryin' to break off. It's been a good
+long spell, an extry long spell, since he had his last spree. Ah hum!
+it's a pity a good man should have that weak spot in him, ain't it? But
+if you could hang around a few more days, while the vacation's goin' on,
+I'd appreciate it, Al. I kind of hate to be left here alone with nobody
+but Issachar to lean on. Issy's a good deal like a post in some ways,
+especially in the makeup of his head, but he's too ricketty to lean on
+for any length of time.”
+
+That evening Albert went to the post-office for the mail. On his way
+back as he passed the dark corner by the now closed and shuttered
+moving-picture theater he was hailed in a whisper.
+
+“Al,” said a voice, “Al.”
+
+Albert turned and peered into the deep shadow of the theater doorway. In
+the summer this doorway was a blaze of light and gaiety; now it was cold
+and bleak and black enough. From the shadow a small figure emerged on
+tiptoe.
+
+“Al,” whispered Mr. Keeler. “That's you, ain't it? Yes, yes--yes, yes,
+yes--I thought 'twas, I thought so.”
+
+Albert was surprised. For one thing it was most unusual to see the
+little bookkeeper abroad after nine-thirty. His usual evening procedure,
+when not on a vacation, was to call upon Rachel Ellis at the Snow place
+for an hour or so and then to return to his room over Simond's shoe
+store, which room he had occupied ever since the building was erected.
+
+There he read, so people said, until eleven sharp, when his lamp was
+extinguished. During or at the beginning of the vacation periods he
+usually departed for some unknown destination, destinations which,
+apparently, varied. He had been seen, hopelessly intoxicated, in
+Bayport, in Ostable, in Boston, once in Providence. When he returned he
+never seemed to remember exactly where he had been. And, as most people
+were fond of and pitied him, few questions were asked.
+
+“Why, Labe!” exclaimed Albert. “Is that you? What's the matter?”
+
+“Busy, are you, Al?” queried Laban. “In a hurry, eh? Are you? In a
+hurry, Al, eh?”
+
+“Why no, not especially.”
+
+“Could you--could you spare me two or three minutes? Two or three
+minutes--yes, yes? Come up to my room, could you--could you, Al?”
+
+“Yes indeed. But what is it, Labe?”
+
+“I want to talk. Want to talk, I do. Yes, yes, yes. Saw you go by and
+I've been waitin' for you. Waitin'--yes, I have--yes.”
+
+He seized his assistant by the arm and led him across the road toward
+the shoe store. Albert felt the hand on his arm tremble violently.
+
+“Are you cold, Labe?” he asked. “What makes you shiver so?”
+
+“Eh? Cold? No, I ain't cold--no, no, no. Come, Al, come.”
+
+Albert sniffed suspiciously, but no odor of alcohol rewarded the sniff.
+Neither was there any perfume of peppermint, Mr. Keeler's transparent
+camouflage at a vacation's beginning. And Laban was not humming the
+refrain glorifying his “darling hanky-panky.” Apparently he had not yet
+embarked upon the spree which Captain Lote had pronounced imminent. But
+why did he behave so queerly?
+
+“I ain't the way you think, Al,” declared the little man, divining his
+thought. “I'm just kind of shaky and nervous, that's all. That's all,
+that's all, that's all. Yes, yes. Come, come! COME!”
+
+The last “come” burst from him in an agony of impatience. Albert
+hastened up the narrow stairs, Laban leading the way. The latter fumbled
+with a key, his companion heard it rattling against the keyhole plate.
+Then the door opened. There was a lamp, its wick turned low, burning
+upon the table in the room. Mr. Keeler turned it up, making a trembly
+job of the turning. Albert looked about him; he had never been in that
+room before.
+
+It was a small room and there was not much furniture in it. And it was a
+neat room, for the room of an old bachelor who was his own chambermaid.
+Most things seemed to have places where they belonged and most of them
+appeared to be in those places. What impressed Albert even more was the
+number of books. There were books everywhere, in the cheap bookcase, on
+the pine shelf between the windows, piled in the corners, heaped on the
+table beside the lamp. They were worn and shabby volumes for the most
+part, some with but half a cover remaining, some with none. He picked up
+one of the latter. It was Locke on The Human Understanding; and next it,
+to his astonishment, was Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
+
+Mr. Keeler looked over his shoulder and, for an instant, the whimsical
+smile which was characteristic of him curved his lip.
+
+“Philosophy, Al,” he observed. “If Locke don't suit you try the 'mad
+hatter' feller. I get consider'ble comfort out of the hatter, myself.
+Do you remember when the mouse was tellin' the story about the three
+sisters that lived in the well? He said they lived on everything that
+began with M. Alice says 'Why with an M?' And the hatter, or the March
+hare, I forget which 'twas, says prompt, 'Why not?' . . . Yes, yes, why
+not? that's what he said. . . . There's some philosophy in that, Al. Why
+does a hen go across the road? Why not? Why is Labe Keeler a disgrace to
+all his friends and the town he lives in? Why not? . . . Eh? . . . Yes,
+yes. That's it--why not?”
+
+He smiled again, but there was bitterness and not humor in the smile.
+Albert put a hand on his shoulder.
+
+“Why, Labe,” he asked, in concern, “what is it?”
+
+Laban turned away.
+
+“Don't mind, me, Al,” he said, hurriedly. “I mean don't mind if I act
+funny. I'm--I'm kind of--of--Oh, good Lord A'mighty, DON'T look at me
+like that! . . . I beg your pardon, Al. I didn't mean to bark like a dog
+at you. No, I didn't--no, no. Forgive me, will you? Will you, Al, eh?”
+
+“Of course I will. But what is the matter, Labe? Sit down and tell me
+about it.”
+
+Instead of sitting the little bookkeeper began to walk up and down.
+
+“Don't mind me, Al,” he said, hurriedly. “Don't mind me. Let me go my
+own gait. My own gait--yes, yes. You see, Al, I--I'm tryin' to enlist,
+same as you're goin' to do, and--and MY fight's begun already. Yes
+indeed--yes, yes--it has so.”
+
+Albert was more astonished than ever. There was no smell of alcohol, and
+Keeler had declared that he had not been drinking; but--
+
+“You're going to ENLIST?” repeated Albert. “YOU? Why, Labe, what--”
+
+Laban laughed nervously. “Not to kill the Kaiser,” he replied. “No, no,
+not that--not exactly. I'd like to, only I wouldn't be much help that
+way. But--but Al, I--I want to do somethin'. I--I'd like to try to
+show--I'd like to be an American, a decent American, and the best way
+to begin, seems to me, is to try and be a man, a decent man. Eh? You
+understand, I--I--Oh, Lord, what a mess I am makin' of this! I--I--Al,”
+ turning and desperately waving his hands, “I'm goin' to try to swear
+off. Will you help me?”
+
+Albert's answer was enthusiastic. “You bet I will!” he exclaimed. Keeler
+smiled pathetically.
+
+“It's goin' to be some job, I cal'late,” he said. “Some job, yes, yes.
+But I'm goin' to try it, Al. I read in the papers 'tother day that
+America needed every man. Then you enlisted, Al,--or you're goin' to
+enlist. It set me to thinkin' I'd try to enlist, too. For the duration
+of the war, eh? Yes, yes.”
+
+“Good for you, Labe! Bully!”
+
+Laban held up a protesting hand. “Don't hurrah yet, Al,” he said. “This
+ain't the first time I've tried it. I've swore off a dozen times in the
+last fifteen years. I've promised Rachel and broke the promise over and
+over again. Broke my promise to her, the best woman in the world. Shows
+what I am, what sort I am, don't it, Al? Yes, it does,--yes, yes. And
+she's stuck by me, too, Lord knows why. Last time I broke it I said I'd
+never promise her again. Bad enough to be a common drunk without bein' a
+liar--yes, yes. But this is a little different. Seems to me--seems so.”
+
+He began his pacing up and down again.
+
+“Seems different, somehow,” he went on. “Seems like a new chance. I want
+to do somethin' for Uncle Sam. I--I'd like to try and enlist for the
+duration of the war--swear off for that long, anyhow. Then, maybe, I'd
+be able to keep on for life, you know--duration of Labe Keeler, eh? Yes,
+yes, yes. But I could begin for just the war, couldn't I? Maybe, 'twould
+fool me into thinkin' that was easier.”
+
+“Of course, Labe. It's a good idea.”
+
+“Maybe; and maybe it's a fool one. But I'm goin' to try it. I AM tryin'
+it, have been all day.”
+
+He paused, drew a shaking hand across his forehead and then asked, “Al,
+will you help me? I asked you up here hopin' you would. Will you, Al,
+eh? Will you?”
+
+Albert could not understand how he could possibly help another man keep
+the pledge, but his promise was eagerly given.
+
+“Certainly, Labe,” he said.
+
+“Thanks . . . thank you, Al. . . . And now will you do something for
+me--a favor?”
+
+“Gladly. What is it?”
+
+Laban did not answer at once. He appeared to be on the point of
+doing so, but to be struggling either to find words or to overcome a
+tremendous reluctance. When he did speak the words came in a burst.
+
+“Go down stairs,” he cried. “Down those stairs you came up. At the foot
+of 'em, in a kind of cupboard place, under 'em, there's--there probably
+is a jug, a full jug. It was due to come by express to-day and I
+cal'late it did, cal'late Jim Young fetched it down this afternoon. I--I
+could have looked for myself and seen if 'twas there,” he added, after
+a momentary hesitation, “but--but I didn't dare to. I was afraid
+I'd--I'd--”
+
+“All right, Labe. I understand. What do you want me to do with it if it
+is there?”
+
+“I want you--I want you to--to--” The little bookkeeper seemed to be
+fighting another internal battle between inclination and resolution. The
+latter won, for he finished with, “I want you to take it out back of the
+buildin' and--and empty it. That's what I want you to do, empty it, Al,
+every drop. . . . And, for the Almighty's sake, go quick,” he ordered,
+desperately, “or I'll tell you not to before you start. Go!”
+
+Albert went. He fumbled in the cupboard under the stairs, found the
+jug--a large one and heavy--and hastened out into the night with it in
+his hands. Behind the shoe store, amid a heap of old packing boxes
+and other rubbish, he emptied it. The process was rather lengthy and
+decidedly fragrant. As a finish he smashed the jug with a stone. Then he
+climbed the stairs again.
+
+Laban was waiting for him, drops of perspiration upon his forehead.
+
+“Was--was it there?” he demanded.
+
+Albert nodded.
+
+“Yes, yes. 'Twas there, eh? And did you--did you--?”
+
+“Yes, I did, jug and all.”
+
+“Thank you, Al . . . thank you . . . I--I've been trying to muster up
+spunk enough to do it myself, but--but I swan I couldn't. I didn't dast
+to go nigh it . . . I'm a fine specimen, ain't I, now?” he added, with a
+twisted smile. “Some coward, eh? Yes, yes. Some coward.”
+
+Albert, realizing a little of the fight the man was making, was affected
+by it. “You're a brick, Labe,” he declared, heartily. “And as for being
+a coward--Well, if I am half as brave when my turn comes I shall be
+satisfied.”
+
+Laban shook his head. “I don't know how scared I'd be of a German
+bombshell,” he said, “but I'm everlastin' sure I wouldn't run from it
+for fear of runnin' towards it, and that's how I felt about that jug.
+. . . Yes, yes, yes. I did so . . . I'm much obliged to you, Al. I shan't
+forget it--no, no. I cal'late you can trot along home now, if you want
+to. I'm pretty safe--for to-night, anyhow. Guess likely the new recruit
+won't desert afore morning.”
+
+But Albert, watching him intently, refused to go.
+
+“I'm going to stay for a while, Labe,” he said. “I'm not a bit sleepy,
+really. Let's have a smoke and talk together. That is, of course, unless
+you want to go to bed.”
+
+Mr. Keeler smiled his twisted smile. “I ain't crazy to,” he said. “The
+way I feel now I'd get to sleep about week after next. But I hadn't
+ought to keep you up, Al.”
+
+“Rubbish! I'm not sleepy, I tell you. Sit down. Have a cigar. Now what
+shall we talk about? How would books do? What have you been reading
+lately, Labe?”
+
+They smoked and talked books until nearly two. Then Laban insisted upon
+his guest departing. “I'm all right, Al” he declared, earnestly. “I am
+honest--yes, yes, I am. I'll go to sleep like a lamb, yes indeed.”
+
+“You'll be at the office in the morning, won't you, Labe?”
+
+The little bookkeeper nodded. “I'll be there,” he said. “Got to answer
+roll call the first mornin' after enlistment. Yes, yes. I'll be there,
+Al.”
+
+He was there, but he did not look as if his indulgence in the lamb-like
+sleep had been excessive. He was so pale and haggard that his assistant
+was alarmed.
+
+“You're not sick, are you, Labe?” he asked, anxiously. Laban shook his
+head.
+
+“No,” he said. “No, I ain't sick. Been doin' picket duty up and down the
+room since half past three, that's all. Um-hm, that's all. Say, Al, if
+General what's-his-name--er--von Hindenburg--is any harder scrapper
+than old Field Marshal Barleycorn he's a pretty tough one. Say, Al, you
+didn't say anything about--about my--er--enlistin' to Cap'n Lote, did
+you? I meant to ask you not to.”
+
+“I didn't, Labe. I thought you might want it kept a secret.”
+
+“Um-hm. Better keep it in the ranks until we know how this
+first--er--skirmish is comin' out. Yes, yes. Better keep it that way.
+Um-hm.”
+
+All day he stuck manfully at his task and that evening, immediately
+after supper, Albert went to the room over the shoe store, found him
+there and insisted upon his coming over to call upon Rachel. He had not
+intended doing so.
+
+“You see, Al,” he explained, “I'm--I'm kind of--er--shaky and Rachel
+will be worried, I'm afraid. She knows me pretty well and she'll
+cal'late I'm just gettin' ready to--to bust loose again.”
+
+Albert interrupted. “No, she won't, Laban,” he said. “We'll show her
+that you're not.”
+
+“You won't say anything to her about my--er--enlistin', Al? Don't.
+No, no. I've promised her too many times--and broke the promises. If
+anything should come of this fight of mine I'd rather she'd find it out
+for herself. Better to surprise her than to disapp'int her. Yes, yes,
+lots better.”
+
+Albert promised not to tell Rachel and so Laban made his call. When it
+was over the young man walked home with him and the pair sat and talked
+until after midnight, just as on the previous night. The following
+evening it was much the same, except that, as Mr. Keeler pronounced
+himself more than usually “shaky” and expressed a desire to “keep
+movin',” they walked half way to Orham and back before parting. By the
+end of the week Laban declared the fight won--for the time.
+
+“You've pulled me through the fust tussle, Al,” he said. “I shan't
+desert now, not till the next break-out, anyhow. I cal'late it'll get me
+harder than ever then. Harder than ever--yes, yes. And you won't be here
+to help me, neither.”
+
+“Never mind; I shall be thinking of you, Labe. And I know you're going
+to win. I feel it in my bones.”
+
+“Um-hm. . . . Yes, yes, yes. . . In your bones, eh? Well, MY bones don't
+seem to feel much, except rheumatics once in a while. I hope yours
+are better prophets, but I wouldn't want to bet too high on it. No, I
+wouldn't--no, no. However, we'll do our best, and they say angels can't
+do any more--though they'd probably do it in a different way . . . some
+different. . . . Um-hm. . . . Yes, indeed.”
+
+Two letters came to Albert before that week ended. The first was from
+Madeline. He had written her of his intention to enlist and this was her
+reply. The letter had evidently been smuggled past the censor, for it
+contained much which Mrs. Fosdick would have blue-penciled. Its contents
+were a blend of praise and blame, of exaltation and depression. He was
+a hero, and so brave, and she was so proud of him. It was wonderful his
+daring to go, and just what she would have expected of her hero. If only
+she might see him in his uniform. So many of the fellows she knew had
+enlisted. They were wonderfully brave, too, although of course nothing
+like as wonderful as her own etcetera, etcetera. She had seen some of
+THEM in their uniforms and they were PERFECTLY SPLENDID. But they
+were officers, or they were going to be. Why wasn't he going to be an
+officer? It was so much nicer to be an officer. And if he were one he
+might not have to go away to fight nearly so soon. Officers stayed here
+longer and studied, you know. Mother had said something about “a common
+private,” and she did not like it. But never mind, she would be just as
+proud no matter what he was. And she should dream of him and think of
+him always and always. And perhaps he might be so brave and wonderful
+that he would be given one of those war crosses, the Croix de Guerre or
+something. She was sure he would. But oh, no matter what happened, he
+must not go where it was TOO dangerous. Suppose he should be wounded.
+Oh, suppose, SUPPOSE he should be killed. What would she do then? What
+would become of her? MUST he go, after all? Couldn't he stay at home and
+study or something, for a while, you know? She should be so lonely after
+he was gone. And so frightened and so anxious. And he wouldn't forget
+her, would he, no matter where he went? Because she never, never, never
+would forget him for a moment. And he must write every day. And--
+
+The letter was fourteen pages long.
+
+The other letter was a surprise. It was from Helen. The Reverend Mr.
+Kendall had been told of Albert's intended enlistment and had written
+his daughter.
+
+
+So you are going into the war, Albert (she wrote). I am not surprised
+because I expected you would do just that. It is what all of us would
+like to do, I'm sure, and you were always anxious to go, even before the
+United States came in. So I am writing this merely to congratulate you
+and to wish you the very best of good luck. Father says you are not
+going to try for a commission but intend enlisting as a private. I
+suppose that is because you think you may get to the actual fighting
+sooner. I think I understand and appreciate that feeling too, but are
+you sure it is the best plan? You want to be of the greatest service
+to the country and with your education and brains--This ISN'T flattery,
+because it is true--don't you think you might help more if you were in
+command of men? Of course I don't know, being only a girl, but I have
+been wondering. No doubt you know best and probably it is settled before
+this; at any rate, please don't think that I intend butting in. “Butting
+in” is not at all a proper expression for a schoolmarm to use but it is
+a relief to be human occasionally. Whatever you do I am sure will be the
+right thing and I know all your friends are going to be very, very proud
+of you. I shall hear of you through the people at home, I know, and
+I shall be anxious to hear. I don't know what I shall do to help the
+cause, but I hope to do something. A musket is prohibitive to females
+but the knitting needle is ours and I CAN handle that, if I do say it.
+And I MAY go in for Red Cross work altogether. But I don't count much,
+and you men do, and this is your day. Please, for the sake of your
+grandparents and all your friends, don't take unnecessary chances. I can
+see your face as you read that and think that I am a silly idiot. I'm
+not and I mean what I say. You see I know YOU and I know you will not be
+content to do the ordinary thing. We want you to distinguish yourself,
+but also we want you to come back whole and sound, if it is possible.
+We shall think of you a great deal. And please, in the midst of the
+excitement of the BIG work you are doing, don't forget us home folk,
+including your friend,
+
+HELEN KENDALL.
+
+
+Albert's feelings when he read this letter were divided. He enjoyed
+hearing from Helen. The letter was just like herself, sensible and
+good-humored and friendly. There were no hysterics in it and no
+heroics but he knew that no one except his grandparents and Rachel and
+Laban--and, of course, his own Madeline--would think of him oftener or
+be more anxious for his safety and welfare than Helen. He was glad she
+was his friend, very glad. But he almost wished she had not written. He
+felt a bit guilty at having received the letter. He was pretty sure
+that Madeline would not like the idea. He was tempted to say nothing
+concerning it in his next letter to his affianced, but that seemed
+underhanded and cowardly, so he told her. And in her next letter to him
+Madeline made no reference at all to Helen or her epistle, so he knew
+she was displeased. And he was miserable in consequence.
+
+But his misery did not last long. The happenings which followed crowded
+it from his mind, and from Madeline's also, for that matter. One
+morning, having told no one except his grandfather of his intention, he
+took the morning train to Boston. When he returned the next day he
+was Uncle Sam's man, sworn in and accepted. He had passed the physical
+examination with flying colors and the recruiting officers expressed
+themselves as being glad to get him. He was home for but one day leave,
+then he must go to stay. He had debated the question of going in for a
+commission, but those were the early days of our participation in
+the war and a Plattsburg training or at least some sort of military
+education was almost an essential. He did not want to wait; as he had
+told his grandfather, he wanted to fight. So he enlisted as a private.
+
+And when the brief leave was over he took the train for Boston, no
+longer Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza, South Harniss's Beau Brummel,
+poet and Portygee, but Private Speranza, U.S.A. The farewells were brief
+and no one cried--much. His grandmother hugged and kissed him, Rachel
+looked very much as if she wanted to. Laban and Issachar shook hands
+with him.
+
+“Good luck to you, boy,” said Mr. Keeler. “All the luck there is.”
+
+“Same to you, old man,” replied Albert. Then, in a lower tone, he added,
+“We'll fight it out together, eh?”
+
+“We'll try. Yes, yes. We'll try. So long, Al.”
+
+Issachar struck the reassuring note. “Don't fret about things in the
+office,” he said. “I'll look out for 'em long's I keep my health.”
+
+“Be sure and keep that, Issy.”
+
+“You bet you! Only thing that's liable to break it down is over-work.”
+
+Captain Zelotes said very little. “Write us when you can, Al,” he said.
+“And come home whenever you get leave.”
+
+“You may be sure of that, Grandfather. And after I get to camp perhaps
+you can come and see me.”
+
+“Maybe so. Will if I can. . . . Well, Al, I . . . I. . . . Good luck to
+you, son.”
+
+“Thank you, Grandfather.”
+
+They shook hands. Each looked as if there was more he would have liked
+to say but found the saying hard. Then the engine bell rang and the
+hands fell apart. The little group on the station platform watched
+the train disappear. Mrs. Snow and Rachel wiped their eyes with their
+handkerchiefs. Captain Zelotes gently patted his wife's shoulder.
+
+“The team's waitin', Mother,” he said. “Labe'll drive you and Rachel
+home.”
+
+“But--but ain't you comin', too, Zelotes?” faltered Olive. Her husband
+shook his head.
+
+“Not now, Mother,” he answered. “Got to go back to the office.”
+
+He stood for an instant looking at the faint smear of smoke above the
+curve in the track. Then, without another word, he strode off in the
+direction of Z. Snow and Co.'s buildings. Issachar Price sniffed.
+
+“Crimus,” he whispered to Laban, as the latter passed him on the way to
+where Jessamine, the Snow horse, was tied, “the old man takes it cool,
+don't he! I kind of imagined he'd be sort of shook up by Al's goin' off
+to war, but he don't seem to feel it a mite.”
+
+Keeler looked at him in wonder. Then he drew a long breath.
+
+“Is,” he said, slowly, “it is a mighty good thing for the Seven Wise Men
+of Greece that they ain't alive now.”
+
+It was Issachar's turn to stare. “Eh?” he queried. “The Seven Wise Men
+of Which? Good thing for 'em they ain't alive? What kind of talk's that?
+Why is it a good thing?”
+
+Laban spoke over his shoulder. “Because,” he drawled, “if they was alive
+now they'd be so jealous of you they'd commit suicide. Yes, they would.
+. . . Yes, yes.”
+
+With which enigmatical remark he left Mr. Price and turned his attention
+to the tethered Jessamine.
+
+And then began a new period, a new life at the Snow place and in the
+office of Z. Snow and Co. Or, rather, life in the old house and at the
+lumber and hardware office slumped back into the groove in which it had
+run before the opera singer's son was summoned from the New York school
+to the home and into the lives of his grandparents. Three people instead
+of four sat down at the breakfast table and at dinner and at supper.
+Captain Zelotes walked alone to and from the office. Olive Snow no
+longer baked and iced large chocolate layer cakes because a certain
+inmate of her household was so fond of them. Rachel Ellis discussed
+Foul Play and Robert Penfold with no one. The house was emptier, more
+old-fashioned and behind the times, more lonely--surprisingly empty and
+behind the times and lonely.
+
+The daily mails became matters of intense interest and expectation.
+Albert wrote regularly and of course well and entertainingly. He
+described the life at the camp where he and the other recruits were
+training, a camp vastly different from the enormous military towns built
+later on for housing and training the drafted men. He liked the life
+pretty well, he wrote, although it was hard and a fellow had precious
+little opportunity to be lazy. Mistakes, too, were unprofitable for the
+maker. Captain Lote's eye twinkled when he read that.
+
+Later on he wrote that he had been made a corporal and his grandmother,
+to whom a major general and a corporal were of equal rank, rejoiced much
+both at home and in church after meeting was over and friends came to
+hear the news. Mrs. Ellis declared herself not surprised. It was the
+Robert Penfold in him coming out, so she said.
+
+A month or two later one of Albert's letters contained an interesting
+item of news. In the little spare time which military life afforded him
+he continued to write verse and stories. Now a New York publisher, not
+one of the most prominent but a reputable and enterprising one, had
+written him suggesting the collecting of his poems and their publication
+in book form. The poet himself was, naturally, elated.
+
+“Isn't it splendid!” he wrote. “The best part of it, of course, is that
+he asked to publish, I did not ask him. Please send me my scrapbook and
+all loose manuscript. When the book will come out I'm sure I don't know.
+In fact it may never come out, we have not gotten as far as terms and
+contracts yet, but I feel we shall. Send the scrapbook and manuscript
+right away, PLEASE.”
+
+They were sent. In his next letter Albert was still enthusiastic.
+
+“I have been looking over my stuff,” he wrote, “and some of it is pretty
+good, if you don't mind my saying so. Tell Grandfather that when this
+book of mine is out and selling I may be able to show him that poetry
+making isn't a pauper's job, after all. Of course I don't know how much
+it will sell--perhaps not more than five or ten thousand at first--but
+even at ten thousand at, say, twenty-five cents royalty each, would be
+twenty-five hundred dollars, and that's something. Why, Ben Hur, the
+novel, you know, has sold a million, I believe.”
+
+Mrs. Snow and Rachel were duly impressed by this prophecy of affluence,
+but Captain Zelotes still played the skeptic.
+
+“A million at twenty-five cents a piece!” exclaimed Olive. “Why,
+Zelotes, that's--that's an awful sight of money.”
+
+Mental arithmetic failing her, she set to work with a pencil and paper
+and after a strenuous struggle triumphantly announced that it came to
+two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
+
+“My soul and body!” she cried. “Two hundred and fifty thousand DOLLARS!
+My SOUL, Zelotes! Suppose--only suppose Albert's book brought him in as
+much as that!”
+
+Her husband shook his head. “I can't, Olive,” he said, without looking
+up from his newspaper. “My supposer wouldn't stand the strain.”
+
+“But it might, Zelotes, it MIGHT. Suppose it did, what would you say
+then?”
+
+The captain regarded her over the top of the Transcript. “I shouldn't
+say a word, Olive,” he answered, solemnly. “I should be down sick by the
+time it got up as far as a thousand, and anything past two thousand
+you could use to buy my tombstone with. . . . There, there, Mother,”
+ he added, noticing the hurt look on her face, “don't feel bad. I'm only
+jokin'. One of these days Al's goin' to make a nice, comf'table livin'
+sellin' lumber and hardware right here in South Harniss. I can SEE that
+money in the offin'. All this million or two that's comin' from poetry
+and such is out of sight in the fog. It may be there but--humph! well, I
+KNOW where Z. Snow and Co. is located.”
+
+Olive was not entirely placated. “I must say I think you're awful
+discouragin' to the poor boy, Zelotes,” she said. Her husband put down
+his paper.
+
+“No, no, I ain't, Mother,” he replied, earnestly. “At least I don't mean
+to be. Way I look at it, this poetry-makin' and writin' yarns and that
+sort of stuff is just part of the youngster's--er--growin' up, as you
+might say. Give him time he'll grow out of it, same as I cal'late he
+will out of this girl business, this--er--Madel--humph--er--ahem. . . .
+Looks like a good day to-morrow, don't it.”
+
+He pulled up suddenly, and with considerable confusion. He had kept the
+news of his grandson's infatuation and engagement even from his wife.
+No one in South Harniss knew of it, no one except the captain. Helen
+Kendall knew, but she was in Boston.
+
+Rachel Ellis picked up the half knitted Red Cross mitten in her lap.
+“Well, I don't know whether he's right or you are, Cap'n Lote,” she
+said, with a sigh, “but this I do know--I wish this awful war was over
+and he was back home again.”
+
+That remark ended the conversation. Olive resumed her own knitting,
+seeing it but indistinctly. Her husband did not continue his newspaper
+reading. Instead he rose and, saying something about cal'latin' he would
+go for a little walk before turning in, went out into the yard.
+
+But the war did not end, it went on; so too did the enlisting and
+training. In the early summer Albert came home for a two days' leave. He
+was broader and straighter and browner. His uniform became him and, more
+than ever, the eyes of South Harniss's youthful femininity, native or
+imported, followed him as he walked the village streets. But the glances
+were not returned, not in kind, that is. The new Fosdick home, although
+completed, was not occupied. Mrs. Fosdick had, that summer, decided
+that her duties as mover in goodness knows how many war work activities
+prevented her taking her “usual summer rest.” Instead she and Madeline
+occupied a rented villa at Greenwich, Connecticut, coming into town
+for meetings of all sorts. Captain Zelotes had his own suspicions as to
+whether war work alone was the cause of the Fosdicks' shunning of what
+was to have been their summer home, but he kept those suspicions to
+himself. Albert may have suspected also, but he, too, said nothing. The
+censored correspondence between Greenwich and the training camp traveled
+regularly, and South Harniss damsels looked and longed in vain. He
+saw them, he bowed to them, he even addressed them pleasantly and
+charmingly, but to him they were merely incidents in his walks to and
+from the post-office. In his mind's eye he saw but one, and she, alas,
+was not present in the flesh.
+
+Then he returned to the camp where, later on, Captain Zelotes and Olive
+visited him. As they came away the captain and his grandson exchanged a
+few significant words.
+
+“It is likely to be almost any time, Grandfather,” said Albert, quietly.
+“They are beginning to send them now, as you know by the papers, and we
+have had the tip that our turn will be soon. So--”
+
+Captain Lote grasped the significance of the uncompleted sentence.
+
+“I see, Al,” he answered, “I see. Well, boy, I--I--Good luck.”
+
+“Good luck, Grandfather.”
+
+That was all, that and one more handclasp. Our Anglo-Saxon inheritance
+descends upon us in times like these. The captain was silent for most of
+the ride to the railroad station.
+
+Then followed a long, significant interval during which there were no
+letters from the young soldier. After this a short reassuring cablegram
+from “Somewhere in France.” “Safe. Well,” it read and Olive Snow carried
+it about with her, in the bosom of her gown, all that afternoon and put
+it upon retiring on her bureau top so that she might see it the first
+thing in the morning.
+
+Another long interval, then letters, the reassuring but so tantalizingly
+unsatisfactory letters we American families were, just at that time,
+beginning to receive. Reading the newspapers now had a personal
+interest, a terrifying, dreadful interest. Then the packing and sending
+of holiday boxes, over the contents of which Olive and Rachel spent much
+careful planning and anxious preparation. Then another interval of more
+letters, letters which hinted vaguely at big things just ahead.
+
+Then no letter for more than a month.
+
+And then, one noon, as Captain Zelotes returned to his desk after the
+walk from home and dinner, Laban Keeler came in and stood beside that
+desk.
+
+The captain, looking up, saw the little bookkeeper's face. “What is it,
+Labe?” he asked, sharply.
+
+Laban held a yellow envelope in his hand.
+
+“It came while you were gone to dinner, Cap'n,” he said. “Ben Kelley
+fetched it from the telegraph office himself. He--he said he didn't
+hardly want to take it to the house. He cal'lated you'd better have it
+here, to read to yourself, fust. That's what he said--yes, yes--that's
+what 'twas, Cap'n.”
+
+Slowly Captain Zelotes extended his hand for the envelope. He did not
+take his eyes from the bookkeeper's face.
+
+“Ben--Ben, he told me what was in it, Cap'n Lote,” faltered Laban. “I--I
+don't know what to say to you, I don't--no, no.”
+
+Without a word the captain took the envelope from Keeler's fingers, and
+tore it open. He read the words upon the form within.
+
+Laban leaned forward.
+
+“For the Lord sakes, Lote Snow,” he cried, in a burst of agony,
+“why couldn't it have been some darn good-for-nothin' like me
+instead--instead of him? Oh, my God A'mighty, what a world this is! WHAT
+a world!”
+
+Still Captain Zelotes said nothing. His eyes were fixed upon the yellow
+sheet of paper on the desk before him. After a long minute he spoke.
+
+“Well,” he said, very slowly, “well, Labe, there goes--there goes Z.
+Snow and Company.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+
+The telegram from the War Department was brief, as all such telegrams
+were perforce obliged to be. The Secretary of War, through his
+representative, regretted to inform Captain Zelotes Snow that Sergeant
+Albert Speranza had been killed in action upon a certain day. It was
+enough, however--for the time quite enough. It was not until later
+that the little group of South Harniss recovered sufficiently from the
+stunning effect of those few words to think of seeking particulars.
+Albert was dead; what did it matter, then, to know how he died?
+
+Olive bore the shock surprisingly well. Her husband's fears for her
+seemed quite unnecessary. The Captain, knowing how she had idolized her
+daughter's boy, had dreaded the effect which the news might have upon
+her. She was broken down by it, it is true, but she was quiet and
+brave--astonishingly, wonderfully quiet and brave. And it was she,
+rather than her husband, who played the part of the comforter in those
+black hours.
+
+“He's gone, Zelotes,” she said. “It don't seem possible, I know, but
+he's gone. And he died doin' his duty, same as he would have wanted
+to die if he'd known 'twas comin', poor boy. So--so we must do ours,
+I suppose, and bear up under it the very best we can. It won't be very
+long, Zelotes,” she added. “We're both gettin' old.”
+
+Captain Lote made no reply. He was standing by the window of the
+sitting-room looking out into the wet backyard across which the
+wind-driven rain was beating in stormy gusts.
+
+“We must be brave, Zelotes,” whispered Olive, tremulously. “He'd want us
+to be and we MUST be.”
+
+He put his arm about her in a sudden heat of admiration. “I'd be ashamed
+not to be after seein' you, Mother,” he exclaimed.
+
+He went out to the barn a few moments later and Rachel, entering the
+sitting-room, found Olive crumpled down in the big rocker in an agony of
+grief.
+
+“Oh, don't, Mrs. Snow, don't,” she begged, the tears streaming down her
+own cheeks. “You mustn't give way to it like this; you mustn't.”
+
+Olive nodded.
+
+“I know it, I know it,” she admitted, chokingly, wiping her eyes with a
+soaked handkerchief. “I shan't, Rachel, only this once, I promise you.
+You see I can't. I just can't on Zelotes's account. I've got to bear up
+for his sake.”
+
+The housekeeper was surprised and a little indignant.
+
+“For his sake!” she repeated. “For mercy sakes why for his sake? Is it
+any worse for him than 'tis for you.”
+
+“Oh, yes, yes, lots worse. He won't say much, of course, bein' Zelotes
+Snow, but you and I know how he's planned, especially these last years,
+and how he's begun to count on--on Albert. . . . No, no, I ain't goin'
+to cry, Rachel, I ain't--I WON'T--but sayin' his name, you know, kind
+of--”
+
+“I know, I know. Land sakes, DON'T I know! Ain't I doin' it myself?”
+
+“Course you are, Rachel. But we mustn't when Zelotes is around. We
+women, we--well, times like these women HAVE to keep up. What would
+become of the men if we didn't?”
+
+So she and Rachel “kept up” in public and when the captain was present,
+and he for his part made no show of grief nor asked for pity. He was
+silent, talked little and to the callers who came either at the house or
+office was uncomplaining.
+
+“He died like a man,” he told the Reverend Mr. Kendall when the latter
+called. “He took his chance, knowin' what that meant--”
+
+“He was glad to take it,” interrupted the minister. “Proud and glad to
+take it.”
+
+“Sartin. Why not? Wouldn't you or I have been glad to take ours, if we
+could?”
+
+“Well, Captain Snow, I am glad to find you so resigned.”
+
+Captain Zelotes looked at him. “Resigned?” he repeated. “What do you
+mean by resigned? Not to sit around and whimper is one thing--any decent
+man or woman ought to be able to do that in these days; but if by bein'
+resigned you mean I'm contented to have it so--well, you're mistaken,
+that's all.”
+
+Only on one occasion, and then to Laban Keeler, did he open his shell
+sufficiently to give a glimpse of what was inside. Laban entered the
+inner office that morning to find his employer sitting in the desk
+chair, both hands jammed in his trousers' pockets and his gaze fixed,
+apparently, upon the row of pigeon-holes. When the bookkeeper spoke to
+him he seemed to wake from a dream, for he started and looked up.
+
+“Cap'n Lote,” began Keeler, “I'm sorry to bother you, but that last
+carload of pine was--”
+
+Captain Zelotes waved his hand, brushing the carload of pine out of the
+conversation.
+
+“Labe,” he said, slowly, “did it seem to you that I was too hard on
+him?”
+
+Laban did not understand. “Hard on him?” he repeated. “I don't know's I
+just get--”
+
+“Hard on Al. Did it seem to you as if I was a little too much of the
+bucko mate to the boy? Did I drive him too hard? Was I unreasonable?”
+
+The answer was prompt. “No, Cap'n Lote,” replied Keeler.
+
+“You mean that? . . . Um-hm. . . . Well, sometimes seems as if I might
+have been. You see, Labe, when he first come I--Well, I cal'late I
+was consider'ble prejudiced against him. Account of his father, you
+understand.”
+
+“Sartin. Sure. I understand.”
+
+“It took me a good while to get reconciled to the Portygee streak in
+him. It chafed me consider'ble to think there was a foreign streak in
+our family. The Snows have been straight Yankee for a good long while.
+. . . Fact is, I--I never got really reconciled to it. I kept bein'
+fearful all the time that that streak, his father's streak, would break
+out in him. It never did, except of course in his poetry and that sort
+of foolishness, but I was always scared 'twould, you see. And now--now
+that this has happened I--I kind of fret for fear that I may have let my
+notions get ahead of my fair play. You think I did give the boy a square
+deal, Labe?”
+
+“Sure thing, Cap'n.”
+
+“I'm glad of that. . . . And--and you cal'late he wasn't--wasn't too
+prejudiced against me? I don't mean along at first, I mean this last
+year or two.”
+
+Laban hesitated. He wished his answer to be not an overstatement, but
+the exact truth.
+
+“I think,” he said, with emphasis, “that Al was comin' to understand
+you better every day he lived, Cap'n. Yes, and to think more and more
+of you, too. He was gettin' older, for one thing--older, more of a
+man--yes, yes.”
+
+Captain Zelotes smiled sadly. “He was more boy than man by a good deal
+yet,” he observed. “Well, Labe, he's gone and I'm just beginnin' to
+realize how much of life for me has gone along with him. He'd been doin'
+better here in the office for the last two or three years, seemed to be
+catchin' on to business better. Didn't you think so, Labe?”
+
+“Sartin. Yes indeed. Fust-rate, fust-rate.”
+
+“No, not first-rate. He was a long ways from a business man yet, but I
+did think he was doin' a lot better. I could begin to see him pilotin'
+this craft after I was called ashore. Now he's gone and . . . well, I
+don't see much use in my fightin' to keep it afloat. I'm gettin' along
+in years--and what's the use?”
+
+It was the first time Laban had ever heard Captain Zelotes refer to
+himself as an old man. It shocked him into sharp expostulation.
+
+“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “You ain't old enough for the scrap heap by a
+big stretch. And besides, he made his fight, didn't he? He didn't quit,
+Al didn't, and he wouldn't want us to. No sir-ee, he wouldn't! No, sir,
+no! . . . I--I hope you'll excuse me, Cap'n Lote. I--declare it must
+seem to you as if I was talkin' pretty fresh. I swan I'm sorry. I am so
+. . . sorry; yes, yes, I be.”
+
+The captain was not offended. He waved the apologies aside.
+
+“So you think it's worth while my fightin' it out, do you, Labe?” he
+asked, reflectively.
+
+“I--I think it's what you ought to do anyhow, whether it's worth
+while or not. The whole world's fightin'. Uncle Sam's fightin'. Al was
+fightin'. You're fightin'. I'm fightin'. It's a darn sight easier to
+quit, a darn sight, but--but Al didn't quit. And--and we mustn't--not if
+we can help it,” he added, drawing a hand across his forehead.
+
+His agitation seemed to surprise Captain Zelotes. “So all hands are
+fightin', are they, Labe,” he observed. “Well, I presume likely there's
+some truth in that. What's your particular fight, for instance?”
+
+The little bookkeeper looked at him for an instant before replying.
+The captain's question was kindly asked, but there was, or so Laban
+imagined, the faintest trace of sarcasm in its tone. That trace decided
+him. He leaned across the desk.
+
+“My particular fight?” he repeated. “You--you want to know what 'tis,
+Cap'n Lote? All right, all right, I'll tell you.”
+
+And without waiting for further questioning and with, for him,
+surprisingly few repetitions, he told of his “enlistment” to fight John
+Barleycorn for the duration of the war. Captain Zelotes listened to the
+very end in silence. Laban mopped his forehead with a hand which shook
+much as it had done during the interview with Albert in the room above
+the shoe store.
+
+“There--there,” he declared, in conclusion, “that's my fight, Cap'n
+Lote. Al and I, we--we kind of went into it together, as you might say,
+though his enlistin' was consider'ble more heroic than mine--yes indeed,
+I should say so . . . yes, yes, yes. But I'm fightin' too . . . er . . .
+I'm fightin' too.”
+
+Captain Zelotes pulled his beard.
+
+“How's the fight goin', Labe?” he asked, quietly.
+
+“Well--well, it's kind of--kind of spotty, as you might say. There's
+spots when I get along fairly smooth and others when--well, when it's
+pretty rough goin'. I've had four hard spots since Al went away, but
+there's two that was the hardest. One was along Christmas and New Year
+time; you know I 'most generally had one of my--er--spells along about
+then. And t'other is just now; I mean since we got word about--about
+Al. I don't suppose likely you surmised it, Cap'n, but--but I'd come to
+think a lot of that boy--yes, I had. Seems funny to you, I don't doubt,
+but it's so. And since the word come, you know--I--I--well, I've had
+some fight, some fight. I--I don't cal'late I've slept more'n four hours
+in the last four nights--not more'n that, no. Walkin' helps me most,
+seems so. Last night I walked to West Orham.”
+
+“To West Orham! You WALKED there? Last NIGHT?”
+
+“Um-hm. Long's I can keep walkin' I--I seem to part way forget--to
+forget the stuff, you know. When I'm alone in my room I go 'most
+crazy--pretty nigh loony. . . . But there! I don't know why I got to
+talkin' like this to you, Cap'n Lote. You've got your troubles and--”
+
+“Hold on, Labe. Does Rachel know about your fight?”
+
+“No. No, no. Course she must notice how long I've been--been straight,
+but I haven't told her. I want to be sure I'm goin' to win before I
+tell her. She's been disappointed times enough before, poor woman. . . .
+There, Cap'n Lote, don't let's talk about it any more. Please don't get
+the notion that I'm askin' for pity or anything like that. And don't
+think I'm comparin' what I call my fight to the real one like Al's.
+There's nothin' much heroic about me, eh? No, no, I guess not. Tell that
+to look at me, eh?”
+
+Captain Zelotes rose and laid his big hand on his bookkeeper's shoulder.
+
+“Don't you believe it, Labe,” he said. “I'm proud of you. . . . And, I
+declare, I'm ashamed of myself. . . . Humph! . . . Well, to-night you
+come home with me and have supper at the house.”
+
+“Now, now, Cap'n Lote--”
+
+“You do as I tell you. After supper, if there's any walkin' to be
+done--if you take a notion to frog it to Orham or San Francisco or
+somewheres--maybe I'll go with you. Walkin' may be good for my fight,
+too; you can't tell till you try. . . . There, don't argue, Labe. I'm
+skipper of this craft yet and you'll obey my orders; d'you hear?”
+
+The day following the receipt of the fateful telegram the captain wrote
+a brief note to Fletcher Fosdick. A day or two later he received a
+reply. Fosdick's letter was kindly and deeply sympathetic. He had been
+greatly shocked and grieved by the news.
+
+
+Young Speranza seemed to me, (he wrote) in my one short interview with
+him, to be a fine young fellow. Madeline, poor girl, is almost frantic.
+She will recover by and by, recovery is easier at her age, but it will
+be very, very hard for you and Mrs. Snow. You and I little thought when
+we discussed the problem of our young people that it would be solved
+in this way. To you and your wife my sincerest sympathy. When you hear
+particulars concerning your grandson's death, please write me. Madeline
+is anxious to know and keeps asking for them. Mrs. Fosdick is too much
+concerned with her daughter's health to write just now, but she joins me
+in sympathetic regards.
+
+
+Captain Zelotes took Mrs. Fosdick's sympathy with a grain of salt. When
+he showed this letter to his wife he, for the first time, told her of
+the engagement, explaining that his previous silence had been due to
+Albert's request that the affair be kept a secret for the present.
+Olive, even in the depth of her sorrow, was greatly impressed by the
+grandeur of the alliance.
+
+“Just think, Zelotes,” she exclaimed, “the Fosdick girl--and our Albert
+engaged to marry her! Why, the Fosdicks are awful rich, everybody says
+so. Mrs. Fosdick is head of I don't know how many societies and clubs
+and things in New York; her name is in the paper almost every day, so
+another New York woman told me at Red Cross meetin' last summer. And Mr.
+Fosdick has been in politics, way up in politics.”
+
+“Um-hm. Well, he's reformed lately, I understand, so we mustn't hold
+that against him.”
+
+“Why, Zelotes, what DO you mean? How can you talk so? Just think what it
+would have meant to have our Albert marry a girl like Madeline Fosdick.”
+
+The captain put his arm about her and gently patted her shoulder.
+
+“There, there, Mother,” he said, gently, “don't let that part of it fret
+you.”
+
+“But, Zelotes,” tearfully, “I don't understand. It would have been such
+a great thing for Albert.”
+
+“Would it? Well, maybe. Anyhow, there's no use worryin' about it now.
+It's done with--ended and done with . . . same as a good many other
+plans that's been made in the world.”
+
+“Zelotes, don't speak like that, dear, so discouraged. It makes me
+feel worse than ever to hear you. And--and he wouldn't want you to, I'm
+sure.”
+
+“Wouldn't he? No, I cal'late you're right, Mother. We'll try not to.”
+
+Other letters came, including one from Helen. It was not long. Mrs. Snow
+was a little inclined to feel hurt at its brevity. Her husband, however,
+did not share this feeling.
+
+“Have you read it carefully, Mother?” he asked.
+
+“Of course I have, Zelotes. What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean--well, I tell you, Mother, I've read it three time. The first
+time I was like you; seemed to me as good a friend of Al and of us as
+Helen Kendall ought to have written more than that. The second time I
+read it I begun to wonder if--if--”
+
+“If what, Zelotes?”
+
+“Oh, nothin', Mother, nothin'. She says she's comin' to see us just as
+soon as she can get away for a day or two. She'll come, and when she
+does I cal'late both you and I are goin' to be satisfied.”
+
+“But why didn't she WRITE more, Zelotes? That's what I can't
+understand.”
+
+Captain Zelotes tugged at his beard reflectively. “When I wrote Fosdick
+the other day,” he said, “I couldn't write more than a couple of pages.
+I was too upset to do it. I couldn't, that's all.”
+
+“Yes, but you are Albert's grandfather.”
+
+“I know. And Helen's always . . . But there, Mother, don't you worry
+about Helen Kendall. I've known her since she was born, pretty nigh, and
+_I_ tell you she's all RIGHT.”
+
+Fosdick, in his letter, had asked for particulars concerning Albert's
+death. Those particulars were slow in coming. Captain Zelotes wrote
+at once to the War Department, but received little satisfaction. The
+Department would inform him as soon as it obtained the information. The
+name of Sergeant Albert Speranza had been cabled as one of a list of
+fatalities, that was all.
+
+“And to think,” as Rachel Ellis put it, “that we never knew that he'd
+been made a sergeant until after he was gone. He never had time to write
+it, I expect likely, poor boy.”
+
+The first bit of additional information was furnished by the press. A
+correspondent of one of the Boston dailies sent a brief dispatch to his
+paper describing the fighting at a certain point on the Allied front. A
+small detachment of American troops had taken part, with the French,
+in an attack on a village held by the enemy. The enthusiastic reporter
+declared it to be one of the smartest little actions in which our
+soldiers had so far taken part and was eloquent concerning the bravery
+and dash of his fellow countrymen. “They proved themselves,” he went
+on, “and French officers with whom I have talked are enthusiastic. Our
+losses, considering the number engaged, are said to be heavy. Among
+those reported as killed is Sergeant Albert Speranza, a Massachusetts
+boy whom American readers will remember as a writer of poetry and
+magazine fiction. Sergeant Speranza is said to have led his company
+in the capture of the village and to have acted with distinguished
+bravery.” The editor of the Boston paper who first read this dispatch
+turned to his associate at the next desk.
+
+“Speranza? . . . Speranza?” he said aloud. “Say, Jim, wasn't it Albert
+Speranza who wrote that corking poem we published after the Lusitania
+was sunk?”
+
+Jim looked up. “Yes,” he said. “He has written a lot of pretty good
+stuff since, too. Why?”
+
+“He's just been killed in action over there, so Conway says in this
+dispatch.”
+
+“So? . . . Humph! . . . Any particulars?”
+
+“Not yet. 'Distinguished bravery,' according to Conway. Couldn't we have
+something done in the way of a Sunday special? He was a Massachusetts
+fellow.”
+
+“We might. We haven't a photograph, have we? If we haven't, perhaps we
+can get one.”
+
+The photograph was obtained--bribery and corruption of the Orham
+photographer--and, accompanied by a reprint of the Lusitania poem,
+appeared in the “Magazine Section” of the Sunday newspaper. With these
+also appeared a short notice of the young poet's death in the service of
+his country.
+
+That was the beginning. At the middle of that week Conway sent another
+dispatch. The editor who received it took it into the office of the
+Sunday editor.
+
+“Say,” he said, “here are more particulars about that young chap
+Speranza, the one we printed the special about last Sunday. He must have
+been a corker. When his lieutenant was put out of business by a shrapnel
+this Speranza chap rallied the men and jammed 'em through the Huns like
+a hot knife through butter. Killed the German officer and took three
+prisoners all by himself. Carried his wounded lieutenant to the rear
+on his shoulders, too. Then he went back into the ruins to get another
+wounded man and was blown to slivers by a hand grenade. He's been cited
+in orders and will probably be decorated by the French--that is,
+his memory will be. Pretty good for a poet, I'd say. No 'lilies and
+languors' about that, eh?”
+
+The Sunday editor nodded approval.
+
+“Great stuff!” he exclaimed. “Let me have that dispatch, will you, when
+you've finished. I've just discovered that this young Speranza's father
+was Speranza, the opera baritone. You remember him? And his mother was
+the daughter of a Cape Cod sea captain. How's that? Spain, Cape Cod,
+opera, poetry and the Croix de Guerre. And have you looked at the young
+fellow's photograph? Combination of Adonis and 'Romeo, where art thou.'
+I've had no less than twenty letters about him and his poetry already.
+Next Sunday we'll have a special 'as is.' Where can I get hold of a lot
+of his poems?”
+
+The “special as was” occupied an entire page. A reporter had visited
+South Harniss and had taken photographs of the Snow place and some of
+its occupants. Captain Zelotes had refused to pose, but there was a
+view of the building and yards of “Z. Snow and Co.” with the picturesque
+figure of Mr. Issachar Price tastefully draped against a pile of boards
+in the right foreground. Issy had been a find for the reporter; he
+supplied the latter with every fact concerning Albert which he could
+remember and some that he invented on the spur of the moment. According
+to Issy, Albert was “a fine, fust-class young feller. Him and me was
+like brothers, as you might say. When he got into trouble, or was
+undecided or anything, he'd come to me for advice and I always gave it
+to him. Land, yes! I always give to Albert. No matter how busy I was I
+always stopped work to help HIM out.” The reporter added that Mr. Price
+stopped work even while speaking of it.
+
+The special attracted the notice of other newspaper editors. This
+skirmish in which Albert had taken so gallant part was among the first
+in which our soldiers had participated. So the story was copied and
+recopied. The tale of the death of the young poet, the “happy warrior,”
+ as some writer called him, was spread from the Atlantic to the Pacific
+and from Canada to the Gulf. And just at this psychological moment the
+New York publisher brought out the long deferred volume. The Lances of
+Dawn, Being the Collected Poems of Albert M. C. Speranza, such was its
+title.
+
+Meanwhile, or, rather, within the week when the Lances of Dawn flashed
+upon the public, Captain Zelotes received a letter from the captain of
+Albert's regiment in France. It was not a long letter, for the captain
+was a busy man, but it was the kindly, sympathetic letter of one who
+was, literally, that well-advertised combination, an officer and a
+gentleman. It told of Albert's promotion to the rank of sergeant, “a
+promotion which, had the boy been spared, would, I am sure, have been
+the forerunner of others.” It told of that last fight, the struggle for
+the village, of Sergeant Speranza's coolness and daring and of his rush
+back into the throat of death to save a wounded comrade.
+
+
+The men tell me they tried to stop him (wrote the captain). He was
+himself slightly wounded, he had just brought Lieutenant Stacey back
+to safety and the enemy at that moment was again advancing through the
+village. But he insisted upon going. The man he was trying to rescue was
+a private in his company and the pair were great friends. So he started
+back alone, although several followed him a moment later. They saw him
+enter the ruined cottage where his friend lay. Then a party of the
+enemy appeared at the corner and flung grenades. The entire side of the
+cottage which he had just entered was blown in and the Germans passed on
+over it, causing our men to fall back temporarily. We retook the place
+within half an hour. Private Kelly's body--it was Private Kelly whom
+Sergeant Speranza was attempting to rescue--was found and another, badly
+disfigured, which was at first supposed to be that of your grandson. But
+this body was subsequently identified as that of a private named Hamlin
+who was killed when the enemy first charged. Sergeant Speranza's body
+is still missing, but is thought to be buried beneath the ruins of the
+cottage. These ruins were subsequently blown into further chaos by a
+high explosive shell.
+
+
+Then followed more expressions of regret and sympathy and confirmation
+of the report concerning citation and the war cross. Captain Lote read
+the letter at first alone in his private office. Then he brought it
+home and gave it to his wife to read. Afterward he read it aloud to Mrs.
+Ellis and to Laban, who was making his usual call in the Snow kitchen.
+
+When the reading was ended Labe was the first to speak. His eyes were
+shining.
+
+“Godfreys!” he exclaimed. “Godfreys, Cap'n Lote!”
+
+The captain seemed to understand.
+
+“You're right, Labe,” he said. “The boy's made us proud of him. . . .
+Prouder than some of us are of ourselves, I cal'late,” he added, rising
+and moving toward the door.
+
+“Sho, sho, Cap'n, you mustn't feel that way. No, no.”
+
+“Humph! . . . Labe, I presume likely if I was a pious man, one of the
+old-fashioned kind of pious, and believed the Almighty went out of his
+way to get square with any human bein' that made a mistake or didn't do
+the right thing--if I believed that I might figger all this was a sort
+of special judgment on me for my prejudices, eh?”
+
+Mr. Keeler was much disturbed.
+
+“Nonsense, nonsense, Cap'n Lote!” he protested. “You ain't fair to
+yourself. You never treated Al anyhow but just honest and fair and
+square. If he was here now instead of layin' dead over there in France,
+poor feller, he'd say so, too. Yes, he would. Course he would.”
+
+The captain made no reply, but walked from the room. Laban turned to
+Mrs. Ellis.
+
+“The old man broods over that,” he said. “I wish. . . . Eh? What's the
+matter, Rachel? What are you lookin' at me like that for?”
+
+The housekeeper was leaning forward in her chair, her cheeks flushed and
+her hands clenched.
+
+“How do you know he's dead?” she asked, in a mysterious whisper.
+
+“Eh? How do I know who's dead?”
+
+“Albert. How do you know he's dead?”
+
+Laban stared at her.
+
+“How do I know he's DEAD!” he repeated. “How do I know--”
+
+“Yes, yes, yes,” impatiently; “that's what I said. Don't run it over
+three or four times more. How do you know Albert's dead?”
+
+“Why, Rachel, what kind of talk's that? I know he's dead because the
+newspapers say so, and the War Department folks say so, and this cap'n
+man in France that was right there at the time, HE says so. All hands
+say so--yes, yes. So don't--”
+
+“Sh! I don't care if they all say so ten times over. How do they KNOW?
+They ain't found him dead, have they? The report from the War Department
+folks was sent when they thought that other body was Albert's. Now they
+know that wasn't him. Where is he?”
+
+“Why, under the ruins of that cottage. 'Twas all blown to pieces and
+most likely--”
+
+“Um-hm. There you are! 'Most likely!' Well, I ain't satisfied with most
+likelys. I want to KNOW.”
+
+“But--but--”
+
+“Laban Keeler, until they find his body I shan't believe Albert's dead.”
+
+“But, Rachel, you mustn't try to deceive yourself that way. Don't you
+see--”
+
+“No, I don't see. Labe, when Robert Penfold was lost and gone for all
+them months all hands thought he was dead, didn't they? But he wasn't;
+he was on that island lost in the middle of all creation. What's to
+hinder Albert bein' took prisoner by those Germans? They came back to
+that cottage place after Albert was left there, the cap'n says so in
+that letter Cap'n Lote just read. What's to hinder their carryin' Al off
+with 'em? Eh? What's to hinder?”
+
+“Why--why, nothin', I suppose, in one way. But nine chances out of
+ten--”
+
+“That leaves one chance, don't it. I ain't goin' to give up that chance
+for--for my boy. I--I--Oh, Labe, I did think SO much of him.”
+
+“I know, Rachel, I know. Don't cry any more than you can help. And if
+it helps you any to make believe--I mean to keep on hopin' he's alive
+somewheres--why, do it. It won't do any harm, I suppose. Only I wouldn't
+hint such a thing to Cap'n Lote or Olive.”
+
+“Of course not,” indignantly. “I ain't quite a fool, I hope. . . . And I
+presume likely you're right, Laban. The poor boy is dead, probably. But
+I--I'm goin' to hope he isn't, anyhow, just to get what comfort I can
+from it. And Robert Penfold did come back, you know.”
+
+For some time Laban found himself, against all reason, asking the very
+question Rachel had asked: Did they actually KNOW that Albert was dead?
+But as the months passed and no news came he ceased to ask it. Whenever
+he mentioned the subject to the housekeeper her invariable reply was:
+“But they haven't found his body, have they?” She would not give up
+that tenth chance. As she seemed to find some comfort in it he did not
+attempt to convince her of its futility.
+
+And, meanwhile The Lances of Dawn, Being the Collected Poems of
+Albert M. C. Speranza was making a mild sensation. The critics were
+surprisingly kind to it. The story of the young author's recent and
+romantic death, of his gallantry, his handsome features displayed in
+newspapers everywhere, all these helped toward the generous welcome
+accorded the little volume. If the verses were not inspired--why, they
+were at least entertaining and pleasant. And youth, high-hearted youth
+sang on every page. So the reviewers were kind and forbearing to the
+poems themselves, and, for the sake of the dead soldier-poet, were often
+enthusiastic. The book sold, for a volume of poems it sold very well
+indeed.
+
+At the Snow place in South Harniss pride and tears mingled. Olive read
+the verses over and over again, and wept as she read. Rachel Ellis
+learned many of them by heart, but she, too, wept as she recited them to
+herself or to Laban. In the little bookkeeper's room above Simond's shoe
+store The Lances of Dawn lay under the lamp upon the center table as
+before a shrine. Captain Zelotes read the verses. Also he read all
+the newspaper notices which, sent to the family by Helen Kendall,
+were promptly held before his eyes by Olive and Rachel. He read the
+publisher's advertisements, he read the reviews. And the more he read
+the more puzzled and bewildered he became.
+
+“I can't understand it, Laban,” he confided in deep distress to Mr.
+Keeler. “I give in I don't know anything at all about this. I'm clean
+off soundin's. If all this newspaper stuff is so Albert was right
+all the time and I was plumb wrong. Here's this feller,” picking up a
+clipping from the desk, “callin' him a genius and 'a gifted youth' and
+the land knows what. And every day or so I get a letter from somebody I
+never heard of tellin' me what a comfort to 'em those poetry pieces of
+his are. I don't understand it, Labe. It worries me. If all this is true
+then--then I was all wrong. I tried to keep him from makin' up poetry,
+Labe--TRIED to, I did. If what these folks say is so somethin' ought
+to be done to me. I--I--by thunder, I don't know's I hadn't ought to be
+hung! . . . And yet--and yet, I did what I thought was right and did
+it for the boy's sake . . . And--and even now I--I ain't sartin I was
+wrong. But if I wasn't wrong then this is . . . Oh, I don't know, I
+don't know!”
+
+And not only in South Harniss were there changes of heart. In New York
+City and at Greenwich where Mrs. Fosdick was more than ever busy with
+war work, there were changes. When the newspaper accounts of young
+Speranza's heroic death were first published the lady paid little
+attention to them. Her daughter needed all her care just then--all the
+care, that is, which she could spare from her duties as president of
+this society and corresponding secretary of that. If her feelings upon
+hearing the news could have been analyzed it is probable that their
+larger proportion would have been a huge sense of relief. THAT problem
+was solved, at all events. She was sorry for poor Madeline, of course,
+but the dear child was but a child and would recover.
+
+But as with more and more intensity the limelight of publicity was
+turned upon Albert Speranza's life and death and writing, the wife of
+the Honorable Fletcher Fosdick could not but be impressed. As head of
+several so-called literary societies, societies rather neglected since
+the outbreak of hostilities, she had made it her business to hunt
+literary lions. Recently it was true that military lions--Major
+Vermicelli of the Roumanian light cavalry, or Private Drinkwater of the
+Tank Corps--were more in demand than Tagores, but, as Mrs. Fosdick read
+of Sergeant Speranza's perils and poems, it could not help occurring to
+her that here was a lion both literary and martial. Decidedly she had
+not approved of her daughter's engagement to that lion, but now the said
+lion was dead, which rendered him a perfectly harmless yet not the
+less fascinating animal. And then appeared The Lances of Dawn and Mrs.
+Fosdick's friends among the elect began to read and talk about it.
+
+It was then that the change came. Those friends, one by one, individuals
+judiciously chosen, were told in strict confidence of poor Madeline's
+romantic love affair and its tragic ending. These individuals, chosen
+judiciously as has been stated, whispered, also in strict confidence,
+the tale to other friends and acquaintances. Mrs. Fosdick began to
+receive condolences on her daughter's account and on her own. Soon she
+began to speak publicly of “My poor, dear daughter's dead fiance. Such a
+loss to American literature. Sheer genius. Have you read the article in
+the Timepiece? Madeline, poor girl, is heartbroken, naturally, but very
+proud, even in the midst of her grief. So are we all, I assure you.”
+
+She quoted liberally from The Lances of Dawn. A copy specially bound,
+lay upon her library table. Albert's photograph in uniform, obtained
+from the Snows by Mr. Fosdick, who wrote for it at his wife's request,
+stood beside it. To callers and sister war workers Mrs. Fosdick gave
+details of the hero's genius, his bravery, his devotion to her daughter.
+It was all so romantic and pleasantly self-advertising--and perfectly
+safe.
+
+Summer came again, the summer of 1918. The newspapers now were gravely
+personal reading to millions of Americans. Our new army was trying
+its metal on the French front and with the British against the vaunted
+Hindenburg Line. The transports were carrying thousands on every trip to
+join those already “over there.” In South Harniss and in Greenwich and
+New York, as in every town and city, the ordinary summer vacations and
+playtime occupations were forgotten or neglected and war charities and
+war labors took their place. Other soldiers than Sergeant Speranza were
+the newspaper heroes now, other books than The Lances of Dawn talked
+about.
+
+As on the previous summer the new Fosdick cottage was not occupied by
+its owners. Mrs. Fosdick was absorbed by her multitudinous war duties
+and her husband was at Washington giving his counsel and labor to
+the cause. Captain Zelotes bought to his last spare dollar of each
+successive issue of Liberty Bonds, and gave that dollar to the Red Cross
+or the Y. M. C. A.; Laban and Rachel did likewise. Even Issachar Price
+bought Thrift Stamps and exhibited them to anyone who would stop long
+enough to look.
+
+“By crimus,” declared Issy, “I'm makin' myself poor helpin' out the
+gov'ment, but let 'er go and darn the Kaiser, that's my motto. But they
+ain't all like me. I was down to the drug store yesterday and old
+man Burgess had the cheek to tell me I owed him for some cigars I
+bought--er--last fall, seems to me 'twas. I turned right around and
+looked at him--'I've got my opinion,' says I, 'of a man that thinks of
+cigars and such luxuries when the country needs every cent. What have
+you got that gov'ment poster stuck up on your wall for?' says I. 'Read
+it,' I says. 'It says' '“Save! Save! Save!”' don't it? All right. That's
+what I'M doin'. I AM savin'.' Then when he was thinkin' of somethin' to
+answer back I walked right out and left him. Yes sir, by crimustee, I
+left him right where he stood!”
+
+August came; September--the Hindenburg Line was broken. Each day the
+triumphant headlines in the papers were big and black and also, alas,
+the casualty lists on the inside pages long and longer. Then October.
+The armistice was signed. It was the end. The Allied world went wild,
+cheered, danced, celebrated. Then it sat back, thinking, thanking God,
+solemnly trying to realize that the killing days, the frightful days of
+waiting and awful anxiety, were over.
+
+And early in November another telegram came to the office of Z. Snow and
+Co. This time it came, not from the War Department direct, but from the
+Boston headquarters of the American Red Cross.
+
+And this time, just as on the day when the other fateful telegram came,
+Laban Keeler was the first of the office regulars to learn its contents.
+Ben Kelley himself brought this message, just as he had brought that
+telling of Albert Speranza's death. And the usually stolid Ben was
+greatly excited. He strode straight from the door to the bookkeeper's
+desk.
+
+“Is the old man in, Labe?” he whispered, jerking his head toward the
+private office, the door of which happened to be shut.
+
+Laban looked at him over his spectacles. “Cap'n Lote, you mean?” he
+asked. “Yes, he's in. But he don't want to be disturbed--no, no. Goin'
+to write a couple of important letters, he said. Important ones. . . .
+Um-hm. What is it, Ben? Anything I can do for you?”
+
+Kelley did not answer that question. Instead he took a telegram from his
+pocket.
+
+“Read it, Labe,” he whispered. “Read it. It's the darndest
+news--the--the darnedest good news ever you heard in your life. It don't
+seem as if it could he, but, by time, I guess 'tis. Anyhow, it's from
+the Red Cross folks and they'd ought to know.”
+
+Laban stared at the telegram. It was not in the usual envelope; Kelley
+had been too anxious to bring it to its destination to bother with an
+envelope.
+
+“Read it,” commanded the operator again. “See if you think Cap'n Lote
+ought to have it broke easy to him or--or what? Read it, I tell you.
+Lord sakes, it's no secret! I hollered it right out loud when it come in
+over the wire and the gang at the depot heard it. They know it and it'll
+be all over town in ten minutes. READ IT.”
+
+Keeler read the telegram. His florid cheeks turned pale.
+
+“Good Lord above!” he exclaimed, under his breath.
+
+“Eh? I bet you! Shall I take it to the cap'n? Eh? What do you think?”
+
+“Wait. . . . Wait . . . I--I--My soul! My soul! Why . . . It's--it's
+true. . . . And Rachel always said . . . Why, she was right . . .
+I . . .”
+
+From without came the sound of running feet and a series of yells.
+
+“Labe! Labe!” shrieked Issy. “Oh, my crimus! . . . Labe!”
+
+He burst into the office, his eyes and mouth wide open and his hands
+waving wildly.
+
+“Labe! Labe!” he shouted again. “Have you heard it? Have you? It's true,
+too. He's alive! He's alive! He's alive!”
+
+Laban sprang from his stool. “Shut up, Is!” he commanded. “Shut up! Hold
+on! Don't--”
+
+“But he's alive, I tell you! He ain't dead! He ain't never been dead!
+Oh, my crimus! . . . Hey, Cap'n Lote! HE'S ALIVE!”
+
+Captain Zelotes was standing in the doorway of the private office. The
+noise had aroused him from his letter writing.
+
+“Who's alive? What's the matter with you this time, Is?” he demanded.
+
+“Shut up, Issy,” ordered Laban, seizing the frantic Mr. Price by the
+collar. “Be still! Wait a minute.”
+
+“Be still? What do I want to be still for? I cal'late Cap'n Lote'll
+holler some, too, when he hears. He's alive, Cap'n Lote, I tell ye. Let
+go of me, Labe Keeler! He's alive!”
+
+“Who's alive? What is it? Labe, YOU answer me. Who's alive?”
+
+Laban's thoughts were still in a whirl. He was still shaking from the
+news the telegraph operator had brought. Rachel Ellis was at that moment
+in his mind and he answered as she might have done.
+
+“Er--er--Robert Penfold,” he said.
+
+“Robert PENFOLD! What--”
+
+Issachar could hold in no longer.
+
+“Robert Penfold nawthin'!” he shouted. “Who in thunder's he? 'Tain't
+Robert Penfold nor Robert Penholder neither. It's Al Speranza, that's
+who 'tis. He ain't killed, Cap'n Lote. He's alive and he's been alive
+all the time.”
+
+Kelley stepped forward.
+
+“Looks as if 'twas so, Cap'n Snow,” he said. “Here's the telegram from
+the Red Cross.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+
+There was nothing miraculous about it. That is to say, it was no more of
+a miracle than hundreds of similar cases in the World War. The papers of
+those years were constantly printing stories of men over whose supposed
+graves funeral sermons had been preached, to whose heirs insurance
+payments had been made, in whose memory grateful communities had made
+speeches and delivered eulogiums--the papers were telling of instance
+after instance of those men being discovered alive and in the flesh, as
+casuals in some French hospital or as inmates of German prison camps.
+
+Rachel Ellis had asked what was to hinder Albert's having been taken
+prisoner by the Germans and carried off by them. As a matter of fact
+nothing had hindered and that was exactly what had happened. Sergeant
+Speranza, wounded by machine gun fire and again by the explosion of the
+grenade, was found in the ruins of the cottage when the detachment of
+the enemy captured it. He was conscious and able to speak, so instead
+of being bayonetted was carried to the rear where he might be questioned
+concerning the American forces. The questioning was most unsatisfactory
+to the Prussian officers who conducted it. Albert fainted, recovered
+consciousness and fainted again. So at last the Yankee swine was left
+to die or get well and his Prussian interrogators went about other
+business, the business of escaping capture themselves. But when they
+retreated the few prisoners, mostly wounded men, were taken with them.
+
+Albert's recollections of the next few days were hazy and very doubtful.
+Pain, pain and more pain. Hours and hours--they seemed like years--of
+jolting over rough roads. Pawing-over by a fat, bearded surgeon, who
+may not have been intentionally brutal, but quite as likely may. A great
+desire to die, punctuated by occasional feeble spurts of wishing to
+live. Then more surgical man-handling, more jolting--in freight cars
+this time--a slow, miserable recovery, nurses who hated their patients
+and treated them as if they did, then, a prison camp, a German prison
+camp. Then horrors and starvation and brutality lasting many months.
+Then fever.
+
+He was wandering in that misty land between this world and the
+next when, the armistice having been signed, an American Red Cross
+representative found him. In the interval between fits of delirium
+he told this man his name and regiment and, later, the name of his
+grandparents. When it seemed sure that he was to recover the Red Cross
+representative cabled the facts to this country. And, still later, those
+facts, or the all-important fact that Sergeant Albert M. C. Speranza was
+not dead but alive, came by telegraph to Captain Zelotes Snow of South
+Harniss. And, two months after that, Captain Zelotes himself, standing
+on the wharf in Boston and peering up at a crowded deck above him, saw
+the face of his grandson, that face which he had never expected to see
+again, looking eagerly down upon him.
+
+A few more weeks and it was over. The brief interval of camp life and
+the mustering out were things of the past. Captain Lote and Albert,
+seated in the train, were on their way down the Cape, bound home. Home!
+The word had a significance now which it never had before. Home!
+
+Albert drew a long breath. “By George!” he exclaimed. “By George,
+Grandfather, this looks good to me!”
+
+It might not have looked as good to another person. It was raining, the
+long stretches of salt marsh were windswept and brown and bleak. In the
+distance Cape Cod Bay showed gray and white against a leaden sky. The
+drops ran down the dingy car windows.
+
+Captain Zelotes understood, however. He nodded.
+
+“It used to look good to me when I was bound home after a v'yage,” he
+observed. “Well, son, I cal'late your grandma and Rachel are up to the
+depot by this time waitin' for you. We ain't due for pretty nigh an hour
+yet, but I'd be willin' to bet they're there.”
+
+Albert smiled. “My, I do want to see them!” he said.
+
+“Shouldn't wonder a mite if they wanted to see you, boy. Well, I'm kind
+of glad I shooed that reception committee out of the way. I presumed
+likely you'd rather have your first day home to yourself--and us.”
+
+“I should say so! Newspaper reporters are a lot of mighty good fellows,
+but I hope I never see another one. . . . That's rather ungrateful, I
+know,” he added, with a smile, “but I mean it--just now.”
+
+He had some excuse for meaning it. The death of Albert Speranza, poet
+and warrior, had made a newspaper sensation. His resurrection and return
+furnished material for another. Captain Zelotes was not the only person
+to meet the transport at the pier; a delegation of reporters was there
+also. Photographs of Sergeant Speranza appeared once more in print. This
+time, however, they were snapshots showing him in uniform, likenesses
+of a still handsome, but less boyish young man, thinner, a scar upon
+his right cheek, and the look in his eyes more serious, and infinitely
+older, the look of one who had borne much and seen more. The reporters
+found it difficult to get a story from the returned hero. He seemed to
+shun the limelight and to be almost unduly modest and retiring, which
+was of itself, had they but known it, a transformation sufficiently
+marvelous to have warranted a special “Sunday special.”
+
+“Will not talk about himself,” so one writer headed his article. Gertie
+Kendrick, with a brand-new ring upon her engagement finger, sniffed as
+she read that headline to Sam Thatcher, who had purchased the ring. “Al
+Speranza won't talk about himself!” exclaimed Gertie. “Well, it's the
+FIRST time, then. No wonder they put it in the paper.”
+
+But Albert would not talk, claiming that he had done nothing worth
+talking about, except to get himself taken prisoner in almost his first
+engagement. “Go and ask some of the other fellows aboard here,” he
+urged. “They have been all through it.” As he would not talk the
+newspaper men were obliged to talk for him, which they did by describing
+his appearance and his manner, and by rehashing the story of the fight
+in the French village. Also, of course, they republished some of his
+verses. The Lances of Dawn appeared in a special edition in honor of its
+author's reappearance on this earth.
+
+“Yes sir,” continued Captain Zelotes, “the reception committee was
+consider'ble disappointed. They'd have met you with the Orham band if
+they'd had their way. I told 'em you'd heard all the band music you
+wanted in camp, I guessed likely, and you'd rather come home quiet.
+There was goin' to be some speeches, too, but I had them put off.”
+
+“Thanks, Grandfather.”
+
+“Um-hm. I had a notion you wouldn't hanker for speeches. If you do
+Issy'll make one for you 'most any time. Ever since you got into the
+papers Issy's been swellin' up like a hot pop-over with pride because
+you and he was what he calls chummies. All last summer Issachar spent
+his evenin's hangin' around the hotel waitin' for the next boarder to
+mention your name. Sure as one did Is was ready for him. 'Know him?'
+he'd sing out. 'Did I know Al Speranza? ME? Well, now say!--' And so on,
+long as the feller would listen. I asked him once if he ever told any of
+'em how you ducked him with the bucket of water. He didn't think I knew
+about that and it kind of surprised him, I judged.”
+
+Albert smiled. “Laban told you about it, I suppose,” he said. “What a
+kid trick that was, wasn't it?”
+
+The captain turned his head and regarded him for an instant. The old
+twinkle was in his eye when he spoke.
+
+“Wouldn't do a thing like that now, Al, I presume likely?” he said.
+“Feel a good deal older now, eh?”
+
+Albert's answer was seriously given.
+
+“Sometimes I feel at least a hundred and fifty,” he replied.
+
+“Humph! . . . Well, I wouldn't feel like that. If you're a hundred and
+fifty I must be a little older than Methuselah was in his last years.
+I'm feelin' younger to-day, younger than I have for quite a spell. Yes,
+for quite a spell.”
+
+His grandson put a hand on his knee. “Good for you, Grandfather,” he
+said. “Now tell me more about Labe. Do you know I think the old chap's
+sticking by his pledge is the bulliest thing I've heard since I've been
+home.”
+
+So they talked of Laban and of Rachel and of South Harniss happenings
+until the train drew up at the platform of that station. And upon that
+platform stepped Albert to feel his grandmother's arms about him and her
+voice, tremulous with happiness, at his ear. And behind her loomed Mrs.
+Ellis, her ample face a combination of smiles and tears, “all sunshine
+and fair weather down below but rainin' steady up aloft,” as Captain
+Lote described it afterwards. And behind her, like a foothill in
+the shadow of a mountain, was Laban. And behind Laban--No, that is a
+mistake--in front of Laban and beside Laban and in front of and beside
+everyone else when opportunity presented was Issachar. And Issachar's
+expression and bearings were wonderful to see. A stranger, and there
+were several strangers amid the group at the station, might have gained
+the impression that Mr. Price, with of course a very little help from
+the Almighty, was responsible for everything.
+
+“Why, Issy!” exclaimed Albert, when they shook hands. “You're here, too,
+eh?”
+
+Mr. Price's already protuberant chest swelled still further. His reply
+had the calmness of finality.
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Issy, “I'm here. 'Who's goin' to look out for Z. Snow
+and Co. if all hands walks out and leaves 'em?' Labe says. 'I don't
+know,' says I, 'and I don't care. I'm goin' to that depot to meet Al
+Speranzy and if Z. Snow and Co. goes to pot while I'm gone I can't help
+it. I have sacrificed,' I says, 'and I stand ready to sacrifice pretty
+nigh everything for my business, but there's limits and this is one of
+'em. I'm goin' acrost to that depot to meet him,' says I, 'and don't you
+try to stop me, Labe Keeler.'”
+
+“Great stuff, Is!” said Albert, with a laugh. “What did Labe say to
+that?”
+
+“What was there for him to say? He could see I meant it. Course he hove
+out some of his cheap talk, but it didn't amount to nothin'. Asked if I
+wan't goin' to put up a sign sayin' when I'd be back, so's to ease the
+customers' minds. 'I don't know when I'll be back,' I says. 'All right,'
+says he, 'put that on the sign. That'll ease 'em still more.' Just cheap
+talk 'twas. He thinks he's funny, but I don't pay no attention to him.”
+
+Others came to shake hands and voice a welcome. The formal reception,
+that with the band, had been called off at Captain Zelotes's request,
+but the informal one was, in spite of the rain, which was now much less
+heavy, quite a sizable gathering.
+
+The Reverend Mr. Kendall held his hand for a long time and talked much,
+it seemed to Albert that he had aged greatly since they last met. He
+wandered a bit in his remarks and repeated himself several times.
+
+“The poor old gentleman's failin' a good deal, Albert,” said Mrs. Snow,
+as they drove home together, he and his grandparents, three on the
+seat of the buggy behind Jessamine. “His sermons are pretty tiresome
+nowadays, but we put up with 'em because he's been with us so long. . . .
+Ain't you squeezed 'most to death, Albert? You two big men and me all
+mashed together on this narrow seat. It's lucky I'm small. Zelotes ought
+to get a two-seated carriage, but he won't.”
+
+“Next thing I get, Mother,” observed the captain, “will be an
+automobile. I'll stick to the old mare here as long as she's able to
+navigate, but when she has to be hauled out of commission I'm goin'
+to buy a car. I believe I'm pretty nigh the last man in this county
+to drive a horse, as 'tis. Makes me feel like what Sol Dadgett calls
+a cracked teapot--a 'genuine antique.' One of these city women will be
+collectin' me some of these days. Better look out, mother.”
+
+Olive sighed happily. “It does me good to hear you joke again,
+Zelotes,” she said. “He didn't joke much, Albert, while--when we thought
+you--you--”
+
+Albert interrupted in time to prevent the threatened shower.
+
+“So Mr. Kendall is not well,” he said. “I'm very sorry to hear it.”
+
+“Of course you would be. You and he used to be so friendly when Helen
+was home. Oh, speakin' of Helen, she IS comin' home in a fortni't or
+three weeks, so I hear. She's goin' to give up her teachin' and come
+back to be company for her father. I suppose she realizes he needs her,
+but it must be a big sacrifice for her, givin' up the good position
+she's got now. She's such a smart girl and such a nice one. Why, she
+came to see us after the news came--the bad news--and she was so kind
+and so good. I don't know what we should have done without her. Zelotes
+says so too, don't you, Zelotes?”
+
+Her husband did not answer. Instead he said: “Well, there's home, Al.
+Rachel's there ahead of us and dinner's on the way, judgin' by the smoke
+from the kitchen chimney. How does the old place look to you, boy?”
+
+Albert merely shook his head and drew a long breath, but his
+grandparents seemed to be quite satisfied.
+
+There were letters and telegrams awaiting him on the table in the
+sitting-room. Two of the letters were postmarked from a town on the
+Florida coast. The telegram also was from that same town.
+
+“_I_ had one of those things,” observed Captain Zelotes, alluding to
+the telegram. “Fosdick sent me one of those long ones, night-letters
+I believe they call 'em. He wants me to tell you that Mrs. Fosdick is
+better and that they cal'late to be in New York before very long and
+shall expect you there. Of course you knew that, Al, but I presume
+likely the main idea of the telegram was to help say, 'Welcome home' to
+you, that's all.”
+
+Albert nodded. Madeline and her mother had been in Florida all winter.
+Mrs. Fosdick's health was not good. She declared that her nerves had
+given way under her frightful responsibilities during the war. There
+was, although it seems almost sacrilege to make such a statement, a
+certain similarity between Mrs. Fletcher Fosdick and Issachar Price. The
+telegram was, as his grandfather surmised, an expression of welcome and
+of regret that the senders could not be there to share in the reception.
+The two letters which accompanied it he put in his pocket to read later
+on, when alone. Somehow he felt that the first hours in the old
+house belonged exclusively to his grandparents. Everything else, even
+Madeline's letters, must take second place for that period.
+
+Dinner was, to say the least, an ample meal. Rachel and Olive had, as
+Captain Lote said, “laid themselves out” on that dinner. It began well
+and continued well and ended best of all, for the dessert was one of
+which Albert was especially fond. They kept pressing him to eat until
+Laban, who was an invited guest, was moved to comment.
+
+“Humph!” observed Mr. Keeler. “I knew 'twas the reg'lar program to
+kill the fatted calf when the prodigal got home, but I see now it's the
+proper caper to fat up the prodigal to take the critter's place. No, no,
+Rachel, I'd like fust-rate to eat another bushel or so to please you,
+but somethin'--that still, small voice we're always readin' about, or
+somethin'--seems to tell me 'twouldn't be good jedgment. . . . Um-hm.
+. . . 'Twouldn't be good jedgment. . . . Cal'late it's right, too. . . .
+Yes, yes, yes.”
+
+“Now, Cap'n Lote,” he added, as they rose from the table, “you stay
+right to home here for the rest of the day. I'll hustle back to the
+office and see if Issy's importance has bust his b'iler for him.
+So-long, Al. See you pretty soon. Got some things to talk about, you and
+I have. . . . Yes, yes.”
+
+Later, when Rachel was in the kitchen with the dishes, Olive left the
+sitting room and reappeared with triumph written large upon her face. In
+one hand she held a mysterious envelope and in the other a book. Albert
+recognized that book. It was his own, The Lances of Dawn. It was
+no novelty to him. When first the outside world and he had reopened
+communication, copies of that book had been sent him. His publisher
+had sent them, Madeline had sent them, his grandparents had sent them,
+comrades had sent them, nurses and doctors and newspaper men had brought
+them. No, The Lances of Dawn was not a novelty to its author. But he
+wondered what was in the envelope.
+
+Mrs. Snow enlightened him. “You sit right down now, Albert,” she said.
+“Sit right down and listen because I've got somethin' to tell you. Yes,
+and somethin' to show you, too. Here! Stop now, Zelotes! You can't run
+away. You've got to sit down and look on and listen, too.”
+
+Captain Zelotes smiled resignedly. There was, or so it seemed to his
+grandson, an odd expression on his face. He looked pleased, but not
+altogether pleased. However, he obeyed his wife's orders and sat.
+
+“Stop, look and listen,” he observed. “Mother, you sound like a railroad
+crossin'. All right, here I am. Al, the society of 'What did I tell you'
+is goin' to have a meetin'.”
+
+His wife nodded. “Well,” she said, triumphantly, “what DID I tell you?
+Wasn't I right?”
+
+The captain pulled his beard and nodded.
+
+“Right as right could be, Mother,” he admitted. “Your figgers was a
+few hundred thousand out of the way, maybe, but barrin' that you was
+perfectly right.”
+
+“Well, I'm glad to hear you say so for once in your life. Albert,”
+ holding up the envelope, “do you know what this is?”
+
+Albert, much puzzled, admitted that he did not. His grandmother put down
+the book, opened the envelope and took from it a slip of paper.
+
+“And can you guess what THIS is?” she asked. Albert could not guess.
+
+“It's a check, that's what it is. It's the first six months' royalties,
+that's what they call 'em, on that beautiful book of yours. And how much
+do you suppose 'tis?”
+
+Albert shook his head. “Twenty-five dollars?” he suggested jokingly.
+
+“Twenty-five dollars! It's over twenty-five HUNDRED dollars. It's
+twenty-eight hundred and forty-three dollars and sixty-five cents,
+that's what it is. Think of it! Almost three thousand dollars! And
+Zelotes prophesied that 'twouldn't be more than--”
+
+Her husband held up his hand. “Sh-sh! Sh-sh, Mother,” he said. “Don't
+get started on what I prophesied or we won't be through till doomsday.
+I'll give in right off that I'm the worst prophet since the feller that
+h'isted the 'Fair and Dry' signal the day afore Noah's flood begun. You
+see,” he explained, turning to Albert, “your grandma figgered out that
+you'd probably clear about half a million on that book of poetry, Al. I
+cal'lated 'twan't likely to be much more'n a couple of hundred thousand,
+so--”
+
+“Why, Zelotes Snow! You said--”
+
+“Yes, yes. So I did, Mother, so I did. You was right and I was wrong.
+Twenty-eight hundred ain't exactly a million, Al, but it's a darn sight
+more than I ever cal'lated you'd make from that book. Or 'most anybody
+else ever made from any book, fur's that goes,” he added, with a shake
+of the head. “I declare, I--I don't understand it yet. And a poetry
+book, too! Who in time BUYS 'em all? Eh?”
+
+Albert was looking at the check and the royalty statement.
+
+“So this is why I couldn't get any satisfaction from the publisher,” he
+observed. “I wrote him two or three times about my royalties, and he put
+me off each time. I began to think there weren't any.”
+
+Captain Zelotes smiled. “That's your grandma's doin's,” he observed.
+“The check came to us a good while ago, when we thought you
+was--was--well, when we thought--”
+
+“Yes. Surely, I understand,” put in Albert, to help him out.
+
+“Yes. That's when 'twas. And Mother, she was so proud of it, because
+you'd earned it, Al, that she kept it and kept it, showin' it to all
+hands and--and so on. And then when we found out you wasn't--that you'd
+be home some time or other--why, then she wouldn't let me put it in the
+bank for you because she wanted to give it to you herself. That's what
+she said was the reason. I presume likely the real one was that
+she wanted to flap it in my face every time she crowed over my bad
+prophesyin', which was about three times a day and four on Sundays.”
+
+“Zelotes Snow, the idea!”
+
+“All right, Mother, all right. Anyhow, she got me to write your
+publisher man and ask him not to give you any satisfaction about those
+royalties, so's she could be the fust one to paralyze you with 'em.
+And,” with a frank outburst, “if you ain't paralyzed, Al, I own up that
+_I_ am. Three thousand poetry profits beats me. _I_ don't understand
+it.”
+
+His wife sniffed. “Of course you don't,” she declared. “But Albert does.
+And so do I, only I think it ought to have been ever and ever so much
+more. Don't you, yourself, Albert?”
+
+The author of The Lances of Dawn was still looking at the statement of
+its earnings.
+
+“Approximately eighteen thousand sold at fifteen cents royalty,” he
+observed. “Humph! Well, I'll be hanged!”
+
+“But you said it would be twenty-five cents, not fifteen,” protested
+Olive. “In your letter when the book was first talked about you said
+so.”
+
+Albert smiled. “Did I?” he observed. “Well, I said a good many things
+in those days, I'm afraid. Fifteen cents for a first book, especially a
+book of verse, is fair enough, I guess. But eighteen thousand SOLD! That
+is what gets me.”
+
+“You mean you think it ought to be a lot more. So do I, Albert, and so
+does Rachel. Why, we like it a lot better than we do David Harum. That
+was a nice book, but it wasn't lovely poetry like yours. And David
+Harum sold a million. Why shouldn't yours sell as many? Only eighteen
+thousand--why are you lookin' at me so funny?”
+
+Her grandson rose to his feet. “Let's let well enough alone,
+Grandmother,” he said. “Eighteen thousand will do, thank you. I'm like
+Grandfather, I'm wondering who on earth bought them.”
+
+Mrs. Snow was surprised and a little troubled.
+
+“Why, Albert,” she said, “you act kind of--kind of queer, seems to me.
+You talk as if your poetry wasn't beautiful. You know it is. You used to
+say it was, yourself.”
+
+He interrupted her. “Did I, Grandmother?” he said. “All right, then,
+probably I did. Let's walk about the old place a little. I want to see
+it all. By George, I've been dreaming about it long enough!”
+
+There were callers that afternoon, friends among the townsfolk, and more
+still after supper. It was late--late for South Harniss, that is--when
+Albert, standing in the doorway of the bedroom he nor they had ever
+expected he would occupy again, bade his grandparents good night. Olive
+kissed him again and again and, speech failing her, hastened away down
+the hall. Captain Zelotes shook his hand, opened his mouth to speak,
+shut it again, repeated both operations, and at last with a brief,
+“Well, good night, Al,” hurried after his wife. Albert closed the door,
+put his lamp upon the bureau, and sat down in the big rocker.
+
+In a way the night was similar to that upon which he had first entered
+that room. It had ceased raining, but the wind, as on that first night,
+was howling and whining about the eaves, the shutters rattled and the
+old house creaked and groaned rheumatically. It was not as cold as
+on that occasion, though by no means warm. He remembered how bare and
+comfortless he had thought the room. Now it looked almost luxurious. And
+he had been homesick, or fancied himself in that condition. Compared
+to the homesickness he had known during the past eighteen months that
+youthful seizure seemed contemptible and quite without excuse. He looked
+about the room again, looked long and lovingly. Then, with a sigh of
+content, drew from his pocket the two letters which had lain upon the
+sitting-room table when he arrived, opened them and began to read.
+
+Madeline wrote, as always, vivaciously and at length. The maternal
+censorship having been removed, she wrote exactly as she felt. She could
+scarcely believe he was really going to be at home when he received
+this, at home in dear, quaint, queer old South Harniss. Just think,
+she had not seen the place for ever and ever so long, not for over two
+years. How were all the funny, odd people who lived there all the time?
+Did he remember how he and she used to go to church every Sunday and sit
+through those dreadful, DREADFUL sermons by that prosy old minister
+just as an excuse for meeting each other afterward? She was SO sorry she
+could not have been there to welcome her hero when he stepped from the
+train. If it hadn't been for Mother's poor nerves she surely would have
+been. He knew it, didn't he? Of course he did. But she should see him
+soon “because Mother is planning already to come back to New York in a
+few weeks and then you are to run over immediately and make us a LONG
+visit. And I shall be so PROUD of you. There are lots of Army fellows
+down here now, officers for the most part. So we dance and are very
+gay--that is, the other girls are; I, being an engaged young lady, am
+very circumspect and demure, of course. Mother carries The Lances about
+with her wherever she goes, to teas and such things, and reads aloud
+from it often. Captain Blanchard, he is one of the family's officer
+friends, is crazy about your poetry, dear. He thinks it WONDERFUL. You
+know what _I_ think of it, don't you, and when I think that _I_ actually
+helped you, or played at helping you write some of it!
+
+“And I am WILD to see your war cross. Some of the officers here have
+them--the crosses, I mean--but not many. Captain Blanchard has the
+military medal, and he is almost as modest about it as you are about
+your decoration. I don't see how you CAN be so modest. If _I_ had a
+Croix de Guerre I should want EVERY ONE to know about it. At the tea
+dance the other afternoon there was a British major who--”
+
+And so on. The second letter was really a continuation of the first.
+Albert read them both and, after the reading was finished, sat for some
+time in the rocking chair, quite regardless of the time and the cold,
+thinking. He took from his pocketbook a photograph, one which Madeline
+had sent him months before, which had reached him while he lay in the
+French hospital after his removal from the German camp. He looked at
+the pretty face in the photograph. She looked just as he remembered her,
+almost exactly as she had looked more than two years before, smiling,
+charming, carefree. She had not, apparently, grown older, those age-long
+months had not changed her. He rose and regarded his own reflection in
+the mirror of the bureau. He was surprised, as he was constantly being
+surprised, to see that he, too, had not changed greatly in personal
+appearance.
+
+He walked about the room. His grandmother had told him that his room was
+just as he had left it. “I wouldn't change it, Albert,” she said,
+“even when we thought you--you wasn't comin' back. I couldn't touch it,
+somehow. I kept thinkin', 'Some day I will. Pretty soon I MUST.' But I
+never did, and now I'm so glad.”
+
+He wandered back to the bureau and pulled open the upper drawers. In
+those drawers were so many things, things which he had kept there,
+either deliberately or because he was too indolent to destroy them. Old
+dance cards, invitations, and a bundle of photographs, snapshots. He
+removed the rubber band from the bundle and stood looking them over.
+Photographs of school fellows, of picnic groups, of girls. Sam Thatcher,
+Gertie Kendrick--and Helen Kendall. There were at least a dozen of
+Helen.
+
+One in particular was very good. From that photograph the face of
+Helen as he had known it four years before looked straight up into
+his--clear-eyed, honest, a hint of humor and understanding and
+common-sense in the gaze and at the corners of the lips. He looked at
+the photograph, and the photograph looked up at him. He had not seen
+her for so long a time. He wondered if the war had changed her as it had
+changed him. Somehow he hoped it had not. Change did not seem necessary
+in her case.
+
+There had been no correspondence between them since her letter written
+when she heard of his enlistment. He had not replied to that because
+he knew Madeline would not wish him to do so. He wondered if she ever
+thought of him now, if she remembered their adventure at High Point
+light. He had thought of her often enough. In those days and nights of
+horror in the prison camp and hospital he had found a little relief, a
+little solace in lying with closed eyes and summoning back from memory
+the things of home and the faces of home. And her face had been one of
+these. Her face and those of his grandparents and Rachel and Laban, and
+visions of the old house and the rooms--they were the substantial things
+to cling to and he had clung to them. They WERE home. Madeline--ah! yes,
+he had longed for her and dreamed of her, God knew, but Madeline, of
+course, was different.
+
+He snapped the rubber band once more about the bundle of photographs,
+closed the drawer and prepared for bed.
+
+For the two weeks following his return home he had a thoroughly good
+time. It was a tremendous comfort to get up when he pleased, to eat the
+things he liked, to do much or little or nothing at his own sweet will.
+He walked a good deal, tramping along the beach in the blustering wind
+and chilly sunshine and enjoying every breath of the clean salt air. He
+thought much during those solitary walks, and at times, at home in the
+evenings, he would fall to musing and sit silent for long periods. His
+grandmother was troubled.
+
+“Don't it seem to you, Zelotes,” she asked her husband, “as if Albert
+was kind of discontented or unsatisfied these days? He's so--so sort
+of fidgety. Talks like the very mischief for ten minutes and then don't
+speak for half an hour. Sits still for a long stretch and then jumps up
+and starts off walkin' as if he was crazy. What makes him act so? He's
+kind of changed from what he used to be. Don't you think so?”
+
+The captain patted her shoulder. “Don't worry, Mother,” he said. “Al's
+older than he was and what he's been through has made him older still.
+As for the fidgety part of it, the settin' down and jumpin' up and all
+that, that's the way they all act, so far as I can learn. Elisha Warren,
+over to South Denboro, tells me his nephew has been that way ever since
+he got back. Don't fret, Mother, Al will come round all right.”
+
+“I didn't know but he might be anxious to see--to see her, you know.”
+
+“Her? Oh, you mean the Fosdick girl. Well, he'll be goin' to see her
+pretty soon, I presume likely. They're due back in New York 'most any
+time now, I believe. . . . Oh, hum! Why in time couldn't he--”
+
+“Couldn't he what, Zelotes?”
+
+“Oh, nothin', nothin'.”
+
+The summons came only a day after this conversation. It came in the form
+of another letter from Madeline and one from Mrs. Fosdick. They were, so
+the latter wrote, back once more in their city home, her nerves, thank
+Heaven, were quite strong again, and they were expecting him, Albert, to
+come on at once. “We are all dying to see you,” wrote Mrs. Fosdick. “And
+poor, dear Madeline, of course, is counting the moments.”
+
+“Stay as long as you feel like, Al,” said the captain, when told of the
+proposed visit. “It's the dull season at the office, anyhow, and Labe
+and I can get along first-rate, with Issy to superintend. Stay as long
+as you want to, only--”
+
+“Only what, Grandfather?”
+
+“Only don't want to stay too long. That is, don't fall in love with New
+York so hard that you forget there is such a place as South Harniss.”
+
+Albert smiled. “I've been in places farther away than New York,” he
+said, “and I never forgot South Harniss.”
+
+“Um-hm. . . . Well, I shouldn't be surprised if that was so. But you'll
+have better company in New York than you did in some of those places.
+Give my regards to Fosdick. So-long, Al.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+
+The Fosdick car was at the Grand Central Station when the Knickerbocker
+Limited pulled in. And Madeline, a wonderfully furred and veiled and
+hatted Madeline, was waiting there behind the rail as he came up the
+runway from the train. It was amazing the fact that it was really she.
+It was more amazing still to kiss her there in public, to hold her hand
+without fear that some one might see. To--
+
+“Shall I take your bags, sir?”
+
+It was the Fosdick footman who asked it. Albert started guiltily. Then
+he laughed, realizing that the hand-holding and the rest were no longer
+criminal offenses. He surrendered his luggage to the man. A few minutes
+later he and Madeline were in the limousine, which was moving rapidly
+up the Avenue. And Madeline was asking questions and he was answering
+and--and still it was all a dream. It COULDN'T be real.
+
+It was even more like a dream when the limousine drew up before the door
+of the Fosdick home and they entered that home together. For there was
+Mrs. Fosdick, as ever majestic, commanding, awe-inspiring, the same Mrs.
+Fosdick who had, in her letter to his grandfather, written him down a
+despicable, underhanded sneak, here was that same Mrs. Fosdick--but not
+at all the same. For this lady was smiling and gracious, welcoming him
+to her home, addressing him by his Christian name, treating him kindly,
+with almost motherly tenderness. Madeline's letters and Mrs. Fosdick's
+own letters received during his convalescence abroad had prepared him,
+or so he had thought, for some such change. Now he realized that he had
+not been prepared at all. The reality was so much more revolutionary
+than the anticipation that he simply could not believe it.
+
+But it was not so very wonderful if he had known all the facts and had
+been in a frame of mind to calmly analyze them. Mrs. Fletcher Fosdick
+was a seasoned veteran, a general who had planned and fought many
+hard campaigns upon the political battlegrounds of women's clubs and
+societies of various sorts. From the majority of those campaigns she had
+emerged victorious, but her experiences in defeat had taught her that
+the next best thing to winning is to lose gracefully, because by
+so doing much which appears to be lost may be regained. For Albert
+Speranza, bookkeeper and would-be poet of South Harniss, Cape Cod,
+she had had no use whatever as a prospective son-in-law. Even toward a
+living Albert Speranza, hero and newspaper-made genius, she might have
+been cold. But when that hero and genius was, as she and every one else
+supposed, safely and satisfactorily dead and out of the way, she had
+seized the opportunity to bask in the radiance of his memory. She had
+talked Albert Speranza and read Albert Speranza and boasted of Albert
+Speranza's engagement to her daughter before the world. Now that the
+said Albert Speranza had been inconsiderate enough to “come alive
+again,” there was but one thing for her to do--that is, to make the best
+of it. And when Mrs. Fletcher Fosdick made the best of anything she made
+the very best.
+
+“It doesn't make any difference,” she told her husband, “whether he
+really is a genius or whether he isn't. We have said he is and now
+we must keep on saying it. And if he can't earn his salt by his
+writings--which he probably can't--then you must fix it in some way so
+that he can make-believe earn it by something else. He is engaged to
+Madeline, and we have told every one that he is, so he will have to
+marry her; at least, I see no way to prevent it.”
+
+“Humph!” grunted Fosdick. “And after that I'll have to support them, I
+suppose.”
+
+“Probably--unless you want your only child to starve.”
+
+“Well, I must say, Henrietta--”
+
+“You needn't, for there is nothing more TO say. We're in it and, whether
+we like it or not, we must make the best of it. To do anything now
+except appear joyful about it would be to make ourselves perfectly
+ridiculous. We can't do that, and you know it.”
+
+Her husband still looked everything but contented.
+
+“So far as the young fellow himself goes,” he said, “I like him, rather.
+I've talked with him only once, of course, and then he and I weren't
+agreeing exactly. But I liked him, nevertheless. If he were anything but
+a fool poet I should be more reconciled.”
+
+He was snubbed immediately. “THAT,” declared Mrs. Fosdick, with
+decision, “is the only thing that makes him possible.”
+
+So Mrs. Fosdick's welcome was whole-handed if not whole-hearted. And her
+husband's also was cordial and intimate. The only member of the Fosdick
+household who did not regard the guest with favor was Googoo. That
+aristocratic bull-pup was still irreconcilably hostile. When Albert
+attempted to pet him he appeared to be planning to devour the caressing
+hand, and when rebuked by his mistress retired beneath a davenport,
+growling ominously. Even when ignominiously expelled from the room he
+growled and cast longing backward glances at the Speranza ankles. No,
+Googoo did not dissemble; Albert was perfectly sure of his standing in
+Googoo's estimation.
+
+Dinner that evening was a trifle more formal than he had expected, and
+he was obliged to apologize for the limitations of his wardrobe. His
+dress suit of former days he had found much too dilapidated for use.
+Besides, he had outgrown it.
+
+“I thought I was thinner,” he said, “and I think I am. But I must have
+broadened a bit. At any rate, all the coats I left behind won't do at
+all. I shall have to do what Captain Snow, my grandfather, calls 'refit'
+here in New York. In a day or two I hope to be more presentable.”
+
+Mrs. Fosdick assured him that it was quite all right, really. Madeline
+asked why he didn't wear his uniform. “I was dying to see you in it,”
+ she said. “Just think, I never have.”
+
+Albert laughed. “You have been spared,” he told her. “Mine was not a
+triumph, so far as fit was concerned. Of course, I had a complete new
+rig when I came out of the hospital, but even that was not beautiful.
+It puckered where it should have bulged and bulged where it should have
+been smooth.”
+
+Madeline professed not to believe him.
+
+“Nonsense!” she declared. “I don't believe it. Why, almost all the
+fellows I know have been in uniform for the past two years and theirs
+fitted beautifully.”
+
+“But they were officers, weren't they, and their uniforms were custom
+made.”
+
+“Why, I suppose so. Aren't all uniforms custom made?”
+
+Her father laughed. “Scarcely, Maddie,” he said. “The privates have
+their custom-made by the mile and cut off in chunks for the individual.
+That was about it, wasn't it, Speranza?”
+
+“Just about, sir.”
+
+Mrs. Fosdick evidently thought that the conversation was taking a rather
+low tone. She elevated it by asking what his thoughts were when taken
+prisoner by the Germans. He looked puzzled.
+
+“Thoughts, Mrs. Fosdick?” he repeated. “I don't know that I understand,
+exactly. I was only partly conscious and in a good deal of pain and my
+thoughts were rather incoherent, I'm afraid.”
+
+“But when you regained consciousness, you know. What were your thoughts
+then? Did you realize that you had made the great sacrifice for your
+country? Risked your life and forfeited your liberty and all that for
+the cause? Wasn't it a great satisfaction to feel that you had done
+that?”
+
+Albert's laugh was hearty and unaffected. “Why, no,” he said. “I think
+what I was realizing most just then was that I had made a miserable mess
+of the whole business. Failed in doing what I set out to do and been
+taken prisoner besides. I remember thinking, when I was clear-headed
+enough to think anything, 'You fool, you spent months getting into this
+war, and then got yourself out of it in fifteen minutes.' And it WAS a
+silly trick, too.”
+
+Madeline was horrified.
+
+“What DO you mean?” she cried. “Your going back there to rescue your
+comrade a silly trick! The very thing that won you your Croix de
+Guerre?”
+
+“Why, yes, in a way. I didn't save Mike, poor fellow--”
+
+“Mike! Was his name Mike?”
+
+“Yes; Michael Francis Xavier Kelly. A South Boston Mick he was, and one
+of the finest, squarest boys that ever drew breath. Well, poor Mike was
+dead when I got to him, so my trip had been for nothing, and if he had
+been alive I could not have prevented his being taken. As it was, he
+was dead and I was a prisoner. So nothing was gained and, for me,
+personally, a good deal was lost. It wasn't a brilliant thing to do.
+But,” he added apologetically, “a chap doesn't have time to think
+collectively in such a scrape. And it was my first real scrap and I was
+frightened half to death, besides.”
+
+“Frightened! Why, I never heard anything so ridiculous! What--”
+
+“One moment, Madeline.” It was Mrs. Fosdick who interrupted. “I want
+to ask--er--Albert a question. I want to ask him if during his long
+imprisonment he composed--wrote, you know. I should have thought the
+sights and experiences would have forced one to express one's self--that
+is, one to whom the gift of expression was so generously granted,” she
+added, with a gracious nod.
+
+Albert hesitated.
+
+“Why, at first I did,” he said. “When I first was well enough to think,
+I used to try to write--verses. I wrote a good many. Afterwards I tore
+them up.”
+
+“Tore them up!” Both Mrs. and Miss Fosdick uttered this exclamation.
+
+“Why, yes. You see, they were such rot. The things I wanted to write
+about, the things _I_ had seen and was seeing, the--the fellows like
+Mike and their pluck and all that--well, it was all too big for me
+to tackle. My jingles sounded, when I read them over, like tunes on a
+street piano. _I_ couldn't do it. A genius might have been equal to the
+job, but I wasn't.”
+
+Mrs. Fosdick glanced at her husband. There was something of alarmed
+apprehension in the glance. Madeline's next remark covered the
+situation. It expressed the absolute truth, so much more of the truth
+than even the young lady herself realized at the time.
+
+“Why, Albert Speranza,” she exclaimed, “I never heard you speak of
+yourself and your work in that way before. Always--ALWAYS you have had
+such complete, such splendid confidence in yourself. You were never
+afraid to attempt ANYTHING. You MUST not talk so. Don't you intend to
+write any more?”
+
+Albert looked at her. “Oh, yes, indeed,” he said simply. “That is just
+what I do intend to do--or try to do.”
+
+That evening, alone in the library, he and Madeline had their first
+long, intimate talk, the first since those days--to him they seemed as
+far away as the last century--when they walked the South Harniss beach
+together, walked beneath the rainbows and dreamed. And now here was
+their dream coming true.
+
+Madeline, he was realizing it as he looked at her, was prettier than
+ever. She had grown a little older, of course, a little more mature, but
+surprisingly little. She was still a girl, a very, very pretty girl and
+a charming girl. And he--
+
+“What are you thinking about?” she demanded suddenly.
+
+He came to himself. “I was thinking about you,” he said. “You are just
+as you used to be, just as charming and just as sweet. You haven't
+changed.”
+
+She smiled and then pouted.
+
+“I don't know whether to like that or not,” she said. “Did you expect to
+find me less--charming and the rest?”
+
+“Why, no, of course not. That was clumsy on my part. What I meant was
+that--well, it seems ages, centuries, since we were together there on
+the Cape--and yet you have not changed.”
+
+She regarded him reflectively.
+
+“You have,” she said.
+
+“Have what?”
+
+“Changed. You have changed a good deal. I don't know whether I like it
+or not. Perhaps I shall be more certain by and by. Now show me your war
+cross. At least you have brought that, even if you haven't brought your
+uniform.”
+
+He had the cross in his pocket-book and he showed it to her. She
+enthused over it, of course, and wished he might wear it even when in
+citizen's clothes. She didn't see why he couldn't. And it was SUCH
+a pity he could not be in uniform. Captain Blanchard had called
+the evening before, to see Mother about some war charities she was
+interested in, and he was still in uniform and wearing his decorations,
+too. Albert suggested that probably Blanchard was still in service.
+Yes, she believed he was, but she could not see why that should make the
+difference. Albert had BEEN in service.
+
+He laughed at this and attempted to explain. She seemed to resent the
+attempt or the tone.
+
+“I do wish,” she said almost pettishly, “that you wouldn't be so
+superior.”
+
+He was surprised. “Superior!” he repeated. “Superior! I? Superiority is
+the very least of my feelings. I--superior! That's a joke.”
+
+And, oddly enough, she resented that even more. “Why is it a joke?” she
+demanded. “I should think you had the right to feel superior to almost
+any one. A hero--and a genius! You ARE superior.”
+
+However, the little flurry was but momentary, and she was all sweetness
+and smiles when she kissed him good night. He was shown to his room by
+a servant and amid its array of comforts--to him, fresh from France
+and the camp and his old room at South Harniss, it was luxuriously
+magnificent--he sat for some time thinking. His thoughts should have
+been happy ones, yet they were not entirely so. This is a curiously
+unsatisfactory world, sometimes.
+
+The next day he went shopping. Fosdick had given him a card to his own
+tailor and Madeline had given him the names of several shops where, so
+she declared, he could buy the right sort of ties and things. From the
+tailor's Albert emerged looking a trifle dazed; after a visit to two of
+the shops the dazed expression was even more pronounced. His next
+visits were at establishments farther downtown and not as exclusive.
+He returned to the Fosdick home feeling fairly well satisfied with the
+results achieved. Madeline, however, did not share his satisfaction.
+
+“But Dad sent you to his tailor,” she said. “Why in the world didn't you
+order your evening clothes there? And Brett has the most stunning ties.
+Every one says so. Instead you buy yours at a department store. Now
+why?”
+
+He smiled. “My dear girl,” he said, “your father's tailor estimated
+that he might make me a very passable dress suit for one hundred and
+seventy-five dollars. Brett's ties were stunning, just as you say, but
+the prices ranged from five to eight dollars, which was more stunning
+still. For a young person from the country out of a job, which is my
+condition at present, such things may be looked at but not handled. I
+can't afford them.”
+
+She tossed her head. “What nonsense!” she exclaimed. “You're not out of
+a job, as you call it. You are a writer and a famous writer. You have
+written one book and you are going to write more. Besides, you must have
+made heaps of money from The Lances. Every one has been reading it.”
+
+When he told her the amount of his royalty check she expressed the
+opinion that the publisher must have cheated. It ought to have been ever
+and ever so much more than that. Such wonderful poems!
+
+The next day she went to Brett's and purchased a half dozen of the most
+expensive ties, which she presented to him forthwith.
+
+“There!” she demanded. “Aren't those nicer than the ones you bought at
+that old department store? Well, then!”
+
+“But, Madeline, I must not let you buy my ties.”
+
+“Why not? It isn't such an unheard-of thing for an engaged girl to give
+her fiance a necktie.”
+
+“That isn't the idea. I should have bought ties like those myself, but I
+couldn't afford them. Now for you to--”
+
+“Nonsense! You talk as if you were a beggar. Don't be so silly.”
+
+“But, Madeline--”
+
+“Stop! I don't want to hear it.”
+
+She rose and went out of the room. She looked as if she were on the
+verge of tears. He felt obliged to accept the gift, but he disliked the
+principle of the things as much as ever. When she returned she was very
+talkative and gay and chatted all through luncheon. The subject of the
+ties was not mentioned again by either of them. He was glad he had not
+told her that his new dress suit was ready-made.
+
+While in France, awaiting his return home, he had purchased a ring
+and sent it to her. She was wearing it, of course. Compared with other
+articles of jewelry which she wore from time to time, his ring made an
+extremely modest showing. She seemed quite unaware of the discrepancy,
+but he was aware of it.
+
+On an evening later in the week Mrs. Fosdick gave a reception. “Quite
+an informal affair,” she said, in announcing her intention. “Just a few
+intimate friends to meet Mr. Speranza, that is all. Mostly lovers of
+literature--discerning people, if I may say so.”
+
+The quite informal affair looked quite formidably formal to Albert. The
+few intimate friends were many, so it seemed to him. There was still
+enough of the former Albert Speranza left in his make-up to prevent
+his appearing in the least distressed or ill at ease. He was, as he
+had always been when in the public eye, even as far back as the school
+dancing-classes with the Misses Bradshaw's young ladies, perfectly
+self-possessed, charmingly polite, absolutely self-assured. And his good
+looks had not suffered during his years of imprisonment and suffering.
+He was no longer a handsome boy, but he was an extraordinarily
+attractive and distinguished man.
+
+Mrs. Fosdick marked his manner and appearance and breathed a sigh of
+satisfaction. Madeline noted them. Her young friends of the sex noted
+them and whispered and looked approval. What the young men thought does
+not matter so much, perhaps. One of these was the Captain Blanchard, of
+whom Madeline had written and spoken. He was a tall, athletic chap,
+who looked well in his uniform, and whose face was that of a healthy,
+clean-living and clean-thinking young American. He and Albert shook
+hands and looked each other over. Albert decided he should like
+Blanchard if he knew him better. The captain was not talkative; in fact,
+he seemed rather taciturn. Maids and matrons gushed when presented to
+the lion of the evening. It scarcely seemed possible that they were
+actually meeting the author of The Lances of Dawn. That wonderful book!
+Those wonderful poems! “How CAN you write them, Mr. Speranza?” “When do
+your best inspirations come, Mr. Speranza?” “Oh, if I could write as
+you do I should walk on air.” The matron who breathed the last-quoted
+ecstasy was distinctly weighty; the mental picture of her pedestrian
+trip through the atmosphere was interesting. Albert's hand was patted by
+the elderly spinsters, young women's eyes lifted soulful glances to his.
+
+It was the sort of thing he would have revelled in three or four years
+earlier. Exactly the sort of thing he had dreamed of when the majority
+of the poems they gushed over were written. It was much the same thing
+he remembered having seen his father undergo in the days when he and
+the opera singer were together. And his father had, apparently, rather
+enjoyed it. He realized all this--and he realized, too, with a queer
+feeling that it should be so, that he did not like it at all. It was
+silly. Nothing he had written warranted such extravagances. Hadn't these
+people any sense of proportion? They bored him to desperation. The sole
+relief was the behavior of the men, particularly the middle-aged or
+elderly men, obviously present through feminine compulsion. They seized
+his hand, moved it up and down with a pumping motion, uttered some
+stereotyped prevarications about their pleasure at meeting him and their
+having enjoyed his poems very much, and then slid on in the direction of
+the refreshment room.
+
+And Albert, as he shook hands, bowed and smiled and was charmingly
+affable, found his thoughts wandering until they settled upon Private
+Mike Kelly and the picturesque language of the latter when he, as
+sergeant, routed him out for guard duty. Mike had not gushed over him
+nor called him a genius. He had called him many things, but not that.
+
+He was glad indeed when he could slip away for a dance with Madeline. He
+found her chatting gaily with Captain Blanchard, who had been her most
+recent partner. He claimed her from the captain and as he led her out to
+the dance floor she whispered that she was very proud of him. “But I DO
+wish YOU could wear your war cross,” she added.
+
+The quite informal affair was the first of many quite as informally
+formal. Also Mrs. Fosdick's satellites and friends of the literary clubs
+and the war work societies seized the opportunity to make much of the
+heroic author of The Lances of Dawn. His society was requested at teas,
+at afternoon as well as evening gatherings. He would have refused most
+of these invitations, but Madeline and her mother seemed to take his
+acceptance for granted; in fact, they accepted for him. A ghastly
+habit developed of asking him to read a few of his own poems on these
+occasions. “PLEASE, Mr. Speranza. It will be such a treat, and such an
+HONOR.” Usually a particular request was made that he read “The Greater
+Love.” Now “The Greater Love” was the poem which, written in those
+rapturous days when he and Madeline first became aware of their mutual
+adoration, was refused by one editor as a “trifle too syrupy.” To read
+that sticky effusion over and over again became a torment. There were
+occasions when if a man had referred to “The Greater Love,” its author
+might have howled profanely and offered bodily violence. But no men ever
+did refer to “The Greater Love.”
+
+On one occasion when a sentimental matron and her gushing daughter had
+begged to know if he did not himself adore that poem, if he did not
+consider it the best he had ever written, he had answered frankly.
+He was satiated with cake and tea and compliments that evening and
+recklessly truthful. “You really wish to know my opinion of that poem?”
+ he asked. Indeed and indeed they really wished to knew just that thing.
+“Well, then, I think it's rot,” he declared. “I loathe it.”
+
+Of course mother and daughter were indignant. Their comments reached
+Madeline's ear. She took him to task.
+
+“But why did you say it?” she demanded. “You know you don't mean it.”
+
+“Yes, I do mean it. It IS rot. Lots of the stuff in that book of mine
+is rot. I did not think so once, but I do now. If I had the book to make
+over again, that sort wouldn't be included.”
+
+She looked at him for a moment as if studying a problem.
+
+“I don't understand you sometimes,” she said slowly. “You are different.
+And I think what you said to Mrs. Bacon and Marian was very rude.”
+
+Later when he went to look for her he found her seated with Captain
+Blanchard in a corner. They were eating ices and, apparently, enjoying
+themselves. He did not disturb them. Instead he hunted up the offended
+Bacons and apologized for his outbreak. The apology, although graciously
+accepted, had rather wearisome consequences. Mrs. Bacon declared she
+knew that he had not really meant what he said.
+
+“I realize how it must be,” she declared. “You people of temperament,
+of genius, of aspirations, are never quite satisfied, you cannot be. You
+are always trying, always seeking the higher attainment. Achievements of
+the past, though to the rest of us wonderful and sublime, are to you--as
+you say, 'rot.' That is it, is it not?” Albert said he guessed it was,
+and wandered away, seeking seclusion and solitude. When the affair broke
+up he found Madeline and Blanchard still enjoying each other's society.
+Both were surprised when told the hour.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+
+So the first three weeks of his proposed month's visit passed and the
+fourth began. And more and more his feelings of dissatisfaction and
+uneasiness increased. The reasons for those feelings he found hard to
+define. The Fosdicks were most certainly doing their best to make him
+comfortable and happy. They were kind--yes, more than kind. Mr.
+Fosdick he really began to like. Mrs. Fosdick's manner had a trace of
+condescension in it, but as the lady treated all creation with much the
+same measure of condescension, he was more amused than resentful. And
+Madeline--Madeline was sweet and charming and beautiful. There was in
+her manner toward him, or so he fancied, a slight change, perhaps a
+change a trifle more marked since the evening when his expressed opinion
+of “The Greater Love” had offended her and the Bacons. It seemed to
+him that she was more impatient, more capricious, sometimes almost
+overwhelming him with attention and tenderness and then appearing to
+forget him entirely and to be quite indifferent to his thoughts and
+opinions. Her moods varied greatly and there were occasions when he
+found it almost impossible to please her. At these times she took
+offense when no offense was intended and he found himself apologizing
+when, to say the least, the fault, if there was any, was not more than
+half his. But she always followed those moods with others of contrition
+and penitence and then he was petted and fondled and his forgiveness
+implored.
+
+These slight changes in her he noticed, but they troubled him little,
+principally because he was coming to realize the great change in
+himself. More and more that change was forcing itself upon him. The
+stories and novels he had read during the first years of the war,
+the stories by English writers in which young men, frivolous and
+inconsequential, had enlisted and fought and emerged from the ordeal
+strong, purposeful and “made-over”--those stories recurred to him now.
+He had paid little attention to the “making-over” idea when he read
+those tales, but now he was forced to believe there might be something
+in it. Certainly something, the three years or the discipline and
+training and suffering, or all combined, had changed him. He was not as
+he used to be. Things he liked very much he no longer liked at all. And
+where, oh where, was the serene self-satisfaction which once was his?
+
+The change must be quite individual, he decided. All soldiers were not
+so affected. Take Blanchard, for instance. Blanchard had seen service,
+more and quite as hard fighting as he had seen, but Blanchard was, to
+all appearances, as light-hearted and serene and confident as ever.
+Blanchard was like Madeline; he was much the same now as he had been
+before the war. Blanchard could dance and talk small talk and laugh and
+enjoy himself. Well, so could he, on occasions, for that matter, if that
+had been all. But it was not all, or if it was why was he at other times
+so discontented and uncomfortable? What was the matter with him, anyway?
+
+He drew more and more into his shell and became more quiet and less
+talkative. Madeline, in one of her moods, reproached him for it.
+
+“I do wish you wouldn't be grumpy,” she said.
+
+They had been sitting in the library and he had lapsed into a fit of
+musing, answering her questions with absentminded monosyllables. Now he
+looked up.
+
+“Grumpy?” he repeated. “Was I grumpy? I beg your pardon.”
+
+“You should. You answered every word I spoke to you with a grunt or a
+growl. I might as well have been talking to a bear.”
+
+“I'm awfully sorry, dear. I didn't feel grumpy. I was thinking, I
+suppose.”
+
+“Thinking! You are always thinking. Why think, pray? . . . If I
+permitted myself to think, I should go insane.”
+
+“Madeline, what do you mean?”
+
+“Oh, nothing. I'm partially insane now, perhaps. Come, let's go to the
+piano. I feel like playing. You don't mind, do you?”
+
+That evening Mrs. Fosdick made a suggestion to her husband.
+
+“Fletcher,” she said, “I am inclined to think it is time you and Albert
+had a talk concerning the future. A business talk, I mean. I am a little
+uneasy about him. From some things he has said to me recently I gather
+that he is planning to earn his living with his pen.”
+
+“Well, how else did you expect him to earn it; as bookkeeper for the
+South Harniss lumber concern?”
+
+“Don't be absurd. What I mean is that he is thinking of devoting himself
+to literature exclusively. Don't interrupt me, please. That is very
+beautiful and very idealistic, and I honor him for it, but I cannot see
+Madeline as an attic poet's wife, can you?”
+
+“I can't, and I told you so in the beginning.”
+
+“No. Therefore I should take him to one side and tell him of the opening
+in your firm. With that as a means of keeping his feet on the ground his
+brain may soar as it likes, the higher the better.”
+
+Mr. Fosdick, as usual, obeyed orders and that afternoon Albert and he
+had the “business talk.” Conversation at dinner was somewhat strained.
+Mr. Fosdick was quietly observant and seemed rather amused about
+something. His wife was dignified and her manner toward her guest was
+inclined to be abrupt. Albert's appetite was poor. As for Madeline, she
+did not come down to dinner, having a headache.
+
+She came down later, however. Albert, alone in the library, was sitting,
+a book upon his knees and his eyes fixed upon nothing in particular,
+when she came in.
+
+“You are thinking again, I see,” she said.
+
+He had not heard her enter. Now he rose, the book falling to the floor.
+
+“Why--why, yes,” he stammered. “How are you feeling? How is your head?”
+
+“It is no worse. And no better. I have been thinking, too, which perhaps
+explains it. Sit down, Albert, please. I want to talk with you. That is
+what I have been thinking about, that you and I must talk.”
+
+She seated herself upon the davenport and he pulled forward a chair
+and sat facing her. For a moment she was silent. When she did speak,
+however, her question was very much to the point.
+
+“Why did you say 'No' to Father's offer?” she asked. He had been
+expecting this very question, or one leading up to it. Nevertheless,
+he found answering difficult. He hesitated, and she watched him, her
+impatience growing.
+
+“Well?” she asked.
+
+He sighed. “Madeline,” he said, “I am afraid you think me very
+unreasonable, certainly very ungrateful.”
+
+“I don't know what to think about you. That is why I feel we must
+have this talk. Tell me, please, just what Father said to you this
+afternoon.”
+
+“He said--well, the substance of what he said was to offer me a position
+in his office, in his firm.”
+
+“What sort of a position?”
+
+“Well, I--I scarcely know. I was to have a desk there and--and be
+generally--ornamental, I suppose. It was not very definite, the details
+of the position, but--”
+
+“The salary was good, wasn't it?”
+
+“Yes; more than good. Much too good for the return I could make for it,
+so it seemed to me.”
+
+“And your prospects for the future? Wasn't the offer what people call a
+good opportunity?”
+
+“Why, yes, I suppose it was. For the right sort of man it would have
+been a wonderful opportunity. Your father was most kind, most generous,
+Madeline. Please don't think I am not appreciative. I am, but--”
+
+“Don't. I want to understand it all. He offered you this opportunity,
+this partnership in his firm, and you would not accept it? Why? Don't
+you like my father?”
+
+“Yes, I like him very much.”
+
+“Didn't you,” with the slightest possible curl of the lip, “think the
+offer worthy of you? . . . Oh, I don't mean that! Please forgive me. I
+am trying not to be disagreeable. I--I just want to understand, Albert,
+that's all.”
+
+He nodded. “I know, Madeline,” he said. “You have the right to ask. It
+wasn't so much a question of the offer being worthy of me as of my being
+worthy the offer. Oh, Madeline, why should you and I pretend? You know
+why Mr. Fosdick made me that offer. It wasn't because I was likely to be
+worth ten dollars a year to his firm. In Heaven's name, what use would I
+be in a stockbroker's office, with my make-up, with my lack of business
+ability? He would be making a place for me there and paying me a high
+salary for one reason only, and you know what that is. Now don't you?”
+
+She hesitated now, but only for an instant. She colored a little, but
+she answered bravely.
+
+“I suppose I do,” she said, “but what of it? It is not unheard of, is
+it, the taking one's prospective son-in-law into partnership?”
+
+“No, but--We're dodging the issue again, Madeline. If I were likely
+to be of any help to your father's business, instead of a hindrance, I
+might perhaps see it differently. As it is, I couldn't accept unless I
+were willing to be an object of charity.”
+
+“Did you tell Father that?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“What did he say?”
+
+“He said a good deal. He was frank enough to say that he did not expect
+me to be of great assistance to the firm. But I might be of SOME use--he
+didn't put it as baldly as that, of course--and at all times I could
+keep on with my writing, with my poetry, you know. The brokerage
+business should not interfere with my poetry, he said; your mother would
+scalp him if it did that.”
+
+She smiled faintly. “That sounds like dad,” she commented.
+
+“Yes. Well, we talked and argued for some time on the subject. He asked
+me what, supposing I did not accept this offer of his, my plans for the
+future might be. I told him they were pretty unsettled as yet. I meant
+to write, of course. Not poetry altogether. I realized, I told him, that
+I was not a great poet, a poet of genius.”
+
+Madeline interrupted. Her eyes flashed.
+
+“Why do you say that?” she demanded. “I have heard you say it before.
+That is, recently. In the old days you were as sure as I that you were a
+real poet, or should be some day. You never doubted it. You used to tell
+me so and I loved to hear you.”
+
+Albert shook his head. “I was sure of so many things then,” he said. “I
+must have been an insufferable kid.”
+
+She stamped her foot. “It was less than three years ago that you said
+it,” she declared. “You are not so frightfully ancient now. . . . Well,
+go on, go on. How did it end, the talk with Father, I mean?”
+
+“I told him,” he continued, “that I meant to write and to earn my living
+by writing. I meant to try magazine work--stories, you know--and, soon,
+a novel. He asked if earning enough to support a wife on would not be
+a long job at that time. I said I was afraid it might, but that that
+seemed to me my particular game, nevertheless.”
+
+She interrupted again. “Did it occur to you to question whether or not
+that determination of yours was quite fair to me?” she asked.
+
+“Why--why, yes, it did. And I don't know that it IS exactly fair to you.
+I--”
+
+“Never mind. Go on. Tell me the rest. How did it end?”
+
+“Well, it ended in a sort of flare-up. Mr. Fosdick was just a little bit
+sarcastic, and I expressed my feelings rather freely--too freely, I'm
+afraid.”
+
+“Never mind. I want to know what you said.”
+
+“To be absolutely truthful, then, this is what I said: I said that I
+appreciated his kindness and was grateful for the offer. But my mind was
+made up. I would not live upon his charity and draw a large salary for
+doing nothing except be a little, damned tame house-poet led around in
+leash and exhibited at his wife's club meetings. . . . That was about
+all, I think. We shook hands at the end. He didn't seem to like me any
+the less for . . . Why, Madeline, have I offended you? My language was
+pretty strong, I know, but--”
+
+She had bowed her head upon her arms amid the sofa cushions and was
+crying. He sprang to his feet and bent over her.
+
+“Why, Madeline,” he said again, “I beg your pardon. I'm sorry--”
+
+“Oh, it isn't that,” she sobbed. “It isn't that. I don't care what you
+said.”
+
+“What is it, then?”
+
+She raised her head and looked at him.
+
+“It is you,” she cried. “It is myself. It is everything. It is all
+wrong. I--I was so happy and--and now I am miserable. Oh--oh, I wish I
+were dead!”
+
+She threw herself upon the cushions again and wept hysterically. He
+stood above her, stroking her hair, trying to soothe her, to comfort
+her, and all the time he felt like a brute, a heartless beast. At last
+she ceased crying, sat up and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.
+
+“There!” she exclaimed. “I will not be silly any longer. I won't be! I
+WON'T! . . . Now tell me: Why have you changed so?”
+
+He looked down at her and shook his head. He was conscience-stricken and
+fully as miserable as she professed to be.
+
+“I don't know,” he said. “I am older and--and--and I DON'T see things as
+I used to. If that book of mine had appeared three years ago I have no
+doubt I should have believed it to be the greatest thing ever printed.
+Now, when people tell me it is and I read what the reviewers said and
+all that, I--I DON'T believe, I KNOW it isn't great--that is, the most
+of it isn't. There is some pretty good stuff, of course, but--You see,
+I think it wasn't the poems themselves that made it sell; I think it was
+all the fool tommyrot the papers printed about me, about my being a hero
+and all that rubbish, when they thought I was dead, you know. That--”
+
+She interrupted. “Oh, don't!” she cried. “Don't! I don't care about
+the old book. I'm not thinking about that. I'm thinking about you. YOU
+aren't the same--the same toward me.”
+
+“Toward you, Madeline? I don't understand what you mean.”
+
+“Yes, you do. Of course you do. If you were the same as you used to be,
+you would let Father help you. We used to talk about that very thing
+and--and you didn't resent it then.”
+
+“Didn't I? Well, perhaps I didn't. But I think I remember our speaking
+sometimes of sacrificing everything for each other. We were to live in
+poverty, if necessary, and I was to write, you know, and--”
+
+“Stop! All that was nonsense, nonsense! you know it.”
+
+“Yes, I'm afraid it was.”
+
+“You know it was. And if you were as you used to be, if you--”
+
+“Madeline!”
+
+“What? Why did you interrupt me?”
+
+“Because I wanted to ask you a question. Do you think YOU are exactly
+the same--as you used to be?”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“Haven't YOU changed a little? Are you as sure as you were then--as sure
+of your feeling toward me?”
+
+She gazed at him, wide-eyed. “WHAT do you mean?”
+
+“I mean ARE you sure? It has seemed to me that perhaps--I was out of
+your life for a long time, you know, and during a good deal of that
+time it seemed certain that I had gone forever. I am not blaming you,
+goodness knows, but--Madeline, isn't there--Well, if I hadn't come back,
+mightn't there have been some one--else?”
+
+She turned pale.
+
+“What do--” she stammered, inarticulate. “Why, why--”
+
+“It was Captain Blanchard, wasn't it?”
+
+The color came back to her cheeks with a rush. She blushed furiously and
+sprang to her feet.
+
+“How--how can you say such things!” she cried. “What do you mean? How
+DARE you say Captain Blanchard took advantage of--How--how DARE you say
+I was not loyal to you? It is not true. It is not true. I was. I am.
+There hasn't been a word--a word between us since--since the news came
+that you were--I told him--I said--And he has been splendid! Splendid!
+And now you say--Oh, what AM I saying? What SHALL I do?”
+
+She collapsed once more among the cushions. He leaned forward.
+
+“My dear girl--” he began, but she broke in.
+
+“I HAVEN'T been disloyal,” she cried. “I have tried--Oh, I have tried so
+hard--”
+
+“Hush, Madeline, hush. I understand. I understand perfectly. It is all
+right, really it is.”
+
+“And I should have kept on trying always--always.”
+
+“Yes, dear, yes. But do you think a married life with so much trying in
+it likely to be a happy one? It is better to know it now, isn't it, a
+great deal better for both of us? Madeline, I am going to my room. I
+want you to think, to think over all this, and then we will talk
+again. I don't blame you. I don't, dear, really. I think I realize
+everything--all of it. Good night, dear.”
+
+He stooped and kissed her. She sobbed, but that was all. The next
+morning a servant came to his room with a parcel and a letter. The
+parcel was a tiny one. It was the ring he had given her, in its case.
+The letter was short and much blotted. It read:
+
+
+Dear Albert:
+
+I have thought and thought, as you told me to, and I have concluded that
+you were right. It IS best to know it now. Forgive me, please, PLEASE. I
+feel wicked and horrid and I HATE myself, but I think this is best. Oh,
+do forgive me. Good-by.
+
+MADELINE.
+
+
+His reply was longer. At its end he wrote:
+
+
+Of course I forgive you. In the first place there is nothing to forgive.
+The unforgivable thing would have been the sacrifice of your happiness
+and your future to a dream and a memory. I hope you will be very happy.
+I am sure you will be, for Blanchard is, I know, a fine fellow. The best
+of fortune to you both.
+
+
+The next forenoon he sat once more in the car of the morning train for
+Cape Cod, looking out of the window. He had made the journey from New
+York by the night boat and had boarded the Cape train at Middleboro. All
+the previous day, and in the evening as he tramped the cold wind-swept
+deck of the steamer, he had been trying to collect his thoughts, to
+readjust them to the new situation, to comprehend in its entirety the
+great change that had come in his life. The vague plans, the happy
+indefinite dreams, all the rainbows and roses had gone, shivered to bits
+like the reflection in a broken mirror. Madeline, his Madeline, was his
+no longer. Nor was he hers. In a way it seemed impossible.
+
+He tried to analyze his feelings. It seemed as if he should have been
+crushed, grief-stricken, broken. He was inclined to reproach himself
+because he was not. Of course there was a sadness about it, a regret
+that the wonder of those days of love and youth had passed. But the
+sorrow was not bitter, the regret was but a wistful longing, the sweet,
+lingering fragrance of a memory, that was all. Toward her, Madeline, he
+felt--and it surprised him, too, to find that he felt--not the slightest
+trace of resentment. And more surprising still he felt none toward
+Blanchard. He had meant what he said in his letter, he wished for them
+both the greatest happiness.
+
+And--there was no use attempting to shun the fact--his chief feeling,
+as he sat there by the car window looking out at the familiar landscape,
+was a great relief, a consciousness of escape from what might have
+been a miserable, crushing mistake for him and for her. And with this
+a growing sense of freedom, of buoyancy. It seemed wicked to feel like
+that. Then it came to him, the thought that Madeline, doubtless, was
+experiencing the same feeling. And he did not mind a bit; he hoped she
+was, bless her!
+
+A youthful cigar “drummer,” on his first Down-East trip, sat down beside
+him.
+
+“Kind of a flat, bare country, ain't it?” observed the drummer, with
+a jerk of his head toward the window. “Looks bleak enough to me. Know
+anything about this neck of the woods, do you?”
+
+Albert turned to look at him.
+
+“Meaning the Cape?” he asked.
+
+“Sure.”
+
+“Indeed I do. I know all about it.”
+
+“That so! Say, you sound as if you liked it.”
+
+Albert turned back to the window again.
+
+“Like it!” he repeated. “I love it.” Then he sighed, a sigh of
+satisfaction, and added: “You see, I BELONG here.”
+
+His grandparents and Rachel were surprised when he walked into the house
+that noon and announced that he hoped dinner was ready, because he was
+hungry. But their surprise was more than balanced by their joy. Captain
+Zelotes demanded to know how long he was going to stay.
+
+“As long as you'll have me, Grandfather,” was the answer.
+
+“Eh? Well, that would be a consider'ble spell, if you left it to us, but
+I cal'late that girl in New York will have somethin' to say as to time
+limit, won't she?”
+
+Albert smiled. “I'll tell you about that by and by,” he said.
+
+He did not tell them until that evening after supper. It was Friday
+evening and Olive was going to prayer-meeting, but she delayed “putting
+on her things” to hear the tale. The news that the engagement was off
+and that her grandson was not, after all, to wed the daughter of the
+Honorable Fletcher Fosdick, shocked and grieved her not a little.
+
+“Oh, dear!” she sighed. “I suppose you know what's best, Albert, and
+maybe, as you say, you wouldn't have been happy, but I DID feel sort of
+proud to think my boy was goin' to marry a millionaire's daughter.”
+
+Captain Zelotes made no comment--then. He asked to be told more
+particulars. Albert described the life at the Fosdick home, the
+receptions, his enforced exhibitions and readings. At length the recital
+reached the point of the interview in Fosdick's office.
+
+“So he offered you to take you into the firm--eh, son?” he observed.
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Humph! Fosdick, Williamson and Hendricks are one of the biggest
+brokerage houses goin', so a good many New Yorkers have told me.”
+
+“No doubt. But, Grandfather, you've had some experience with me as a
+business man; how do you think I would fit into a firm of stockbrokers?”
+
+Captain Lote's eye twinkled, but he did not answer the question. Instead
+he asked:
+
+“Just what did you give Fosdick as your reason for not sayin' yes?”
+
+Albert laughed. “Well, Grandfather,” he said, “I'll tell you. I said
+that I appreciated his kindness and all that, but that I would not
+draw a big salary for doing nothing except to be a little, damned
+tame house-poet led around in leash and shown off at his wife's club
+meetings.”
+
+Mrs. Snow uttered a faint scream. “Oh, Albert!” she exclaimed. She might
+have said more, but a shout from her husband prevented her doing so.
+
+Captain Zelotes had risen and his mighty hand descended with a stinging
+slap upon his grandson's shoulder.
+
+“Bully for you, boy!” he cried. Then, turning to Olive, he added,
+“Mother, I've always kind of cal'lated that you had one man around this
+house. Now, by the Lord A'Mighty, I know you've got TWO!”
+
+Olive rose. “Well,” she declared emphatically, “that may be; but if both
+those men are goin' to start in swearin' right here in the sittin' room,
+I think it's high time SOMEBODY in that family went to church.”
+
+So to prayer meeting she went, with Mrs. Ellis as escort, and her
+husband and grandson, seated in armchairs before the sitting room stove,
+both smoking, talked and talked, of the past and of the future--not as
+man to boy, nor as grandparent to grandson, but for the first time as
+equals, without reservations, as man to man.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+
+The next morning Albert met old Mr. Kendall. After breakfast Captain
+Zelotes had gone, as usual, directly to the office. His grandson,
+however, had not accompanied him.
+
+“What are you cal'latin' to do this mornin', Al?” inquired the captain.
+
+“Oh, I don't know exactly, Grandfather. I'm going to look about the
+place a bit, write a letter to my publishers, and take a walk, I think.
+You will probably see me at the office pretty soon. I'll look in there
+by and by.”
+
+“Ain't goin' to write one or two of those five hundred dollar stories
+before dinner time, are you?”
+
+“I guess not, sir. I'm afraid they won't be written as quickly as all
+that.”
+
+Captain Lote shook his head. “Godfreys!” he exclaimed; “it ain't the
+writin' of 'em I'd worry about so much as the gettin' paid for 'em.
+You're sure that editor man ain't crazy, you say?”
+
+“I hope he isn't. He seemed sane enough when I saw him.”
+
+“Well, I don't know. It's live and learn, I suppose, but if anybody but
+you had told me that magazine folks paid as much as five hundred dollars
+a piece for yarns made up out of a feller's head without a word of truth
+in 'em, I'd--well, I should have told the feller that told me to go to
+a doctor right off and have HIS head examined. But--well, as 'tis I
+cal'late I'd better have my own looked at. So long, Al. Come in to the
+office if you get a chance.”
+
+He hurried out. Albert walked to the window and watched the sturdy
+figure swinging out of the yard. He wondered if, should he live to
+his grandfather's age, his step would be as firm and his shoulders as
+square.
+
+Olive laid a hand on his arm.
+
+“You don't mind his talkin' that way about your writin' those stories,
+do you, Albert?” she asked, a trace of anxiety in her tone. “He don't
+mean it, you know. He don't understand it--says he don't himself--but
+he's awful proud of you, just the same. Why, last night, after you and
+he had finished talkin' and he came up to bed--and the land knows what
+time of night or mornin' THAT was--he woke me out of a sound sleep to
+tell me about that New York magazine man givin' you a written order
+to write six stories for his magazine at five hundred dollars a piece.
+Zelotes couldn't seem to get over it. 'Think of it, Mother,' he kept
+sayin'. 'Think of it! Pretty nigh twice what I pay as good a man as
+Labe Keeler for keepin' books a whole year. And Al says he ought to do
+a story every forni't. I used to jaw his head off, tellin' him he was on
+the road to starvation and all that. Tut, tut, tut! Mother, I've waited
+a long time to say it, but it looks as if you married a fool.' . . .
+That's the way he talked, but he's a long ways from bein' a fool, your
+grandfather is, Albert.”
+
+Albert nodded. “No one knows that better than I,” he said, with
+emphasis.
+
+“There's one thing,” she went on, “that kind of troubled me. He said
+you was goin' to insist on payin' board here at home. Now you know this
+house is yours. And we love to--”
+
+He put his arm about her. “I know it, Grandmother,” he broke in,
+quickly. “But that is all settled. I am going to try to make my own
+living in my own way. I am going to write and see what I am really
+worth. I have my royalty money, you know, most of it, and I have this
+order for the series of stories. I can afford to pay for my keep and
+I shall. You see, as I told Grandfather last night, I don't propose to
+live on his charity any more than on Mr. Fosdick's.”
+
+She sighed.
+
+“So Zelotes said,” she admitted. “He told me no less than three times
+that you said it. It seemed to tickle him most to death, for some
+reason, and that's queer, too, for he's anything but stingy. But there,
+I suppose you can pay board if you want to, though who you'll pay it to
+is another thing. _I_ shan't take a cent from the only grandson I've got
+in the world.”
+
+It was while on his stroll down to the village that Albert met Mr.
+Kendall. The reverend gentleman was plodding along carrying a market
+basket from the end of which, beneath a fragment of newspaper, the tail
+and rear third of a huge codfish drooped. The basket and its contents
+must have weighed at least twelve pounds and the old minister was, as
+Captain Zelotes would have said, making heavy weather of it. Albert went
+to his assistance.
+
+“How do you do, Mr. Kendall,” he said; “I'm afraid that basket is rather
+heavy, isn't it. Mayn't I help you with it?” Then, seeing that the old
+gentleman did not recognize him, he added, “I am Albert Speranza.”
+
+Down went the basket and the codfish and Mr. Kendall seized him by both
+hands.
+
+“Why, of course, of course,” he cried. “Of course, of course. It's our
+young hero, isn't it. Our poet, our happy warrior. Yes,--yes, of course.
+So glad to see you, Albert. . . . Er . . . er . . . How is your mother?”
+
+“You mean my grandmother? She is very well, thank you.”
+
+“Yes--er--yes, your grandmother, of course. . . . Er . . . er. . . .
+Did you see my codfish? Isn't it a magnificent one. I am very fond of
+codfish and we almost never have it at home. So just now, I happened to
+be passing Jonathan Howes'--he is the--er--fishdealer, you know, and
+. . . Jonathan is a very regular attendant at my Sunday morning services.
+He is--is. . . . Dear me. . . . What was I about to say?”
+
+Being switched back to the main track by Albert he explained that he
+had seen a number of cod in Mr. Howes' possession and had bought this
+specimen. Howes had lent him the basket.
+
+“And the newspaper,” he explained; adding, with triumph, “I shall dine
+on codfish to-day, I am happy to say.” Judging by appearances he might
+dine and sup and breakfast on codfish and still have a supply remaining.
+Albert insisted on carrying the spoil to the parsonage. He was doing
+nothing in particular and it would be a pleasure, he said. Mr. Kendall
+protested for the first minute or so but then forgot just what the
+protest was all about and rambled garrulously on about affairs in the
+parish. He had failed in other faculties, but his flow of language was
+still unimpeded. They entered the gate of the parsonage. Albert put the
+basket on the upper step.
+
+“There,” he said; “now I must go. Good morning, Mr. Kendall.”
+
+“Oh, but you aren't going? You must come in a moment. I want to give you
+the manuscript of that sermon of mine on the casting down of Baal, that
+is the one in which I liken the military power of Germany to the brazen
+idol which. . . . Just a moment, Albert. The manuscript is in my desk
+and. . . . Oh, dear me, the door is locked. . . . Helen, Helen!”
+
+He was shaking the door and shouting his daughter's name. Albert was
+surprised and not a little disturbed. It had not occurred to him that
+Helen could be at home. It is true that before he left for New York his
+grandmother had said that she was planning to return home to be with her
+father, but since then he had heard nothing more concerning her. Neither
+of his grandparents had mentioned her name in their letters, nor since
+his arrival the day before had they mentioned it. And Mr. Kendall had
+not spoken of her during their walk together. Albert was troubled and
+taken aback. In one way he would have liked to meet Helen very much
+indeed. They had not met since before the war. But he did not, somehow,
+wish to meet her just then. He did not wish to meet anyone who would
+speak of Madeline, or ask embarrassing questions. He turned to go.
+
+“Another time, Mr. Kendall,” he said. “Good morning.”
+
+But he had gone only a few yards when the reverend gentleman was calling
+to him to return.
+
+“Albert! Albert!” called Mr. Kendall.
+
+He was obliged to turn back, he could do nothing else, and as he did so
+the door opened. It was Helen who opened it and she stood there upon
+the threshold and looked down at him. For a moment, a barely perceptible
+interval, she looked, then he heard her catch her breath quickly and saw
+her put one hand upon the door jamb as if for support. The next, and
+she was running down the steps, her hands outstretched and the light of
+welcome in her eyes.
+
+“Why, Albert Speranza!” she cried. “Why, ALBERT!”
+
+He seized her hands. “Helen!” he cried, and added involuntarily, “My,
+but it's good to see you again!”
+
+She laughed and so did he. All his embarrassment was gone. They were
+like two children, like the boy and girl who had known each other in the
+old days.
+
+“And when did you get here?” she asked. “And what do you mean by
+surprising us like this? I saw your grandfather yesterday morning and he
+didn't say a word about your coming.”
+
+“He didn't know I was coming. I didn't know it myself until the day
+before. And when did you come? Your father didn't tell me you were here.
+I didn't know until I heard him call your name.”
+
+He was calling it again. Calling it and demanding attention for his
+precious codfish.
+
+“Yes, Father, yes, in a minute,” she said. Then to Albert, “Come in.
+Oh, of course you'll come in.”
+
+“Why, yes, if I won't be interfering with the housekeeping.”
+
+“You won't. Yes, Father, yes, I'm coming. Mercy, where did you get such
+a wonderful fish? Come in, Albert. As soon as I get Father's treasure
+safe in the hands of Maria I'll be back. Father will keep you company.
+No, pardon me, I am afraid he won't, he's gone to the kitchen already.
+And I shall have to go, too, for just a minute. I'll hurry.”
+
+She hastened to the kitchen, whither Mr. Kendall, tugging the fish
+basket, had preceded her. Albert entered the little sitting-room and sat
+down in a chair by the window. The room looked just as it used to look,
+just as neat, just as homelike, just as well kept. And when she came
+back and they began to talk, it seemed to him that she, too, was just as
+she used to be. She was a trifle less girlish, more womanly perhaps, but
+she was just as good to look at, just as bright and cheerful and in her
+conversation she had the same quietly certain way of dealing directly
+with the common-sense realities and not the fuss and feathers. It seemed
+to him that she had not changed at all, that she herself was one of the
+realities, the wholesome home realities, like Captain Zelotes and Olive
+and the old house they lived in. He told her so. She laughed.
+
+“You make me feel as ancient as the pyramids,” she said.
+
+He shook his head. “I am the ancient,” he declared. “This war hasn't
+changed you a particle, Helen, but it has handed me an awful jolt. At
+times I feel as if I must have sailed with Noah. And as if I had wasted
+most of the time since.”
+
+She smiled. “Just what do you mean by that?” she asked.
+
+“I mean--well, I don't know exactly what I do mean, I guess. I seem
+to have an unsettled feeling. I'm not satisfied with myself. And as I
+remember myself,” he added, with a shrug, “that condition of mind was
+not usual with me.”
+
+She regarded him for a moment without speaking, with the appraising look
+in her eyes which he remembered so well, which had always reminded him
+of the look in his grandfather's eyes, and which when a boy he resented
+so strongly.
+
+“Yes,” she said slowly, “I think you have changed. Not because you say
+you feel so much older or because you are uneasy and dissatisfied. So
+many of the men I talked with at the camp hospital, the men who had been
+over there and had been wounded, as you were, said they felt the same
+way. That doesn't mean anything, I think, except that it is dreadfully
+hard to get readjusted again and settle down to everyday things. But
+it seems to me that you have changed in other ways. You are a little
+thinner, but broader, too, aren't you? And you do look older, especially
+about the eyes. And, of course--well, of course I think I do miss a
+little of the Albert Speranza I used to know, the young chap with the
+chip on his shoulder for all creation to knock off.”
+
+“Young jackass!”
+
+“Oh, no indeed. He had his good points. But there! we're wasting time
+and we have so much to talk about. You--why, what am I thinking of! I
+have neglected the most important thing in the world. And you have just
+returned from New York, too. Tell me, how is Madeline Fosdick?”
+
+“She is well. But tell me about yourself. You have been in all sorts of
+war work, haven't you. Tell me about it.”
+
+“Oh, my work didn't amount to much. At first I 'Red Crossed' in Boston,
+then I went to Devens and spent a long time in the camp hospital there.”
+
+“Pretty trying, wasn't it?”
+
+“Why--yes, some of it was. When the 'flu' epidemic was raging and the
+poor fellows were having such a dreadful time it was bad enough. After
+that I was sent to Eastview. In the hospital there I met the boys who
+had been wounded on the other side and who talked about old age and
+dissatisfaction and uneasiness, just as you do. But MY work doesn't
+count. You are the person to be talked about. Since I have seen you you
+have become a famous poet and a hero and--”
+
+“Don't!”
+
+She had been smiling; now she was very serious.
+
+“Forgive me, Albert,” she said. “We have been joking, you and I, but
+there was a time when we--when your friends did not joke. Oh, Albert,
+if you could have seen the Snow place as I saw it then. It was as if all
+the hope and joy and everything worth while had been crushed out of it.
+Your grandmother, poor little woman, was brave and quiet, but we
+all knew she was trying to keep up for Captain Zelotes' sake. And
+he--Albert, you can scarcely imagine how the news of your death changed
+him. . . . Ah! well, it was a hard time, a dreadful time for--for every
+one.”
+
+She paused and he, turning to look at her, saw that there were tears in
+her eyes. He knew of her affection for his grandparents and theirs for
+her. Before he could speak she was smiling again.
+
+“But now that is all over, isn't it?” she said. “And the Snows are
+the happiest people in the country, I do believe. AND the proudest, of
+course. So now you must tell me all about it, about your experiences,
+and about your war cross, and about your literary work--oh, about
+everything.”
+
+The all-inclusive narrative was not destined to get very far. Old Mr.
+Kendall came hurrying in, the sermon on the casting down of Baal in his
+hand. Thereafter he led, guided, and to a large extent monopolized the
+conversation. His discourse had proceeded perhaps as far as “Thirdly”
+ when Albert, looking at his watch, was surprised to find it almost
+dinner time. Mr. Kendall, still talking, departed to his study to hunt
+for another sermon. The young people said good-by in his absence.
+
+“It has been awfully good to see you again, Helen,” declared Albert.
+“But I told you that in the beginning, didn't I? You seem like--well,
+like a part of home, you know. And home means something to me nowadays.”
+
+“I'm glad to hear you speak of South Harniss as home. Of course I know
+you don't mean to make it a permanent home--I imagine Madeline would
+have something to say about that--but it is nice to have you speak as if
+the old town meant something to you.”
+
+He looked about him.
+
+“I love the place,” he said simply.
+
+“I am glad. So do I; but then I have lived here all my life. The next
+time we talk I want to know more about your plans for the future--yours
+and Madeline's, I mean. How proud she must be of you.”
+
+He looked up at her; she was standing upon the upper step and he on the
+walk below.
+
+“Madeline and I--” he began. Then he stopped. What was the use? He did
+not want to talk about it. He waved his hand and turned away.
+
+After dinner he went out into the kitchen to talk to Mrs. Ellis, who
+was washing dishes. She was doing it as she did all her share of the
+housework, with an energy and capability which would have delighted the
+soul of a “scientific management” expert. Except when under the spell of
+a sympathetic attack Rachel was ever distinctly on the job.
+
+And of course she was, as always, glad to see her protege, her Robert
+Penfold. The proprietary interest which she had always felt in him was
+more than ever hers now. Had not she been the sole person to hint at the
+possibility of his being alive, when every one else had given him up for
+dead? Had not she been the only one to suggest that he might have been
+taken prisoner? Had SHE ever despaired of seeing him again--on this
+earth and in the flesh? Indeed, she had not; at least, she had never
+admitted it, if she had. So then, hadn't she a RIGHT to feel that she
+owned a share in him? No one ventured to dispute that right.
+
+She turned and smiled over one ample shoulder when he entered the
+kitchen.
+
+“Hello,” she hailed cheerfully. “Come callin', have you, Robert--Albert,
+I mean? It would have been a great help to me if you'd been christened
+Robert. I call you that so much to myself it comes almost more natural
+than the other. On account of you bein' so just like Robert Penfold in
+the book, you know,” she added.
+
+“Yes, yes, of course, Rachel, I understand,” put in Albert hastily. He
+was not in the mood to listen to a dissertation on a text taken from
+Foul Play. He looked about the room and sighed happily.
+
+“There isn't a speck anywhere, is there?” he observed. “It is just as it
+used to be, just as I used to think of it when I was laid up over there.
+When I wanted to try and eat a bit, so as to keep what strength I had,
+I would think about this kitchen of yours, Rachel. It didn't do to
+think of the places where the prison stuff was cooked. They were
+not--appetizing.”
+
+Mrs. Ellis nodded. “I presume likely not,” she observed. “Well, don't
+tell me about 'em. I've just scrubbed this kitchen from stem to stern.
+If I heard about those prison places, I'd feel like startin' right in
+and scrubbin' it all over again, I know I should. . . . Dirty pigs! I
+wish I had the scourin' of some of those Germans! I'd--I don't know as I
+wouldn't skin 'em alive.”
+
+Albert laughed. “Some of them pretty nearly deserved it,” he said.
+
+Rachel smiled grimly. “Well, let's talk about nice things,” she said.
+“Oh, Issy Price was here this forenoon; Cap'n Lote sent him over from
+the office on an errand, and he said he saw you and Mr. Kendall goin'
+down street together just as he was comin' along. He hollered at you,
+but you didn't hear him. 'Cordin' to Issachar's tell, you was luggin' a
+basket with Jonah's whale in it, or somethin' like that.”
+
+Albert described his encounter with the minister. Rachel was much
+interested.
+
+“Oh, so you saw Helen,” she said. “Well, I guess she was surprised to
+see you.”
+
+“Not more than I was to see her. I didn't know she was in town. Not a
+soul had mentioned it--you nor Grandfather nor Grandmother.”
+
+The housekeeper answered without turning her head. “Guess we had so many
+things to talk about we forgot it,” she said. “Yes, she's been here over
+a week now. High time, from what I hear. The poor old parson has failed
+consider'ble and Maria Price's housekeepin' and cookin' is enough to
+make a well man sick--or wish he was. But he'll be looked after now.
+Helen will look after him. She's the most capable girl there is in
+Ostable County. Did she tell you about what she done in the Red Cross
+and the hospitals?”
+
+“She said something about it, not very much.”
+
+“Um-hm. She wouldn't, bein' Helen Kendall. But the Red Cross folks said
+enough, and they're sayin' it yet. Why--”
+
+She went on to tell of Helen's work in the Red Cross depots and in the
+camp, and hospitals. It was an inspiring story.
+
+“There they was,” said Rachel, “the poor things, just boys most of 'em,
+dyin' of that dreadful influenza like rats, as you might say. And, of
+course it's dreadful catchin', and a good many was more afraid of it
+than they would have been of bullets, enough sight. But Helen Kendall
+wa'n't afraid--no, siree! Why--”
+
+And so on. Albert listened, hearing most of it, but losing some as his
+thoughts wandered back to the Helen he had known as a boy and the Helen
+he had met that forenoon. Her face, as she had welcomed him at the
+parsonage door--it was surprising how clearly it showed before his
+mind's eye. He had thought at first that she had not changed in
+appearance. That was not quite true--she had changed a little, but it
+was merely the fulfillment of a promise, that was all. Her eyes, her
+smile above a hospital bed--he could imagine what they must have seemed
+like to a lonely, homesick boy wrestling with the “flu.”
+
+“And, don't talk!” he heard the housekeeper say, as he drifted out of
+his reverie, “if she wa'n't popular around that hospital, around both
+hospitals, fur's that goes! The patients idolized her, and the other
+nurses they loved her, and the doctors--”
+
+“Did they love her, too?” Albert asked, with a smile, as she hesitated.
+
+She laughed. “Some of 'em did, I cal'late,” she answered. “You see, I
+got most of my news about it all from Bessie Ryder, Cornelius Ryder's
+niece, lives up on the road to the Center; you used to know her, Albert.
+Bessie was nursin' in that same hospital, the one Helen was at first.
+'Cordin' to her, there was some doctor or officer tryin' to shine up to
+Helen most of the time. When she was at Eastview, so Bessie heard, there
+was a real big-bug in the Army, a sort of Admiral or Commodore amongst
+the doctors he was, and HE was trottin' after her, or would have been if
+she'd let him. 'Course you have to make some allowances for Bessie--she
+wouldn't be a Ryder if she didn't take so many words to say so little
+that the truth gets stretched pretty thin afore she finished--but there
+must have been SOMETHIN' in it. And all about her bein' such a wonderful
+nurse and doin' so much for the Red Cross I KNOW is true. . . . Eh? Did
+you say anything, Albert?”
+
+Albert shook his head. “No, Rachel,” he replied. “I didn't speak.”
+
+“I thought I heard you or somebody say somethin'. I--Why, Laban Keeler,
+what are you doin' away from your desk this time in the afternoon?”
+
+Laban grinned as he entered the kitchen.
+
+“Did I hear you say you thought you heard somebody sayin' somethin',
+Rachel?” he inquired. “That's queer, ain't it? Seemed to me _I_ heard
+somebody sayin' somethin' as I come up the path just now. Seemed as if
+they was sayin' it right here in the kitchen, too. 'Twasn't your
+voice, Albert, and it couldn't have been Rachel's, 'cause she NEVER
+talks--'specially to you. It's too bad, the prejudice she's got against
+you, Albert,” he added, with a wink. “Um-hm, too bad--yes, 'tis--yes,
+yes.”
+
+Mrs. Ellis sniffed.
+
+“And that's what the newspapers in war time used to call--er--er--oh,
+dear, what was it?--camel--seems's if 'twas somethin' about a camel--”
+
+“Camouflage?” suggested Albert.
+
+“That's it. All that talk about me is just camouflage to save him
+answerin' my question. But he's goin' to answer it. What are you doin'
+away from the office this time in the afternoon, I want to know?”
+
+Mr. Keeler perched his small figure on the corner of the kitchen table.
+
+“Well, to tell you the truth, Rachel,” he said solemnly. “I'm here to do
+what the folks in books call demand an explanation. You and I, Rachel,
+are just as good as engaged to be married, ain't we? I've been keepin'
+company with you for the last twenty, forty or sixty years, some such
+spell as that. Now, just as I'm gettin' used to it and beginnin' to
+consider it a settled arrangement, as you may say, I come into this
+house and find you shut up in the kitchen with another man. Now, what--”
+
+The housekeeper advanced toward him with the dripping dishcloth.
+
+“Laban Keeler,” she threatened, “if you don't stop your foolishness and
+answer my question, I declare I'll--”
+
+Laban slid from his perch and retired behind the table.
+
+“Another man,” he repeated. “And SOME folks--not many, of course, but
+some--might be crazy enough to say he was a better-lookin' man than
+I am. Now, bein' ragin' jealous,--All right, Rachel, all right, I
+surrender. Don't hit me with all those soapsuds. I don't want to go back
+to the office foamin' at the mouth. The reason I'm here is that I had to
+go down street to see about the sheathin' for the Red Men's lodge room.
+Issy took the order, but he wasn't real sure whether 'twas sheathin'
+or scantlin' they wanted, so I told Cap'n Lote I'd run down myself and
+straighten it out. On the way back I saw you two through the window and
+I thought I'd drop in and worry you. So here I am.”
+
+Mrs. Ellis nodded. “Yes,” she sniffed. “And all that camel--camel--Oh,
+DEAR, what DOES ail me? All that camel--No use, I've forgot it again.”
+
+“Never mind, Rachel,” said Mr. Keeler consolingly. “All
+the--er--menagerie was just that and nothin' more. Oh, by the way, Al,”
+ he added, “speakin' of camels--don't you think I've done pretty well to
+go so long without any--er--liquid nourishment? Not a drop since you and
+I enlisted together. . . . Oh, she knows about it now,” he added, with
+a jerk of his head in the housekeeper's direction. “I felt 'twas fairly
+safe and settled, so I told her. I told her. Yes, yes, yes. Um-hm, so I
+did.”
+
+Albert turned to the lady.
+
+“You should be very proud of him, Rachel,” he said seriously. “I think
+I realize a little something of the fight he has made, and it is bully.
+You should be proud of him.”
+
+Rachel looked down at the little man.
+
+“I am,” she said quietly. “I guess likely he knows it.”
+
+Laban smiled. “The folks in Washington are doin' their best to help me
+out,” he said. “They're goin' to take the stuff away from everybody so's
+to make sure _I_ don't get any more. They'll probably put up a monument
+to me for startin' the thing; don't you think they will, Al? Eh? Don't
+you, now?”
+
+Albert and he walked up the road together. Laban told a little more of
+his battle with John Barleycorn.
+
+“I had half a dozen spells when I had to set my teeth, those I've got
+left, and hang on,” he said. “And the hangin'-on wa'n't as easy as
+stickin' to fly-paper, neither. Honest, though, I think the hardest was
+when the news came that you was alive, Al. I--I just wanted to start in
+and celebrate. Wanted to whoop her up, I did.” He paused a moment and
+then added, “I tried whoopin' on sass'parilla and vanilla sody, but
+'twa'n't satisfactory. Couldn't seem to raise a real loud whisper, let
+alone a whoop. No, I couldn't--no, no.”
+
+Albert laughed and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You're all right,
+Labe,” he declared. “I know you, and I say so.”
+
+Laban slowly shook his head. His smile, as he answered, was rather
+pathetic.
+
+“I'm a long, long ways from bein' all right, Al,” he said. “A long ways
+from that, I am. If I'd made my fight thirty year ago, I might have been
+nigher to amountin' to somethin'. . . . Oh, well, for Rachel's sake
+I'm glad I've made it now. She's stuck to me when everybody would have
+praised her for chuckin' me to Tophet. I was readin' one of Thackeray's
+books t'other night--Henry Esmond, 'twas; you've read it, Al, of course;
+I was readin' it t'other night for the ninety-ninth time or thereabouts,
+and I run across the place where it says it's strange what a man can
+do and a woman still keep thinkin' he's an angel. That's true, too, Al.
+Not,” with the return of the slight smile, “that Rachel ever went so far
+as to call me an angel. No, no. There's limits where you can't stretch
+her common-sense any farther. Callin' me an angel would be just past the
+limit. Yes, yes, yes. I guess SO.”
+
+They spoke of Captain Zelotes and Olive and of their grief and
+discouragement when the news of Albert's supposed death reached them.
+
+“Do you know,” said Labe, “I believe Helen Kendall's comin' there for a
+week did 'em more good than anything else. She got away from her soldier
+nursin' somehow--must have been able to pull the strings consider'ble
+harder'n the average to do it--and just came down to the Snow place and
+sort of took charge along with Rachel. Course she didn't live there, her
+father thought she was visitin' him, I guess likely, but she was with
+Cap'n Lote and Olive most of the time. Rachel says she never made
+a fuss, you understand, just was there and helped and was quiet and
+soft-spoken and capable and--and comfortin', that's about the word, I
+guess. Rachel always thought a sight of Helen afore that, but since then
+she swears by her.”
+
+That evening--or, rather, that night, for they did not leave the sitting
+room until after twelve--Mrs. Snow heard her grandson walking the floor
+of his room, and called to ask if he was sick.
+
+“I'm all right, Grandmother,” he called in reply. “Just taking a little
+exercise before turning in, that's all. Sorry if I disturbed you.”
+
+The exercise was, as a matter of fact, almost entirely mental, the
+pacing up and down merely an unconscious physical accompaniment. Albert
+Speranza was indulging in introspection. He was reviewing and assorting
+his thoughts and his impulses and trying to determine just what they
+were and why they were and whither they were tending. It was a mental
+and spiritual picking to pieces and the result was humiliating and in
+its turn resulted in a brand-new determination.
+
+Ever since his meeting with Helen, a meeting which had been quite
+unpremeditated, he had thought of but little except her. During his talk
+with her in the parsonage sitting room he had been--there was no use
+pretending to himself that it was otherwise--more contented with the
+world, more optimistic, happier, than he had been for months, it seemed
+to him for years. Even while he was speaking to her of his uneasiness
+and dissatisfaction he was dimly conscious that at that moment he was
+less uneasy and less dissatisfied, conscious that the solid ground was
+beneath his feet at last, that here was the haven after the storm, here
+was--
+
+He pulled up sharply. This line of thought was silly, dangerous, wicked.
+What did it mean? Three days before, only three days, he had left
+Madeline Fosdick, the girl whom he had worshiped, adored, and who
+had loved him. Yes, there was no use pretending there, either; he and
+Madeline HAD loved each other. Of course he realized now that their
+love had nothing permanently substantial about it. It was the romance
+of youth, a dream which they had shared together and from which,
+fortunately for both, they had awakened in time. And of course he
+realized, too, that the awakening had begun long, long before the actual
+parting took place. But nevertheless only three days had elapsed since
+that parting, and now--What sort of a man was he?
+
+Was he like his father? Was it what Captain Zelotes used to call the
+“Portygee streak” which was now cropping out? The opera singer had been
+of the butterfly type--in his later years a middle-aged butterfly whose
+wings creaked somewhat--but decidedly a flitter from flower to flower.
+As a boy, Albert had been aware, in an uncertain fashion, of his
+father's fondness for the sex. Now, older, his judgment of his parent
+was not as lenient, was clearer, more discerning. He understood now. Was
+his own “Portygee streak,” his inherited temperament, responsible for
+his leaving one girl on a Tuesday and on Friday finding his thoughts
+concerned so deeply with another?
+
+Well, no matter, no matter. One thing was certain--Helen should
+never know of that feeling. He would crush it down, he would use his
+common-sense. He would be a decent man and not a blackguard. For he had
+had his chance and had tossed it away. What would she think of him now
+if he came to her after Madeline had thrown him over--that is what Mrs.
+Fosdick would say, would take pains that every one else should say, that
+Madeline had thrown him over--what would Helen think of him if he came
+to her with a second-hand love like that?
+
+And of course she would not think of him as a lover at all. Why should
+she? In the boy and girl days she had refused to let him speak of such a
+thing. She was his friend, a glorious, a wonderful friend, but that was
+all, all she ever dreamed of being.
+
+Well, that was right; that was as it should be. He should be thankful
+for such a friend. He was, of course. And he would concentrate all his
+energies upon his work, upon his writing. That was it, that was it.
+Good, it was settled!
+
+So he went to bed and, eventually, to sleep.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+
+While dressing in the cold light of dawn his perturbations of the
+previous night appeared in retrospect as rather boyish and unnecessary.
+His sudden and unexpected meeting with Helen and their talk together had
+tended to make him over-sentimental, that was all. He and she were to be
+friends, of course, but there was no real danger of his allowing himself
+to think of her except as a friend. No, indeed. He opened the bureau
+drawer in search of a tie, and there was the package of “snapshots” just
+where he had tossed them that night when he first returned home
+after muster-out. Helen's photograph was the uppermost. He looked at
+it--looked at it for several minutes. Then he closed the drawer again
+and hurriedly finished his dressing. A part, at least, of his resolve
+of the night before had been sound common-sense. His brain was suffering
+from lack of exercise. Work was what he needed, hard work.
+
+So to work he went without delay. A place to work in was the first
+consideration. He suggested the garret, but his grandmother and Rachel
+held up their hands and lifted their voices in protest.
+
+“No, INDEED,” declared Olive. “Zelotes has always talked about writin'
+folks and poets starvin' in garrets. If you went up attic to work he'd
+be teasin' me from mornin' to night. Besides, you'd freeze up there, if
+the smell of moth-balls didn't choke you first. No, you wait; I've got a
+notion. There's that old table desk of Zelotes' in the settin' room. He
+don't hardly ever use it nowadays. You take it upstairs to your own room
+and work in there. You can have the oil-heater to keep you warm.”
+
+So that was the arrangement made, and in his own room Albert sat down at
+the battered old desk, which had been not only his grandfather's but
+his great-grandfather's property, to concentrate upon the first of
+the series of stories ordered by the New York magazine. He had already
+decided upon the general scheme for the series. A boy, ragamuffin son
+of immigrant parents, rising, after a wrong start, by sheer grit and
+natural shrewdness and ability, step by step to competence and success,
+winning a place in and the respect of a community. There was nothing new
+in the idea itself. Some things his soldier chum Mike Kelley had told
+him concerning an uncle of his--Mike's--suggested it. The novelty he
+hoped might come from the incidents, the various problems faced by his
+hero, the solution of each being a step upward in the latter's career
+and in the formation of his character. He wanted to write, if he could,
+the story of the building of one more worth-while American, for Albert
+Speranza, like so many others set to thinking by the war and the war
+experiences, was realizing strongly that the gabbling of a formula and
+the swearing of an oath of naturalization did not necessarily make an
+American. There were too many eager to take that oath with tongue in
+cheek and knife in sleeve. Too many, for the first time in their
+lives breathing and speaking as free men, thanks to the protection of
+Columbia's arm, yet planning to stab their protectress in the back.
+
+So Albert's hero was to be an American, an American to whom the
+term meant the highest and the best. If he had hunted a lifetime for
+something to please and interest his grandfather he could not have hit
+the mark nearer the center. Cap'n Lote, of course, pretended a certain
+measure of indifference, but that was for Olive and Rachel's benefit. It
+would never do for the scoffer to become a convert openly and at once.
+The feminine members of the household clamored each evening to have the
+author read aloud his day's installment. The captain sniffed.
+
+“Oh, dear, dear,” with a groan, “now I've got to hear all that made-up
+stuff that happened to a parcel of made-up folks that never lived and
+never will. Waste of time, waste of time. Where's my Transcript?”
+
+But it was noticed--and commented upon, you may be sure--by his wife and
+housekeeper that the Transcript was likely to be, before the reading had
+progressed far, either in the captain's lap or on the floor. And when
+the discussion following the reading was under way Captain Zelotes'
+opinions were expressed quite as freely as any one's else. Laban Keeler
+got into the habit of dropping in to listen.
+
+One fateful evening the reading was interrupted by the arrival of
+Mr. Kendall. The reverend gentleman had come to make a pastoral call.
+Albert's hero was in the middle of a situation. The old clergyman
+insisted upon the continuation of the reading. It was continued and so
+was the discussion following it; in fact, the discussion seemed likely
+to go on indefinitely, for the visitor showed no inclination of leaving.
+At ten-thirty his daughter appeared to inquire about him and to
+escort him home. Then he went, but under protest. Albert walked to the
+parsonage with them.
+
+“Now we've started somethin',” groaned the captain, as the door closed.
+“That old critter'll be cruisin' over here six nights out of five
+from now on to tell Al just how to spin those yarns of his. And he'll
+talk--and talk--and talk. Ain't it astonishin' how such a feeble-lookin'
+craft as he is can keep blowin' off steam that way and still be able to
+navigate.”
+
+His wife took him to task. “The idea,” she protested, “of your callin'
+your own minister a 'critter'! I should think you'd be ashamed. . . .
+But, oh, dear, I'm afraid he WILL be over here an awful lot.”
+
+Her fears were realized. Mr. Kendall, although not on hand “six nights
+out of five,” as the captain prophesied, was a frequent visitor at
+the Snow place. As Albert's story-writing progressed the discussions
+concerning the growth and development of the hero's character became
+more and more involved and spirited. They were for the most part
+confined, when the minister was present, to him and Mrs. Snow and
+Rachel. Laban, if he happened to be there, sat well back in the corner,
+saying little except when appealed to, and then answering with one of
+his dry, characteristic observations. Captain Lote, in the rocker, his
+legs crossed, his hand stroking his beard, and with the twinkle in his
+eyes, listened, and spoke but seldom. Occasionally, when he and his
+grandson exchanged glances, the captain winked, indicating appreciation
+of the situation.
+
+“Say, Al,” he said, one evening, after the old clergyman had departed,
+“it must be kind of restful to have your work all laid out for you this
+way. Take it to-night, for instance; I don't see but what everything's
+planned for this young feller you're writin' about so you nor he won't
+have to think for yourselves for a hundred year or such matter. Course
+there's some little difference in the plans. Rachel wants him to get
+wrecked on an island or be put in jail, and Mother, she wants him to be
+a soldier and a poet, and Mr. Kendall thinks it's high time he joined
+the church or signed the pledge or stopped swearin' or chewin' gum.”
+
+“Zelotes, how ridiculous you do talk!”
+
+“All right, Mother, all right. What strikes me, Al, is they don't any of
+'em stop to ask you what YOU mean to have him do. Course I know 'tain't
+any of your business, but still--seems 's if you might be a little mite
+interested in the boy yourself.”
+
+Albert laughed. “Don't worry, Grandfather,” he said. “I'm enjoying it
+all very much. And some of the suggestions may be just what I'm looking
+for.”
+
+“Well, son, we'll hope so. Say, Labe, I've got a notion for keepin' the
+minister from doin' all the talkin.' We'll ask Issy Price to drop in;
+eh?”
+
+Laban shook his head. “I don't know, Cap'n Lote,” he observed. “Sounds
+to me a good deal like lettin' in a hurricane to blow out a match with.
+. . . Um-hm. Seems so to me. Yes, yes.”
+
+Mr. Kendall's calls would have been more frequent still had Helen not
+interfered. Very often, when he came she herself dropped in a little
+later and insisted upon his making an early start for home. Occasionally
+she came with him. She, too, seemed much interested in the progress of
+the stories, but she offered few suggestions. When directly appealed to,
+she expressed her views, and they were worth while.
+
+Albert was resolutely adhering to his determination not to permit
+himself to think of her except as a friend. That is, he hoped he was;
+thoughts are hard to control at times. He saw her often. They met on the
+street, at church on Sunday--his grandmother was so delighted when he
+accompanied her to “meeting” that he did so rather more frequently,
+perhaps, than he otherwise would--at the homes of acquaintances, and, of
+course, at the Snow place. When she walked home with her father after a
+“story evening” he usually went with them as additional escort.
+
+She had not questioned him concerning Madeline since their first meeting
+that morning at the parsonage. He knew, therefore, that some one--his
+grandmother, probably--had told her of the broken engagement. When
+they were alone together they talked of many things, casual things, the
+generalities of which, so he told himself, a conversation between mere
+friends was composed. But occasionally, after doing escort duty, after
+Mr. Kendall had gone into the house to take his “throat medicine”--a
+medicine which Captain Zelotes declared would have to be double-strength
+pretty soon to offset the wear and tear of the story evenings--they
+talked of matters more specific and which more directly concerned
+themselves. She spoke of her hospital work, of her teaching before the
+war, and of her plans for the future. The latter, of course, were very
+indefinite now.
+
+“Father needs me,” she said, “and I shall not leave him while he lives.”
+
+They spoke of Albert's work and plans most of all. He began to ask for
+advice concerning the former. When those stories were written, what
+then? She hoped he would try the novel he had hinted at.
+
+“I'm sure you can do it,” she said. “And you mustn't give up the poems
+altogether. It was the poetry, you know, which was the beginning.”
+
+“YOU were the beginning,” he said impulsively. “Perhaps I should
+never have written at all if you hadn't urged me, shamed me out of my
+laziness.”
+
+“I was a presuming young person, I'm afraid,” she said. “I wonder
+you didn't tell me to mind my own business. I believe you did, but I
+wouldn't mind.”
+
+June brought the summer weather and the summer boarders to South
+Harniss. One of the news sensations which came at the same time was that
+the new Fosdick cottage had been sold. The people who had occupied it
+the previous season had bought it. Mrs. Fosdick, so rumor said, was not
+strong and her doctors had decided that the sea air did not agree with
+her.
+
+“Crimustee!” exclaimed Issachar, as he imparted the news to Mr. Keeler,
+“if that ain't the worst. Spend your money, and a pile of money, too,
+buyin' ground, layin' of it out to build a house on to live in, then
+buildin' that house and then, by crimus, sellin' it to somebody else for
+THEM to live in. That beats any foolishness ever come MY way.”
+
+“And there's some consider'ble come your way at that, ain't they, Is?”
+ observed Laban, busy with his bookkeeping.
+
+Issachar nodded. “You're right there has,” he said complacently.
+“I . . . What do you mean by that? Tryin' to be funny again, ain't you?”
+
+Albert heard the news with a distinct feeling of relief. While the
+feeling on his part toward Madeline was of the kindliest, and Madeline's
+was, he felt sure, the same toward him, nevertheless to meet her
+day after day, as people must meet in a village no bigger than South
+Harniss, would be awkward for both. And to meet Mrs. Fosdick might be
+more awkward still. He smiled as he surmised that the realization by the
+lady of that very awkwardness was probably responsible for the discovery
+that sea air was not beneficial.
+
+The story-writing and the story evenings continued. Over the fourth
+story in the series discussion was warm, for there were marked
+differences of opinion among the listeners. One of the experiences
+through which Albert had brought his hero was that of working as general
+assistant to a sharp, unscrupulous and smooth-tongued rascal who was
+proprietor of a circus sideshow and fake museum. He was a kind-hearted
+swindler, but one who never let a question of honesty interfere with the
+getting of a dollar. In this fourth story, to the town where the hero,
+now a man of twenty-five, had established himself in business, came this
+cheat of other days, but now he came as a duly ordained clergyman in
+answer to the call of the local church. The hero learned that he had not
+told the governing body of that church of his former career. Had he done
+so, they most certainly would not have called him. The leading man in
+that church body was the hero's patron and kindest friend. The question:
+What was the hero's duty in the matter?
+
+Of course the first question asked was whether or not the ex-sideshow
+proprietor was sincerely repentant and honestly trying to walk the
+straight path and lead others along it. Albert replied that his hero had
+interviewed him and was satisfied that he was; he had been “converted”
+ at a revival and was now a religious enthusiast whose one idea was to
+save sinners.
+
+That was enough for Captain Zelotes.
+
+“Let him alone, then,” said the captain. “He's tryin' to be a decent
+man. What do you want to do? Tell on him and have him chucked overboard
+from one church after another until he gets discouraged and takes to
+swindlin' again?”
+
+Rachel Ellis could not see it that way.
+
+“If he was a saved sinner,” she declared, “and repentant of his sins,
+then he'd ought to repent 'em out loud. Hidin' 'em ain't repentin'. And,
+besides, there's Donald's (Donald was the hero's name) there's Donald's
+duty to the man that's been so good to him. Is it fair to that man to
+keep still and let him hire a minister that, like as not, will steal the
+collection, box and all, afore he gets through? No, sir, Donald ought to
+tell THAT man, anyhow.”
+
+Olive was pretty dubious about the whole scheme. She doubted if anybody
+connected with a circus COULD ever become a minister.
+
+“The whole--er--er--trade is so different,” she said.
+
+Mr. Kendall was not there that evening, his attendance being required at
+a meeting of the Sunday School teachers. Helen, however, was not at that
+meeting and Captain Zelotes declared his intention of asking her opinion
+by telephone.
+
+“She'll say same as I do--you see if she don't,” he declared. When
+he called the parsonage, however, Maria Price answered the phone and
+informed him that Helen was spending the evening with old Mrs. Crowell,
+who lived but a little way from the Snow place. The captain promptly
+called up the Crowell house.
+
+“She's there and she'll stop in here on her way along,” he said
+triumphantly. “And she'll back me up--you see.”
+
+But she did not. She did not “back up” any one. She merely smiled and
+declared the problem too complicated to answer offhand.
+
+“Why don't you ask Albert?” she inquired. “After all, he is the one who
+must settle it eventually.”
+
+“He won't tell,” said Olive. “He's real provokin', isn't he? And now you
+won't tell, either, Helen.”
+
+“Oh, I don't know--yet. But I think he does.”
+
+Albert, as usual, walked home with her.
+
+“How are you going to answer your hero's riddle?” she asked.
+
+“Before I tell you, suppose you tell me what your answer would be.”
+
+She reflected. “Well,” she said, “it seems to me that, all things being
+as they are, he should do this: He should go to the sideshow man--the
+minister now--and have a very frank talk with him. He should tell him
+that he had decided to say nothing about the old life and to help him
+in every way, to be his friend--provided that he keep straight, that is
+all. Of course more than that would be meant, the alternative would be
+there and understood, but he need not say it. I think that course of
+action would be fair to himself and to everybody. That is my answer.
+What is yours?”
+
+He laughed quietly. “Just that, of course,” he said. “You would see it,
+I knew. You always see down to the heart of things, Helen. You have the
+gift.”
+
+She shook her head. “It didn't really need a gift, this particular
+problem, did it?” she said. “It is not--excuse me--it isn't exactly a
+new one.”
+
+“No, it isn't. It is as old as the hills, but there are always new
+twists to it.”
+
+“As there are to all our old problems.”
+
+“Yes. By the way, your advice about the ending of my third story was
+exactly what I needed. The editor wrote me he should never have forgiven
+me if it had ended in any other way. It probably WOULD have ended in
+another way if it hadn't been for you. Thank you, Helen.”
+
+“Oh, you know there was really nothing to thank me for. It was all you,
+as usual. Have you planned the next story, the fifth, yet?”
+
+“Not entirely. I have some vague ideas. Do you want to hear them?”
+
+“Of course.”
+
+So they discussed those ideas as they walked along the sidewalk of the
+street leading down to the parsonage. It was a warm evening, a light
+mist, which was not substantial enough to be a fog, hanging low over
+everything, wrapping them and the trees and the little front yards and
+low houses of the old village in a sort of cozy, velvety, confidential
+quiet. The scent of lilacs was heavy in the air.
+
+They both were silent. Just when they had ceased speaking neither could
+have told. They walked on arm in arm and suddenly Albert became aware
+that this silence was dangerous for him; that in it all his resolves and
+brave determinations were melting into mist like that about him; that
+he must talk and talk at once and upon a subject which was not personal,
+which--
+
+And then Helen spoke.
+
+“Do you know what this reminds me of?” she said. “All this talk of ours?
+It reminds me of how we used to talk over those first poems of yours.
+You have gone a long way since then.”
+
+“I have gone to Kaiserville and back.”
+
+“You know what I mean. I mean your work has improved wonderfully. You
+write with a sure hand now, it seems to me. And your view is so much
+broader.”
+
+“I hope I'm not the narrow, conceited little rooster I used to be. I
+told you, Helen, that the war handed me an awful jolt. Well, it did. I
+think it, or my sickness or the whole business together, knocked most of
+that self-confidence of mine galley-west. For so much I'm thankful.”
+
+“I don't know that I am, altogether. I don't want you to lose confidence
+in yourself. You should be confident now because you deserve to be. And
+you write with confidence, or it reads as if you did. Don't you feel
+that you do, yourself? Truly, don't you?”
+
+“Well, perhaps, a little. I have been at it for some time now. I ought
+to show some progress. Perhaps I don't make as many mistakes.”
+
+“I can't see that you have made any.”
+
+“I have made one . . . a damnable one.”
+
+“Why, what do you mean?”
+
+“Oh, nothing. I didn't mean to say that. . . . Helen, do you know it is
+awfully good of you to take all this interest in me--in my work, I mean.
+Why do you do it?”
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Yes, why?”
+
+“Why, because--Why shouldn't I? Haven't we always talked about your
+writings together, almost since we first knew each other? Aren't we old
+friends?”
+
+There it was again--friends. It was like a splash of cold water in the
+face, at once awakening and chilling. Albert walked on in silence for
+a few moments and then began speaking of some trivial subject entirely
+disconnected with himself or his work or her. When they reached the
+parsonage door he said good night at once and strode off toward home.
+
+Back in his room, however, he gave himself another mental picking to
+pieces. He was realizing most distinctly that this sort of thing would
+not do. It was easy to say that his attitude toward Helen Kendall was
+to be that of a friend and nothing more, but it was growing harder and
+harder to maintain that attitude. He had come within a breath that very
+night of saying what was in his heart.
+
+Well, if he had said it, if he did say it--what then? After all, was
+there any real reason why he should not say it? It was true that he had
+loved, or fancied that he loved, Madeline, that he had been betrothed to
+her--but again, what of it? Broken engagements were common enough, and
+there was nothing disgraceful in this one. Why not go to Helen and tell
+her that his fancied love for Madeline had been the damnable mistake he
+had confessed making. Why not tell her that since the moment when he saw
+her standing in the doorway of the parsonage on the morning following
+his return from New York he had known that she was the only woman in the
+world for him, that it was her image he had seen in his dreams, in the
+delirium of fever, that it was she, and not that other, who--
+
+But there, all this was foolishness, and he knew it. He did not dare say
+it. Not for one instant had she, by speech or look or action, given him
+the slightest encouragement to think her feeling for him was anything
+but friendship. And that friendship was far too precious to risk. He
+must not risk it. He must keep still, he must hide his thoughts, she
+must never guess. Some day, perhaps, after a year or two, after his
+position in his profession was more assured, then he might speak. But
+even then there would be that risk. And the idea of waiting was not
+pleasant. What had Rachel told him concerning the hosts of doctors and
+officers and generals who had been “shining up” to her. Some risk there,
+also.
+
+Well, never mind. He would try to keep on as he had been going for the
+present. He would try not to see her as frequently. If the strain became
+unbearable he might go away somewhere--for a time.
+
+He did not go away, but he made it a point not to see her as frequently.
+However, they met often even as it was. And he was conscious always that
+the ice beneath his feet was very, very thin.
+
+One wonderful August evening he was in his room upstairs. He was not
+writing. He had come up there early because he wished to think,
+to consider. A proposition had been made to him that afternoon, a
+surprising proposition--to him it had come as a complete surprise--and
+before mentioning it even to his grandparents he wished to think it over
+very carefully.
+
+About ten o'clock his grandfather called to him from the foot of the
+stairs and asked him to come down.
+
+“Mr. Kendall's on the phone,” said Captain Zelotes. “He's worried about
+Helen. She's up to West Harniss sittin' up along of Lurany Howes, who's
+been sick so long. She ain't come home, and the old gentleman's frettin'
+about her walkin' down from there alone so late. I told him I cal'lated
+you'd just as soon harness Jess and drive up and get her. You talk with
+him yourself, Al.”
+
+Albert did and, after assuring the nervous clergyman that he would see
+that his daughter reached home safely, put on his hat and went out to
+the barn. Jessamine was asleep in her stall. As he was about to lead
+her out he suddenly remembered that one of the traces had broken that
+morning and Captain Zelotes had left it at the harness-maker's to be
+mended. It was there yet. The captain had forgotten the fact, and so had
+he. That settled the idea of using Jessamine and the buggy. Never mind,
+it was a beautiful night and the walk was but little over a mile.
+
+When he reached the tiny story-and-a-half Howes cottage, sitting back
+from the road upon the knoll amid the tangle of silverleaf sprouts, it
+was Helen herself who opened the door. She was surprised to see him, and
+when he explained his errand she was a little vexed.
+
+“The idea of Father's worrying,” she said. “Such a wonderful night as
+this, bright moonlight, and in South Harniss, too. Nothing ever happens
+to people in South Harniss. I will be ready in a minute or two. Mrs.
+Howes' niece is here now and will stay with her until to-morrow. Then
+her sister is coming to stay a month. As soon as I get her medicine
+ready we can go.”
+
+The door of the tiny bedroom adjoining the sitting room was open, and
+Albert, sitting upon the lounge with the faded likeness of a pink
+dog printed on the plush cover, could hear the querulous voice of the
+invalid within. The widow Howes was deaf and, as Laban Keeler described
+it, “always hollered loud enough to make herself hear” when she spoke.
+Helen was moving quietly about the sick room and speaking in a low tone.
+Albert could not hear what she said, but he could hear Lurania.
+
+“You're a wonder, that's what you be,” declared the latter, “and I told
+your pa so last time he was here. 'She's a saint,' says I, 'if ever
+there was one on this earth. She's the nicest, smartest, best-lookin'
+girl in THIS town and . . .' eh?”
+
+There had been a murmur, presumably of remonstrance, from Helen.
+
+“Eh?”
+
+Another murmur.
+
+“EH? WHO'D you say was there?”
+
+A third murmur.
+
+“WHO? . . . Oh, that Speranzy one? Lote Snow's grandson? The one they
+used to call the Portygee? . . . Eh? Well, all right, I don't care if
+he did hear me. If he don't know you're nice and smart and good-lookin',
+it's high time he did.”
+
+Helen, a trifle embarrassed but laughing, emerged a moment later, and
+when she had put on her hat she and Albert left the Howes cottage and
+began their walk home. It was one of those nights such as Cape Codders,
+year-rounders or visitors, experience three or four times during a
+summer and boast of the remainder of the year. A sky clear, deep,
+stretched cloudless from horizon to horizon. Every light at sea or on
+shore, in cottage window or at masthead or in lighthouse or on lightship
+a twinkling diamond point. A moon, apparently as big as a barrel-head,
+hung up in the east and below it a carpet of cold fire, of dancing,
+spangled silver spread upon the ocean. The sound of the surf, distant,
+soothing; and for the rest quiet and the fragrance of the summer woods
+and fields.
+
+They walked rather fast at first and the conversation was brisk, but as
+the night began to work its spell upon them their progress was slower
+and there were intervals of silence of which neither was aware. They
+came to the little hill where the narrow road from West Harniss comes to
+join the broader highway leading to the Center. There were trees here,
+a pine grove, on the landward side, and toward the sea nothing to break
+the glorious view.
+
+Helen caught her breath. “Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful!” she said.
+
+Albert did not answer. “Why don't you talk?” she asked. “What are you
+thinking about?”
+
+He did not tell her what he was thinking about. Instead, having caught
+himself just in time, he began telling her of what he had been thinking
+when his grandfather called him to the telephone.
+
+“Helen,” he said, “I want to ask your advice. I had an astonishing
+proposal made to me this afternoon. I must make a decision, I must say
+yes or no, and I'm not sure which to say.”
+
+She looked up at him inquiringly.
+
+“This afternoon,” he went on, “Doctor Parker called me into his office.
+There was a group of men there, prominent men in politics from about the
+country; Judge Baxter from Ostable was there, and Captain Warren from
+South Denboro, and others like them. What do you suppose they want me to
+do?”
+
+“I can't imagine.”
+
+“They offer me the party nomination for Congress from this section. That
+is, of course, they want me to permit my name to stand and they seem
+sure my nomination will be confirmed by the voters. The nomination, they
+say, is equivalent to election. They seem certain of it. . . . And they
+were insistent that I accept.”
+
+“Oh--oh, Albert!”
+
+“Yes. They said a good many flattering things, things I should like to
+believe. They said my war record and my writing and all that had made
+me a prominent man in the county--Please don't think I take any stock in
+that--”
+
+“But _I_ do. Go on.”
+
+“Well, that is all. They seemed confident that I would make a good
+congressman. I am not so sure. Of course the thing . . . well, it does
+tempt me, I confess. I could keep on with my writing, of course. I
+should have to leave the home people for a part of the year, but I could
+be with them or near them the rest. And . . . well, Helen, I--I think
+I should like the job. Just now, when America needs Americans and the
+thing that isn't American must be fought, I should like--if I were sure
+I was capable of it--”
+
+“Oh, but you are--you ARE.”
+
+“Do you really think so? Would you like to have me try?”
+
+He felt her arm tremble upon his. She drew a long breath.
+
+“Oh, I should be so PROUD!” she breathed.
+
+There was a quiver in her voice, almost a sob. He bent toward her. She
+was looking off toward the sea, the moonlight upon her face was like a
+glory, her eyes were shining--and there were tears in them. His heart
+throbbed wildly.
+
+“Helen!” he cried. “Helen!”
+
+She turned and looked up into his face. The next moment her own face was
+hidden against his breast, his arms were about her, and . . . and the
+risk, the risk he had feared to take, was taken.
+
+They walked home after a time, but it was a slow, a very slow walk with
+many interruptions.
+
+“Oh, Helen,” he kept saying, “I don't see how you can. How can you? In
+spite of it all. I--I treated you so badly. I was SUCH an idiot. And you
+really care? You really do?”
+
+She laughed happily. “I really do . . . and . . . and I really have, all
+the time.”
+
+“Always?”
+
+“Always.”
+
+“Well--well, by George! And . . . Helen, do you know I think--I think I
+did too--always--only I was such a young fool I didn't realize it. WHAT
+a young fool I was!”
+
+“Don't say that, dear, don't. . . . You are going to be a great man.
+You are a famous one already; you are going to be great. Don't you know
+that?”
+
+He stooped and kissed her.
+
+“I think I shall have to be,” he said, “if I am going to be worthy of
+you.”
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+
+Albert, sitting in the private office of Z. Snow and Co., dropped his
+newspaper and looked up with a smile as his grandfather came in. Captain
+Zelotes' florid face was redder even than usual, for it was a cloudy day
+in October and blowing a gale.
+
+“Whew!” puffed the captain, pulling off his overcoat and striding over
+to warm his hands at the stove; “it's raw as January comin' over the
+tops of those Trumet hills, and blowin' hard enough to part your back
+hair, besides. One time there I didn't know but I'd have to reef,
+cal'late I would if I'd known how to reef an automobile.”
+
+“Is the car running as well as ever?” asked Albert.
+
+“You bet you! Took all but two of those hills on full steam and never
+slowed down a mite. Think of goin' to Trumet and back in a forenoon,
+and havin' time enough to do the talkin' I went to do besides. Why, Jess
+would have needed the whole day to make the down cruise, to say nothin'
+of the return trip. Well, the old gal's havin' a good rest now, nothin'
+much to do but eat and sleep. She deserves it; she's been a good horse
+for your grandma and me.”
+
+He rubbed his hands before the stove and chuckled.
+
+“Olive's still scared to death for fear I'll get run into, or run over
+somebody or somethin',” he observed. “I tell her I can navigate that car
+now the way I used to navigate the old President Hayes, and I could
+do that walkin' in my sleep. There's a little exaggeration there,” he
+added, with a grin. “It takes about all my gumption when I'm wide awake
+to turn the flivver around in a narrow road, but I manage to do it. . .
+. Well, what are you doin' in here, Al?” he added. “Readin' the Item's
+prophesy about how big your majority's goin' to be?”
+
+Albert smiled. “I dropped in here to wait for you, Grandfather,” he
+replied. “The novel-writing mill wasn't working particularly well, so I
+gave it up and took a walk.”
+
+“To the parsonage, I presume likely?”
+
+“Well, I did stop there for a minute or two.”
+
+“You don't say! I'm surprised to hear it. How is Helen this mornin'? Did
+she think you'd changed much since you saw her last night?”
+
+“I don't know. She didn't say so if she did. She sent her love to you
+and Grandmother--”
+
+“What she had left over, you mean.”
+
+“And said to tell you not to tire yourself out electioneering for
+me. That was good advice, too. Grandfather, don't you know that you
+shouldn't motor all the way to Trumet and back a morning like this? I'd
+rather--much rather go without the votes than have you do such things.”
+
+Captain Zelotes seated himself in his desk chair.
+
+“But you ain't goin' to do without 'em,” he chuckled. “Obed Nye--he's
+chairman of the Trumet committee--figgers you'll have a five-to-one
+majority. He told me to practice callin' you 'the Honorable' because
+that's what you'd be by Tuesday night of week after next. And next
+winter Mother and I will be takin' a trip to Washin'ton so as to set
+in the gallery and listen to you makin' speeches. We'll be some
+consider'ble proud of you, too, boy,” he added, with a nod.
+
+His grandson looked away, out of the window, over the bleak yard with
+its piles of lumber. The voice of Issacher raised in expostulation with
+the driver of Cahoon's “truck-wagon” could be faintly heard.
+
+“I shall hate to leave you and Grandmother and the old place,” he said.
+“If I am elected--”
+
+“WHEN you're elected; there isn't any 'if.'”
+
+“Well, all right. I shall hate to leave South Harniss. Every person I
+really care for will be here. Helen--and you people at home.”
+
+“It's too bad you and Helen can't be married and go to Washin'ton
+together. Not to stay permanent,” he added quickly, “but just while
+Congress is in session. Your grandma says then she'd feel as if you had
+somebody to look after you. She always figgers, you know, that a man
+ain't capable of lookin' out for himself. There'd ought to be at least
+one woman to take care of him, see that he don't get his feet wet and
+goes to meetin' reg'lar and so on; if there could be two, so much the
+better. Mother would have made a pretty good Mormon, in some ways.”
+
+Albert laughed. “Helen feels she must stay with her father for the
+present,” he said. “Of course she is right. Perhaps by and by we can
+find some good capable housekeeper to share the responsibility, but not
+this winter. IF I am sent to Washington I shall come back often, you may
+be sure.”
+
+“When ARE you cal'latin' to be married, if that ain't a secret?”
+
+“Perhaps next spring. Certainly next fall. It will depend upon Mr.
+Kendall's health. But, Grandfather, I do feel rather like a deserter,
+going off and leaving you here--”
+
+“Good Lord! You don't cal'late I'M breakin' down, runnin' strong to talk
+and weakenin' everywhere else, like old Minister Kendall, do you?”
+
+“Well, hardly. But . . . well, you see, I have felt a little ungrateful
+ever since I came back from the war. In a way I am sorry that I feel I
+must give myself entirely to my writing--and my political work. I wish
+I might have gone on here in this office, accepted that partnership you
+would have given me--”
+
+“You can have it yet, you know. Might take it and just keep it to fall
+back on in case that story-mill of yours busts altogether or all hands
+in Ostable County go crazy and vote the wrong ticket. Just take it and
+wait. Always well to have an anchor ready to let go, you know.”
+
+“Thanks, but that wouldn't be fair. I wish I MIGHT have taken it--for
+your sake. I wish for your sake I were so constituted as to be good for
+something at it. Of course I don't mean by that that I should be willing
+to give up my writing--but--well, you see, Grandfather, I owe you an
+awful lot in this world . . . and I know you had set your heart on my
+being your partner in Z. Snow and Co. I know you're disappointed.”
+
+Captain Lote did not answer instantly. He seemed to be thinking. Then
+he opened a drawer in his desk and took out a box of cigars similar to
+those he had offered the Honorable Fletcher Fosdick on the occasion of
+their memorable interview.
+
+“Smoke, Al?” he asked. Albert declined because of the nearness to dinner
+time, but the captain, who never permitted meals or anything else to
+interfere with his smoking, lighted one of the cigars and leaned back in
+his chair, puffing steadily.
+
+“We-ll, Al,” he said slowly, “I'll tell you about that. There was a
+time--I'll own up that there was a time when the idea you wasn't goin'
+to turn out a business man and the partner who would take over this
+concern after I got my clearance papers was a notion I wouldn't let
+myself think of for a minute. I wouldn't THINK of it, that's all. But
+I've changed my mind about that, as I have about some other things.” He
+paused, tugged at his beard, and then added, “And I guess likely I might
+as well own up to the whole truth while I'm about it: I didn't change it
+because I wanted to, but because I couldn't help it--'twas changed for
+me.”
+
+He made this statement more as if he were thinking aloud than as if he
+expected a reply. A moment later he continued.
+
+“Yes, sir,” he said, “'twas changed for me. And,” with a shrug, “I'd
+rather prided myself that when my mind was made up it stayed that way.
+But--but, well, consarn it, I've about come to the conclusion that I was
+a pig-headed old fool, Al, in some ways.”
+
+“Nonsense, Grandfather. You are the last man to--”
+
+“Oh, I don't mean a candidate for the feeble-minded school. There ain't
+been any Snows put there that I can remember, not our branch of 'em,
+anyhow. But, consarn it, I--I--” he was plainly finding it hard to
+express his thought, “I--well, I used to think I knew consider'ble,
+had what I liked to think was good, hard sense. 'Twas hard enough, I
+cal'late--pretty nigh petrified in spots.”
+
+Albert laid a hand on his knee.
+
+“Don't talk like that,” he replied impulsively. “I don't like to hear
+you.”
+
+“Don't you? Then I won't. But, you see, Al, it bothers me. Look how I
+used to talk about makin' up poetry and writin' yarns and all that. Used
+to call it silliness and a waste of time, I did--worse names than that,
+generally. And look what you're makin' at it in money, to say nothin' of
+its shovin' you into Congress, and keepin' the newspapers busy printin'
+stuff about you. . . . Well, well,” with a sigh of resignation, “I don't
+understand it yet, but know it's so, and if I'd had my pig-headed way
+'twouldn't have been so. It's a dreadful belittlin' feelin' to a man at
+my time of life, a man that's commanded ten-thousand-ton steamers and
+handled crews and bossed a business like this. It makes him wonder how
+many other fool things he's done. . . . Why, do you know, Al,” he added,
+in a sudden burst of confidence, “I was consider'ble prejudiced against
+you when you first came here.”
+
+He made the statement as if he expected it to come as a stunning
+surprise. Albert would not have laughed for the world, nor in one way
+did he feel like it, but it was funny.
+
+“Well, perhaps you were, a little,” he said gravely. “I don't wonder.”
+
+“Oh, I don't mean just because you was your father's son. I mean on your
+own account, in a way. Somehow, you see, I couldn't believe--eh? Oh,
+come in, Labe! It's all right. Al and I are just talkin' about nothin'
+in particular and all creation in general.”
+
+Mr. Keeler entered with a paper in his hand.
+
+“Sorry to bother you, Cap'n Lote,” he said, “but this bill of Colby and
+Sons for that last lot of hardware ain't accordin' to agreement. The
+prices on those butts ain't right, and neither's those half-inch screws.
+Better send it back to em, eh?”
+
+Captain Zelotes inspected the bill.
+
+“Humph!” he grunted. “You're right, Labe. You generally are, I notice.
+Yes, send it back and tell 'em--anything you want to.”
+
+Laban smiled. “I want to, all right,” he said. “This is the third time
+they've sent wrong bills inside of two months. Well, Al,” turning toward
+him, “I cal'late this makes you kind of homesick, don't it, this talk
+about bills and screws and bolts and such? Wa'n't teasin' for your old
+job back again, was you, Al? Cal'late he could have it, couldn't he,
+Cap'n? We'll need somebody to heave a bucket of water on Issy pretty
+soon; he's gettin' kind of pert and uppish again. Pretty much so. Yes,
+yes, yes.”
+
+He departed, chuckling. Captain Zelotes looked after him. He tugged at
+his beard.
+
+“Al,” he said, “do you know what I've about made up my mind to do?”
+
+Albert shook his head.
+
+“I've about made up my mind to take Labe Keeler into the firm of Z. Snow
+and Co. YOU won't come in, and,” with a twinkle, “I need somebody to
+keep my name from gettin' lonesome on the sign.”
+
+Albert was delighted.
+
+“Bully for you, Grandfather!” he exclaimed. “You couldn't do a better
+thing for Labe or for the firm. And he deserves it, too.”
+
+“Ye-es, I think he does. Labe's a mighty faithful, capable feller, and
+now that he's sworn off on those vacations of his he can be trusted
+anywheres. Yes, I've as good as made up my mind to take him in. Of
+course,” with the twinkle in evidence once more, “Issachar'll be a
+little mite jealous, but we'll have to bear up under that as best we
+can.”
+
+“I wonder what Labe will say when you tell him?”
+
+“He'll say yes. I'll tell Rachel first and she'll tell him to say it.
+And then I'll tell 'em both I won't do it unless they agree to get
+married. I've always said I didn't want to die till I'd been to that
+weddin'. I want to hear Rachel tell the minister she'll 'obey' Labe. Ho,
+ho!”
+
+“Do you suppose they ever will be married?”
+
+“Why, yes, I kind of think so. I shouldn't wonder if they would be right
+off now if it wasn't that Rachel wouldn't think of givin' up keepin'
+house for your grandmother. She wouldn't do that and Labe wouldn't want
+her to. I've got to fix that somehow. Perhaps they could live along with
+us. Land knows there's room enough. They're all right, those two. Kind
+of funny to look at, and they match up in size like a rubber boot and a
+slipper, but I declare I don't know which has got the most common-sense
+or the biggest heart. And 'twould be hard to tell which thinks the most
+of you, Al. . . . Eh? Why, it's after half-past twelve o'clock! Olive'll
+be for combin' our topknots with a belayin' pin if we keep her dinner
+waitin' like this.”
+
+As they were putting on their coats the captain spoke again.
+
+“I hadn't finished what I was sayin' to you when Labe came in,” he
+observed. “'Twasn't much account; just a sort of confession, and they
+say that's good for the soul. I was just goin' to say that when you
+first came here I was prejudiced against you, not only because your
+father and I didn't agree, but because he was what he was. Because he
+was--was--”
+
+Albert finished the sentence for him.
+
+“A Portygee,” he said.
+
+“Why, yes, that's what I called him. That's what I used to call about
+everybody that wasn't born right down here in Yankeeland. I used to be
+prejudiced against you because you was what I called a half-breed. I'm
+sorry, Al. I'm ashamed. See what you've turned out to be. I declare,
+I--”
+
+“Shh! shh! Don't, Grandfather. When I came here I was a little snob, a
+conceited, insufferable little--”
+
+“Here, here! Hold on! No, you wa'n't, neither. Or if you was, you was
+only a boy. I was a man, and I ought to--”
+
+“No, I'm going to finish. Whatever I am now, or whatever I may be. I owe
+to you, and to Grandmother, and Rachel and Laban--and Helen. You made me
+over between you. I know that now.”
+
+They walked home instead of riding in the new car. Captain Zelotes
+declared he had hung on to that steering wheel all the forenoon and he
+was afraid if he took it again his fingers would grow fast to the rim.
+As they emerged from the office into the open air, he said:
+
+“Al, regardin' that makin'-over business, I shouldn't be surprised if
+it was a kind of--er--mutual thing between you and me. We both had some
+prejudices to get rid of, eh?”
+
+“Perhaps so. I'm sure I did.”
+
+“And I'm sartin sure I did. And the war and all that came with it put
+the finishin' touches to the job. When I think of what the thousands
+and thousands of men did over there in those hell-holes of trenches, men
+with names that run all the way from Jones and Kelly to--er--”
+
+“Speranza.”
+
+“Yes, and Whiskervitch and the land knows what more. When I think of
+that I'm ready to take off my hat to 'em and swear I'll never be so
+narrow again as to look down on a feller because he don't happen to be
+born in Ostable County. There's only one thing I ask of 'em, and that
+is that when they come here to live--to stay--under our laws and takin'
+advantage of the privileges we offer 'em--they'll stop bein' Portygees
+or Russians or Polacks or whatever they used to be or their folks were,
+and just be Americans--like you, Al.”
+
+“That's what we must work for now, Grandfather. It's a big job, but it
+must be done.”
+
+They walked on in silence for a time. Then the captain said:
+
+“It's a pretty fine country, after all, ain't it, Albert?”
+
+Albert looked about him over the rolling hills, the roofs of the little
+town, the sea, the dunes, the pine groves, the scene which had grown so
+familiar to him and which had become in his eyes so precious.
+
+“It is MY country,” he declared, with emphasis.
+
+His grandfather caught his meaning.
+
+“I'm glad you feel that way, son,” he said, “but 'twasn't just South
+Harniss I meant then. I meant all of it, the whole United States. It's
+got its faults, of course, lots of 'em. And if I was an Englishman or
+a Frenchman I'd probably say it wasn't as good as England or France,
+whichever it happened to be. That's all right; I ain't findin' any fault
+with 'em for that--that's the way they'd ought to feel. But you and I,
+Al, we're Americans. So the rest of the world must excuse us if we say
+that, take it by and large, it's a mighty good country. We've planned
+for it, and worked for it, and fought for it, and we know. Eh?”
+
+“Yes. We know.”
+
+“Yes. And no howlin', wild-eyed bunch from somewhere else that haven't
+done any of these things are goin' to come here and run it their way if
+we can help it--we Americans; eh?”
+
+Alberto Miguel Carlos Speranza, American, drew a long breath.
+
+“No!” he said, with emphasis.
+
+“You bet! Well, unless I'm mistaken, I smell salt fish and potatoes,
+which, accordin' to Cape Cod notion, is a good American dinner. I don't
+know how you feel, Al, but I'm hungry.”
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Portygee, by Joseph Crosby Lincoln
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