Etext of The Portygee
by Joseph C. Lincoln




THE PORTYGEE

by JOSEPH C. 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
conti