"'Who was that murderer?' asks Sim of the clerk. 'And when are they going to hang him?'

"'S-sh-sh!' whispers the clerk, scart. ''Tis the boss. The bloke what runs the hotel. He's a fine man, but he has troubles. He's blue.'

"'So that's the boss, hey?' says I. 'And he's blue. Well, he looks it. What's troublin' him? Ain't business good?'

"'Never better. It ain't that. He has things on his mind. You see—'

"I cal'late he'd have told us the yarn, only Sim wouldn't wait to hear it. We was goin' sight-seein' and we had 'aquarium' and 'Stock Exchange' on the list for that afternoon. The hotel clerk had made out a kind of schedule for us of things we'd ought to see while we was in New York, and so fur we'd took in the zoological menagerie and the picture museum, and Central Park and Brooklyn Bridge.

"On the way downtown in the elevated railroad Sim done some preachin'. His text was took from the Golconda House sign, which had 'T. Dempsey, Proprietor,' painted on it.

"'It's that Dempsey man's conscience that makes him so blue, Hiram,' says Sim. 'It's the way he makes his money. He sells liquor.'

"'Oh!' says I. 'Is THAT it? I thought maybe he'd been sleepin' on one of his own hotel beds. THEY'RE enough to make any man blue—black and blue.'

"The 'aquarium' wa'n't a success. Phinney was disgusted. He give one look around, grabbed me by the arm, and marched me out of that building same as Deacon Titcomb, of the Holiness Church at Denboro, marched his boy out of the Universalist sociable.

"'It's nothin' but a whole passel of fish,' he snorts. 'The idea of sendin' two Cape Codders a couple of miles to look at FISH. I've looked at 'em and fished for 'em, and et 'em all the days of my life,' he says, 'and when I'm on a vacation I want a change. I'd forgot that "aquarium" meant fish, or you wouldn't have got me within smellin' distance of it. Necessity's one thing and pleasure's another, as the boy said about takin' his ma's spring bitters.'

"So we headed for the Stock Exchange. We got our gallery tickets at the bank where the Golconda folks kept money, and in a little while we was leanin' over a kind of marble bulwarks and starin' down at a gang of men smokin' and foolin' and carryin' on. 'Twas a dull day, so we found out afterward, and I guess likely that was true. Anyway, I never see such grown-up men act so much like children. There was a lot of poles stuck up around with signs on 'em, and around every pole was a circle of bedlamites hollerin' like loons. Hollerin' was the nighest to work of anything I see them fellers do, unless 'twas tearin' up papers and shovin' the pieces down somebody's neck or throwin' 'em in the air like a play-actin' snowstorm.

"'What's the matter with 'em?' says I. 'High finance taken away their brains?'

"But Phinney was awful interested. He dumped some money in a mine once. The mine caved in on it, I guess, for not a red cent ever come to the top again, but he's been a kind of prophet concernin' finances ever sence.

"'I want to see the big fellers,' says he. 'S'pose that fat one is Morgan?'

"'I don't know,' says I. 'Me and Pierpont ain't met for ever so long. Don't lean over and point so; you're makin' a hit.'

"He was, too. Some of the younger crew on the floor was lookin' up and grinnin', and more kept stoppin' and joinin' in all the time. I cal'late we looked kind of green and soft, hangin' over that marble rail, like posies on a tombstone; and green is the favorite color to a stockbroker, they tell me. Anyhow, we had a good-sized congregation under us in less than no time. Likewise, they got chatty, and commenced to unload remarks.

"'Land sakes!' says one. 'How's punkins?'

"'How's crops down your way?' says another.

"Now there wa'n't nothin' real bright and funny about these questions—more fresh than new, they struck me—but you'd think they was gems from the comic almanac, jedgin' by the haw-haws. Next minute a little bald-headed smart Alec, with clothes that had a tailor's sign hull down and out of the race, steps to the front and commences to make a speech.

"'Gosh t'mighty, gents,' says he. 'With your kind permission, I'll sing "When Reuben Comes to Town."'

"And he did sing it, too, in a voice that needed cultivatin' worse'n a sandy front yard. And with every verse the congregation whooped and laughed and cheered. When the anthem was concluded, all hands set up a yell and looked at us to see how we took it.

"As for me, I was b'ilin' mad and mortified and redhot all over. But Sim Phinney was as cool as an October evenin'. Once in a while old Sim comes out right down brilliant, and he done it now. He smiled, kind of tolerant and easy, same as you might at the tricks of a hand-organ monkey. Then he claps his hands, applaudin' like, reaches into his pocket, brings up a couple of pennies, and tosses 'em down to little baldhead, who was standin' there blown up with pride.

"For a minute the crowd was still. And THEN such a yell as went up! The whole floor went wild. Next thing I knew the gallery was filled with brokers, grabbin' us by the hands, poundin' us on the back, beggin' us to come have a drink, and generally goin' crazy. We was solid with the 'system' for once in our lives. We could have had that whole buildin', from marble decks to gold maintruck, if we'd said the word. Fifty yellin' lunatics was on hand to give it to us; the other two hundred was joyfully mutilatin' the baldhead.

"Well, I wanted to get away, and so did Sim, I guess; but the crowd wouldn't let us. We'd got to have a drink; hogsheads of drinks. That was the best joke on Eddie Lewisburg that ever was. Come on! We MUST come on! Whee! Wow!

"I don't know how it would have ended if some one hadn't butted head first through the mob and grabbed me by the shoulder. I was ready to fight by this time, and maybe I'd have begun to fight if the chap who grabbed me hadn't been a few inches short of seven foot high. And, besides that, I knew him. 'Twas Sam Holden, a young feller I knew when he boarded here one summer. His wife boarded here, too, only she wa'n't his wife then. Her name was Grace Hargrave and she was a fine girl. Maybe you remember 'em, Sol?"

The depot master nodded.

"I remember 'em well," he said. "Liked 'em both—everybody did."

"Yes. Well, he knew us and was glad to see us.

"'It IS you!' he sings out. 'By George! I thought it was when I came on the floor just now. My! but I'm glad to see you. And Mr. Phinney, too! Bully! Clear out and let 'em alone, you Indians.'

"The crowd didn't want to let us alone, but Sam got us clear somehow, and out of the Exchange Buildin' and into the back room of a kind of restaurant. Then he gets chairs for us, orders cigars, and shakes hands once more.

"'To think of seein' you two in New York!' he says, wonderin'. 'What are you doin' here? When did you come? Tell us about it.'

"So we told him about our pleasure cruise, and what had happened to us so fur. It seemed to tickle him 'most to death.

"'Grace and I are keepin' house, in a modest way, uptown,' says Sam, 'and she'll be as glad to see you as I am. You're comin' up to dinner with me to-night, and you're goin' to make us a visit, you know,' he says.

"Well, if we didn't know it then, we learned it right away. Nothin' that me or Simeon could say would make him change the course a point. So Phinney went up to the Golconda House and got our bags, and at half-past four that afternoon the three of us was in a hired hack bound uptown.

"On the way Sam was full of fun as ever. He laughed and joked, and asked questions about East Harniss till you couldn't rest. All of a sudden he slaps his knee and sings out:

"'There! I knew I'd forgotten somethin'. Our butler left yesterday, and I was to call at the intelligence office on my way home and see if they'd scared up a new one.'

"I looked at Simeon, and he at me.

"'Hum!' says I, thinkin' about that 'modest' housekeepin'. 'Do you keep a butler?'

"'Not long,' says he, dry as a salt codfish. And that's all we could get out of him.

"I s'pose there's different kinds of modesty. We hadn't more'n got inside the gold-plated front door of that house when I decided that the Holden brand of housekeepin' wa'n't bashful enough to blush. If I'D been runnin' that kind of a place, the only time I'd felt shy and retirin' was when the landlord came for the rent.

"One of the fo'mast hands—hired girls, I mean—went aloft to fetch Mrs. Holden, and when Grace came down she was just as nice and folksy and glad to see us as a body could be. But she looked sort of troubled, just the same.

"'I'm ever so glad you're here,' says she to me and Simeon. 'But, oh, Sam! it's a shame the way things happen. Cousin Harriet and Archie came this afternoon to stay until to-morrow. They're on their way South. And I have promised that you and I shall take Harriet to see Marlowe to-night. Of course we won't do it now, under any consideration, but you know what she is.'

"Sam seemed to know. He muttered somethin' that sounded like a Scripture text. Simeon spoke up prompt.

"'Indeed you will,' says he, decided. 'Me and Hiram ain't that kind. We've got relations of our own, and we know what it means when they come a-visitin'. You and Mr. Holden'll take your comp'ny and go to see—whatever 'tis you want to see, and we'll make ourselves to home till you get back. Yes, you will, or we clear out this minute.'

"They didn't want to, but we was sot, and so they give in finally. It seemed that this Cousin Harriet was a widow relation of the Holdens, who lived in a swell country house over in Connecticut somewhere, and was rich as the rest of the tribe. Archie was her son. 'Hers and the Evil One's,' Sam said.

"We didn't realize how much truth there was in this last part until we run afoul of Archie and his ma at dinner time. Cousin Harriet was tall and middlin' slim, thirty-five years old, maybe, at a sale for taxes, but discounted to twenty at her own valuation. She was got up regardless, and had a kind of chronic, tired way of talkin', and a condescendin' look to her, as if she was on top of Bunker Hill monument, and all creation was on its knees down below. She didn't warm up to Simeon and me much; eyed us over through a pair of gilt spyglasses, and admitted that she was 'charmed, I'm sure.' Likewise, she was afflicted with 'nerves,' which must be a divil of a disease—for everybody but the patient, especial.

"Archie—his ma hailed him as 'Archibald, dear'—showed up pretty soon in tow of his 'maid,' a sweet-faced, tired-out Irish girl named Margaret. 'Archibald, dear,' was five years old or so, sufferin' from curls and the lack of a lickin'. I never see a young one that needed a strap ile more.

"'How d'ye do Archie?' says Simeon, holdin' out his hand.

"Archie didn't take the hand. Instead of that he points at Phinney and commences to laugh.

"'Ho, ho!' says he, dancin' and pointin'. 'Look at the funny whiskers.'

"Sim wa'n't expectin' that, and it set him all aback, like he'd run into a head squall. He took hold of his beard and looked foolish. Sam and Grace looked ashamed and mad. Cousin Harriet laughed one of her lazy laughs.

"'Archibald, de-ar,' she drawls, 'you mustn't speak that way. Now be nice, and play with Margaret durin' dinner, that's a good boy.'

"'I won't,' remarks Archie, cheerful. 'I'm goin' to dine with you, mama.'

"'Oh, no, you're not, dear. You'll have your own little table, and—'

"Then 'twas' Hi, yi!' 'Bow, wow!' Archibald wa'n't hankerin' for little tables. He was goin' to eat with us, that's what. His ma, she argued with him and pleaded, and he yelled and stamped and hurrahed. When Margaret tried to soothe him he went at her like a wild-cat, and kicked and pounded her sinful. She tried to take him out of the room, and then Cousin Harriet come down on her like a scow load of brick.

"'Haven't I told you,' says she, sharp and vinegary, 'not to oppose the child in that way? Archibald has such a sensitive nature,' she says to Grace, 'that opposition arouses him just as it did me at his age. Very well, dear; you MAY dine with us to-night, if you wish. Oh, my poor nerves! Margaret, why don't you place a chair for Master Archibald? The creature is absolutely stupid at times,' she says, talkin' about that poor maid afore her face with no more thought for her feelin's than if she was a wooden image. 'She has no tact whatever. I wouldn't have Archibald's spirit broken for anything.'

"'Twas his neck that needed breakin' if you asked ME. That was a joyful meal, now I tell you.

"There was more joy when 'twas over. Archie didn't want to go to bed, havin' desires to set up and torment Simeon with questions about his whiskers; askin' if they growed or was tied on, and things like that. Course he didn't know his ma was goin' to the show, or he wouldn't have let her. But finally he was coaxed upstairs by Margaret and a box of candy, and, word havin' been sent down that he was asleep, Sam got out his plug hat, and Grace and Cousin Harriet got on their fur-lined dolmans and knit clouds, and was ready for the hack.

"'I feel mighty mean to go off and leave you this way,' says Sam to me and Simeon. 'But you make yourself at home, won't you? This is your house to-night, you know; servants and all.'

"'How about that boy's wakin' up?' says I.

"'Oh, his maid'll attend to him. If she needs any help you can give it to her,' he says, winkin' on the side.

"But Cousin Harriet was right at his starboard beam, and she heard him. She flew up like a settin' hen.

"'Indeed they will NOT!' she sings out. 'If anyone but Margaret was to attempt to control Archibald, I don't dare think what might happen. I shall not stir from this spot until these persons promise not to interfere in ANY way; Archibald, dear, is such a sensitive child.'

"So we promised not to interfere, although Sim Phinney looked disappointed when he done it. I could see that he'd had hopes afore he give that promise."



CHAPTER XI

IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS

"So they left you and Sim Phinney to keep house, did they, Hiram?" observed Wingate.

"They did. And, for a spell, we figgered on bein' free from too much style.

"After they'd gone we loafed into the settin' room or libr'ry, or whatever you call it, and come to anchor in a couple of big lazy chairs.

"'Now,' says I, takin' off my coat, 'we can be comf'table.'

"But we couldn't. In bobs a servant girl to know if we 'wanted anything.' We didn't, but she looked so shocked when she see me in my shirt sleeves that I put the coat on again, feelin' as if I'd ought to blush. And in a minute back she comes to find out if we was SURE we didn't want anything. Sim was hitchin' in his chair. Between 'nerves' and Archibald, his temper was raw on the edges.

"'Say,' he bursts out, 'you look kind of pale to me. What you need is fresh air. Why don't you go take a walk?'

"The girl looked at him with her mouth open.

"'Oh,' says she, 'I couldn't do that, thank you, sir. That would leave no one but the cook and the kitchen girl. And the master said you was to be made perfectly comf'table, and—'

"'Yes,' says Sim, dry, 'I heard him say it. And we can't be comf'table with you shut up in the house this nice evenin'. Go and take a walk, and take the cook and stewardess with you. Don't argue about it. I'm skipper here till the boss gets back. Go, the three of you, and go NOW. D'ye hear?'

"There was a little more talk, but not much. In five minutes or so the downstairs front door banged, and there was gigglin' outside.

"'There,' says Simeon, peelin' off HIS coat and throwin' himself back in one chair with his feet on another one. 'Now, by Judas, I'm goin' to be homey and happy like poor folks. I don't wonder that Harriet woman's got nerves. Darn style, anyhow! Pass over that cigar box, Hiram.'

"'Twas half an hour later or so when Margaret, the nursemaid, came downstairs. I'd almost forgot her. We was tame and toler'ble contented by that time. Phinney called to her as she went by the door.

"'Is that young one asleep?' he asked.

"'Yes, sir,' says she, 'he is. Is there anything I can do? Did you want anything?'

"Simeon looks at me. 'I swan to man, it's catchin'!' he says. 'They've all got it. No, we don't want anything, except—What's the matter? YOU don't need fresh air, do you?'

"The girl looked as if she'd lost her last friend. Her pretty face was pale and her eyes was wet, as if she'd been cryin'.

"'No, sir,' says she, puzzled. 'No, sir, thank you, sir.'

"'She's tired out, that's all,' says I. I swan, I pitied the poor thing. 'You go somewheres and take a nap,' I told her. 'Me and my friend won't tell.'

"Oh, no, she couldn't do that. It wa'n't that she was tired—no more tired than usual—but she'd been that troubled in her mind lately, askin' our pardon, that she was near to crazy.

"We was sorry for that, but it didn't seem to be none of our business, and she was turnin' away, when all at once she stops and turns back again.

"'Might I ask you gintlemen a question?' she says, sort of pleadin'. 'Sure I mane no harm by it. Do aither of you know a man be the name of Michael O'Shaughnessy?'

"Me and Sim looked at each other. 'Which?' says I. 'Mike O' who?' says Simeon.

"'Aw, don't you know him?' she begs. 'DON'T you know him? Sure I hoped you might. If you'd only tell me where he is I'd git on me knees and pray for you. O Mike, Mike! why did you leave me like this? What'll become of me?'

"And she walks off down the hall, coverin' her face with her hands and cryin' as if her heart was broke.

"'There! there!' says Simeon, runnin' after her, all shook up. He's a kind-hearted man—especially to nice-lookin' females. 'Don't act so,' he says. 'Be a good girl. Come right back into the settin' room and tell me all about it. Me and Cap'n Baker ain't got nerves, and we ain't rich, neither. You can talk to us. Come, come!'

"She didn't know how to act, seemingly. She was like a dog that's been kicked so often he's suspicious of a pat on the head. And she was cryin' and sobbin' so, and askin' our pardon for doin' it, that it took a good while to get at the real yarn. But we did get it, after a spell.

"It seems that the girl—her whole name was Margaret Sullivan—had been in this country but a month or so, havin' come from Ireland in a steamboat to meet the feller who'd kept comp'ny with her over there. His name was Michael O'Shaughnessy, and he'd been in America for four years or more, livin' with a cousin in Long Island City. And he'd got a good job at last, and he sent for her to come on and be married to him. And when she landed 'twas the cousin that met her. Mike had drawn a five-thousand-dollar prize in the Mexican lottery a week afore, and hadn't been seen sence.

"So poor Margaret goes to the cousin's to stay. And she found them poor as Job's pet chicken, and havin' hardly grub enough aboard to feed the dozen or so little cousins, let alone free boarders like her. And so, havin' no money, she goes out one day to an intelligence office where they deal in help, and puts in a blank askin' for a job as servant girl. 'Twas a swell place, where bigbugs done their tradin', and there she runs into Cousin Harriet, who was a chronic customer, always out of servants, owin' to the complications of Archibald and nerves. And Harriet hires her, because she was pretty and would work for a shavin' more'n nothin', and carts her right off to Connecticut. And when Margaret sets out to write for her trunk, and to tell where she is, she finds she's lost the cousin's address, and can't remember whether it's Umpty-eighth Street or Tin Can Avenue.

"'And, oh,' says she, 'what SHALL I do? The mistress is that hard to please, and the child is that wicked till I want to die. And I have no money and no friends. O Mike! Mike!' she says. 'If you only knew you'd come to me. For it's a good heart he has, although the five thousand dollars carried away his head,' says she.

"I don't believe I ever wanted to make a feller's acquaintance more than I done that O'Shaughnessy man's. The mean blackguard, to leave his girl that way. And 'twas easy to see what she'd been through with Cousin Harriet and that brat. We tried to comfort her all we could; promised to have a hunt through Long Island and the directory, and to help get her another place when she got back from the South, and so on. But 'twas kind of unsatisfactory. 'Twas her Mike she wanted.

"'I told the Father about it at the church up there,' she says, 'and he wrote, but the letters was lost, I guess. And I thought if I might see a priest here in New York he might help me. But the mistress is to go at noon to-morrer, and I'll have no time. What SHALL I do?' says she, and commenced to cry again.

"Then I had an idea. 'Priest?' says I. 'There's a fine big church, with a cross on the ridgepole of it, not five minutes' walk from this house. I see it as we was comin' up. Why don't you run down there this minute?' I says.

"No, she didn't want to leave Archibald. Suppose he should wake up.

"'All right,' says I. 'Then I'll go myself. And I'll fetch a priest up here if I have to tote him on my back, like the feller does the codfish in the advertisin' picture.'

"I didn't have to tote him. He lived in a mighty fine house, hitched onto the church, and there was half a dozen assistant parsons to help him do his preachin'. But he was big and fat and gray-haired and as jolly and as kind-hearted a feller as you'd want to meet. He said he'd come right along; and he done it.

"Phinney opened the door for us. 'What's the row?' says I, lookin' at his face.

"'Row?' he snorts; 'there's row enough for six. That da—excuse me, mister—that cussed Archibald has woke up.'

"He had; there wa'n't no doubt about it. And he was raisin' hob, too. The candy, mixed up with the dinner, had put his works in line with his disposition, and he was poundin' and yellin' upstairs enough to wake the dead. Margaret leaned over the balusters.

"'Is it the Father?' she says. 'Oh, dear! what'll I do?'

"'Send some of the other servants to the boy,' says the priest, 'and come down yourself.'

"Simeon, lookin' kind of foolish, explained what had become of the other servants. Father McGrath—that was his name—laughed and shook all over.

"'Very well,' says he. 'Then bring the young man down. Perhaps he'll be quiet here.'

"So pretty soon down come Margaret with Archibald, full of the Old Scratch, as usual, dressed up gay in a kind of red blanket nighty, with a rope around the middle of it. The young one spotted Simeon, and set up a whoop.

"'Oh! there's the funny whiskers,' he sings out.

"'Good evenin', my son,' says the priest.

"'Who's the fat man?' remarks Archibald, sociable. 'I never saw such a red fat man. What makes him so red and fat?'

"These questions didn't make Father McGrath any paler. He laughed, of course, but not as if 'twas the funniest thing he ever heard.

"'So you think I'm fat, do you, my boy?' says he.

"'Yes, I do,' says Archibald. 'Fat and red and funny. Most as funny as the whisker man. I never saw such funny-lookin' people.'

"He commenced to point and holler and laugh. Poor Margaret was so shocked and mortified she didn't know what to do.

"'Stop your noise, sonny,' says I. 'This gentleman wants to talk to your nurse.'

"The answer I got was some unexpected.

"'What makes your feet so big?' says Archie, pointin' at my Sunday boots. 'Why do you wear shoes like that? Can't you help it? You're funny, too, aren't you? You're funnier than the rest of 'em.'

"We all went into the library then, and Father McGrath tried to ask Margaret some questions. I'd told him the heft of the yarn on the way from the church, and he was interested. But the questionin' was mighty unsatisfyin'. Archibald was the whole team, and the rest of us was yeller dogs under the wagon.

"'Can't you keep that child quiet?' asks the priest, at last, losin' his temper and speakin' pretty sharp.

"'O Archie, dear! DO be a nice boy,' begs Margaret, for the eight hundredth time.

"'Why don't you punish him as he deserves?'

"'Father, dear, I can't. The mistress says he's so sensitive that he has to have his own way. I'd lose my place if I laid a hand on him.'

"'Come on into the parlor and see the pictures, Archie,' says I.

"'I won't,' says Archibald. 'I'm goin' to stay here and see the fat man make faces.'

"'You see,' says Sim, apologizin' 'we can't touch him, 'cause we promised his ma not to interfere. And my right hand's got cramps in the palm of it this minute,' he adds, glarin' at the young one.

"Father McGrath stood up and reached for his hat. Margaret began to cry. Archibald, dear, whooped and kicked the furniture. And just then the front-door bell rang.

"For a minute I thought 'twas Cousin Harriet and the Holdens come back, but then I knew it was hours too early for that. Margaret was too much upset to be fit for company, so I answered the bell myself. And who in the world should be standin' on the steps but that big Dempsey man, the boss of the Golconda House, where me and Simeon had been stayin'; the feller we'd spoke to that very mornin'.

"'Good evenin', sor,' says he, in a voice as deep as a well. 'I'm glad to find you to home, sor. There's a telegram come for you at my place,' he says, 'and as your friend lift the address when he come for the baggage this afternoon, I brought it along to yez. I was comin' this way, so 'twas no trouble.'

"'That's real kind of you,' I says. 'Step inside a minute, won't you?'

"So in he comes, and stands, holdin' his shiny beaver in his hand, while I tore open the telegram envelope. 'Twas a message from a feller I knew with the Clyde Line of steamboats. He had found out, somehow, that we was in New York, and the telegram was an order for us to come and make him a visit.

"'I hope it's not bad news, sor,' says the big chap.

"'No, no,' says I. 'Not a bit of it, Mr. Dempsey. Come on in and have a cigar, won't you?'

"'Thank you, sor,' says he. 'I'm glad it's not the bad news. Sure, I ax you and your friend's pardon for bein' so short to yez this mornin', but I'm in that throuble lately that me timper is all but gone.'

"'That so?' says I. 'Trouble's thick in this world, ain't it? Me and Mr. Phinney got a case of trouble on our hands now, Mr. Dempsey, and—'

"'Excuse me, sor,' he says. 'My name's not Dempsey. I suppose you seen the sign with me partner's name on it. I only bought into the business a while ago, and the new sign's not ready yit. Me name is O'Shaughnessy, sor.'

"'What?' says I. And then: 'WHAT?'

"'O'Shaughnessy. Michael O'Shaughnessy. I—'

"'Hold on!' I sung out. 'For the land sakes, hold on! WHAT'S your name?'

"He bristled up like a cat.

"'Michael O'Shaughnessy,' he roars, like the bull of Bashan. 'D'yez find any fault with it? 'Twas me father's before me—Michael Patrick O'Shaughnessy, of County Sligo. I'll have yez know—WHAT'S THAT?'

"'Twas a scream from the libr'ry. Next thing I knew, Margaret, the nurse girl, was standin' in the hall, white as a Sunday shirt, and swingin' back and forth like a wild-carrot stalk in a gale.

"'Mike!' says she, kind of low and faint. 'Mary be good to us! MIKE!'

"And the big chap dropped his tall hat on the floor and turned as white as she was.

"'MAGGIE!' he hollers. And then they closed in on one another.

"Sim and the priest and Archie had followed the girl into the hall. Me and Phinney was too flabbergasted to do anything, but big Father McGrath was cool as an ice box. When Archibald, like the little imp he was, sets up a whoop and dives for them two, the priest grabs him by the rope of the blanket nighty and swings him into the libr'ry, and shuts the door on him.

"'And now,' says he, takin' Sim and me by the arms and leadin' us to the parlor, 'we'll just step in here and wait a bit.'

"We waited, maybe, ten minutes. Archibald, dear, shut up in the libr'ry, was howlin' blue murder, but nobody paid any attention to him. Then there was a knock on the door between us and the hall, and Father McGrath opened it. There they was, the two of 'em—Mike and Maggie—lookin' red and foolish—but happy, don't talk!

"'You see, sor,' says the O'Shaughnessy man to me, ''twas the five-thousand-dollar prize that done it. I'd been workin' at me trade, sor—larnin' to tind bar it was—and I'd just got a new job where the pay was pretty good, and I'd sint over for Maggie, and was plannin' for the little flat we was to have, and the like of that, when I drew that prize. And the joy of it was like handin' me a jolt on the jaw. It put me out for two weeks, sor, and when I come to I was in Baltimore, where I'd gone to collect the money; and two thousand of the five was gone, and I knew me job in New York was gone, and I was that shamed and sick it took me three days more to make up me mind to come to me Cousin Tim's, where I knew Maggie'd be waitin' for me. And when I did come back she was gone, too.'

"'And then,' says Father McGrath, sharp, 'I suppose you went on another spree, and spent the rest of the money.'

"'I did not, sor—axin' your pardon for contradictin' your riverence. I signed the pledge, and I'll keep it, with Maggie to help me. I put me three thousand into a partnership with me friend Dempsey, who was runnin' the Golconda House—'tis over on the East Side, with a fine bar trade—and I'm doin' well, barrin' that I've been crazy for this poor girl, and advertisin' and—'

"'And look at the clothes of him!' sings out Margaret, reverentlike. 'And is that YOUR tall hat, Mike? To think of you with a tall hat! Sure it's a proud girl I am this day. Saints forgive me, I've forgot Archie!'

"And afore we could stop her she'd run into the hall and unfastened the libr'ry door. It took her some time to smooth down the young one's sensitive feelin's, and while she was gone, me and Simeon told the O'Shaughnessy man a little of what his girl had had to put up with along of Cousin Harriet and Archibald. He was mad.

"'Is that the little blackguard?' he asks, pointin' to Archibald, who had arrived by now.

"'That's the one,' says I.

"Archibald looked up at him and grinned, sassy as ever.

"'Father McGrath,' asks O'Shaughnessy, determined like, 'can you marry us this night?'

"'I can,' says the Father.

"'And will yez?'

"'I will, with pleasure.'

"'Maggie,' says Mike, 'get your hat and jacket on and come with the Father and me this minute. These gintlemen here will explain to your lady when she comes back. But YOU'LL come back no more. We'll send for your trunk to-morrer.'

"Even then the girl hesitated. She'd been so used to bein' a slave that I suppose she couldn't realize she was free at last.

"'But, Mike, dear,' she says. 'I—oh, your lovely hat! Put it down, Archie, darlin'. Put it down!'

"Archibald had been doin' a little cruisin' on his own hook, and he'd dug up Mike's shiny beaver where it had been dropped in the hall. Now he was dancin' round with it, bangin' it on the top as if it was a drum.

"'Put it down, PLEASE!' pleads Margaret. 'Twas plain that that plug was a crown of glory to her.

"'Drop it, you little thafe!' yells O'Shaughnessy, makin' a dive for the boy.

"'I won't!' screams Archibald, and starts to run. He tripped over the corner of a mat, and fell flat. The plug hat was underneath him, and it fell flat, too.

"'Oh! oh! oh!' wails Margaret, wringin' her hands. 'Your beautiful hat, Mike!'

"Mike's face was like a sunset.

"'Your reverence,' says he, 'tell me this; don't the wife promise to "obey" in the marriage service?'

"'She does,' says Father McGrath.

"'D'ye hear that, you that's to be Margaret O'Shaughnessy? You do? Well, then, as your husband that's to be in tin minutes, I order you to give that small divil what's comin' to him. D'ye hear me? Will yez obey me, or will yez not?'

"She didn't know what to do. You could see she wanted to—her fingers was itchin' to do it, but—And then Archie held up the ruins of the hat and commenced to laugh.

"That settled it. Next minute he was across her knee and gettin' what he'd been sufferin' for ever sence he was born; and gettin' all the back numbers along with it, too.

"And in the midst of the performance Sim Phinney leans over to me with the most heavenly, resigned expression on his face, and says he:

"'It ain't OUR fault, Hiram. We promised not to interfere.'"

"What did Sam Holden and his wife say when they got home?" asked Captain Sol, when the triumphant whoops over Archibald's righteous chastisement had subsided.

"We didn't give him much of a chance to say anything. I laid for him in the hall when he arrived and told him that Phinney had got a telegram and must leave immediate. He wanted to know why, and a whole lot more, but I told him we'd write it. Neither Sim nor me cared to face Cousin Harriet after her darlin' son had spun his yarn. Ha! ha! I'd like to have seen her face—from a safe distance."

Captain Bailey Stitt cleared his throat. "Referrin' to them automobiles," he said, "I—"

"Say, Sol," interrupted Wingate, "did I ever tell you of Cap'n Jonadab's and my gettin' took up by the police when WE was in New York?"

"No," replied the astounded depot master. "Took up by the POLICE?"

"Um—hm. Surprises you, don't it? Well, that whole trip was a surprise to me.

"When Laban Thorp set out to thrash his son and the boy licked him instead, they found the old man settin' in the barnyard, holdin' on to his nose and grinnin' for pure joy.

"'Hurt?' says he. 'Why, some. But think of it! Only think of it! I didn't believe Bill had it in him.'

"Well, that's the way I felt when Cap'n Jonadab sprung the New York plan on to me. I was pretty nigh as much surprised as Labe. The idea of a man with a chronic case of lockjaw of the pocketbook, same as Jonadab had worried along under ever sence I knew him, suddenly breakin' loose with a notion to go to New York on a pleasure cruise! 'Twas too many for me. I set and looked at him.

"'Oh, I mean it, Barzilla,' he says. 'I ain't been to New York sence I was mate on the Emma Snow, and that was 'way back in the eighties. That is, to stop I ain't. That time we went through on the way to Peter T.'s weddin' don't count, 'cause we only went in the front door and out the back, like Squealer Wixon went through high school. Let's you and me go and stay two or three days and have a real high old time,' says he.

"I fetched a long breath. 'Jonadab,' I says, don't scare a feller this way; I've got a weak heart. If you're goin' to start in and be divilish in your old age, why, do it kind of gradual. Let's go over to the billiard room and have a bottle of sass'parilla and a five-cent cigar, just to break the ice.'

"But that only made him mad.

"'You talk like a fish,' he says. 'I mean it. Why can't we go? It's September, the Old Home House is shut up for the season, you and me's done well—fur's profits are concerned—and we ought to have a change, anyway. We've got to stay here in Orham all winter.'

"'Have you figgered out how much it's goin' to cost?' I asked him.

"Yes, he had. 'It won't be so awful expensive,' he says. 'I've got some stock in the railroad and that'll give me a pass fur's Fall River. And we can take a lunch to eat on the boat. And a stateroom's a dollar; that's fifty cents apiece. And my daughter's goin' to Denboro on a visit next week, so I'd have to pay board if I stayed to home. Come on, Barzilla! don't be so tight with your money.'

"So I said I'd go, though I didn't have any pass, nor no daughter to feed me free gratis for nothin' when I got back. And when we started, on the followin' Monday, nothin' would do but we must be at the depot at two o'clock so's not to miss the train, which left at quarter past three.

"I didn't sleep much that night on the boat. For one thing, our stateroom was a nice lively one, alongside of the paddle box and just under the fog whistle; and for another, the supper that Jonadab had brought, bein' mainly doughnuts and cheese, wa'n't the best cargo to take to bed with you. But it didn't make much diff'rence, 'cause we turned out at four, so's to see the scenery and git our money's worth. What was left of the doughnuts and cheese we had for breakfast.

"We made the dock on time, and the next thing was to pick out a hotel. I was for cruisin' along some of the main streets until we hove in sight of a place that looked sociable and not too expensive. But no; Jonadab had it all settled for me. We was goin' to the 'Wayfarer's Inn,' a boardin' house where he'd put up once when he was mate of the Emma Snow. He said 'twas a fine place and you could git as good ham and eggs there as a body'd want to eat.

"So we set sail for the 'Wayfarer's,' and of all the times gittin' to a place—don't talk! We asked no less than nine policemen and one hundred and two other folks, and it cost us thirty cents in car fares, which pretty nigh broke Jonadab's heart. However, we found it, finally, 'way off amongst a nest of brick houses and peddler carts and children, and it wa'n't the 'Wayfarer's Inn' no more, but was down in the shippin' list as the 'Golconda House.' Jonadab said the neighborhood had changed some sence he was there, but he guessed we'd better chance it, 'cause the board was cheap.

"We had a nine-by-ten room up aloft somewheres, and there we set down on the edge of the bed and a chair to take account of stock, as you might say.

"'Now, I tell you, Jonadab,' says I; 'we don't want to waste no time, and we've got the day afore us. What do you say if we cruise along the water front for a spell? There's ha'f a dozen Orham folks aboard diff'rent steamers that hail from this port, and 'twouldn't be no more'n neighborly to call on 'em. There's Silas Baker's boy, Asa—he's with the Savannah Line and he'd be mighty glad to see us. And there's—'

"But Jonadab held up his hand. He'd been mysterious as a baker's mince pie ever sence we started, hintin' at somethin' he'd got to do when we'd got to New York. And now he out with it.

"'Barzilla,' he says, 'I ain't sayin' but what I'd like to go to the wharves with you, first rate. And we will go, too. But afore we do anything else I've got an errand that must be attended to. 'Twas give to me by a dyin' man,' he says, 'and I promised him I'd do it. So that comes first of all.'

"He got his wallet out of his inside vest pocket, where it had been pinned in tight to keep it safe from robbers, unwound a foot or so of leather strap, and dug up a yeller piece of paper that looked old enough to be Methusalem's will, pretty nigh.

"'Do you remember Patrick Kelly in Orham?' he asks.

"'Who?' says I. 'Pat Kelly, the Irishman, that lived in the little old shack back of your barn? Course I do. But he's been dead for I don't know how long.'

"'I know he has. Do you remember his boy Jim that run away from home?'

"'Let's see,' I says. 'Seems to me I do. Freckled, red-headed rooster, wa'n't he? And of all the imps of darkness that ever—'

"'S-sh-sh!' he interrupted solemn. 'Don't say that now, Barzilla. Sounds kind of irreverent. Well, me and old Pat was pretty friendly, in a way, though he did owe me rent. When he was sick with the pleurisy he sends for me and he says, "Cap'n 'Wixon," says he, "you're pretty close with the money," he says—he was kind of out of his head at the time and liable to say foolish things—"you're pretty close," he says, "but you're a man of your word. My boy Jimmie, that run away, was the apple of my eye."'

"'That's what he said about his girl Maggie that was took up for stealin' Mrs. Elkanah Higgins's spoons,' I says. 'He had a healthy crop of apples in HIS orchard.'

"'S-sh-h! DON'T talk so! I feel as if the old man's spirit was with us this minute. "He's the apple of my eye," he says, "and he run away, after me latherin' the life out of him with a wagon spoke. 'Twas all for his good, but he didn't understand, bein' but a child. And now I've heard," he says, "that he's workin' at 116 East Blank Street in the city of New York. Cap'n Wixon, you're a man of money and a travelin' man," he says (I was fishin' in them days). "When you go to New York," he says, "I want you to promise me to go to the address on this paper and hunt up Jimmie. Tell him I forgive him for lickin' him," he says, "and die happy. Will you promise me that, Cap'n, on your word as a gentleman?" And I promised him. And he died in less than ten months afterwards, poor thing.'

"'But that was sixteen—eighteen—nineteen years ago,' says I. 'And the boy run away three years afore that. You've been to New York in the past nineteen years, once anyhow.'

"'I know it. But I forgot. I'm ashamed of it, but I forgot. And when I was goin' through the things up attic at my daughter's last Friday, seein' what I could find for the rummage sale at the church, I come across my old writin' desk, and in it was this very piece of paper with the address on it just as I wrote it down. And me startin' for New York in three days! Barzilla, I swan to man, I believe something SENT me to that attic.'

"I knew what sent him there and so did the church folks, judgin' by their remarks when the contribution came in. But I was too much set back by the whole crazy business to say anything about that.

"'Look here, Jonadab Wixon,' I sings out, 'do you mean to tell me that we've got to put in the whole forenoon ransackin' New York to find a boy that run off twenty-two years ago?'

"'It won't take the forenoon,' he says. 'I've got the number, ain't I?'

"'Yes, you've got the number where he WAS. If you want to know where I think he's likely to be now, I'd try the jail.'

"But he said I was unfeelin' and disobligin' and lots more, so, to cut the argument short, I agreed to go. And off we put to hunt up 116 East Blank Street. And when we located it, after a good hour of askin' questions, and payin' car fares and wearin' out shoe leather, 'twas a Chinese laundry.

"'Well,' I says, sarcastic, 'here we be. Which one of the heathen do you think is Jimmie? If he had an inch or so more of upper lip, I'd gamble on that critter with the pink nighty and the baskets on his feet. He has a kind of familiar chicken-stealin' look in his eye. Oh, come down on the wharves, Jonadab, and be sensible.'

"Would you believe it, he wa'n't satisfied. We must go into the wash shop and ask the Chinamen if they knew Jimmie Kelly. So we went in and the powwow begun.

"'Twas a mighty unsatisfyin' interview. Jonadab's idea of talkin' to furriners is to yell at 'em as if they was stone deef. If they don't understand what you say, yell louder. So between his yells and the heathen's jabber and grunts the hullabaloo was worse than a cat in a hen yard. Folks begun to stop outside the door and listen and grin.

"'What did he say?' asks the Cap'n, turnin' to me.

"'I don't know,' says I, 'but I cal'late he's gettin' ready to send a note up to the crazy asylum. Come on out of here afore I go loony myself.'

"So he done it, finally, cross as all get out, and swearin' that all Chinese was no good and oughtn't to be allowed in this country. But he wouldn't give up, not yet. He must scare up some of the neighbors and ask them. The fifth man that we asked was an old chap who remembered that there used to be a liquor saloon once where the laundry was now. But he didn't know who run it or what had become of him.

"'Never mind,' I says. 'You're as warm as you're likely to be this trip. A rum shop is just about the place I'd expect that Kelly boy WOULD be in. And, if he's like the rest of his relations on his dad's side, he drank himself to death years ago. NOW will you head for the Savannah Line?'

"Not much, he wouldn't. He had another notion. We'd look in the directory. That seemed to have a glimmer of sense somewheres in its neighborhood, so we found an apothecary store and the clerk handed us out a book once again as big as a church Bible.

"'Kelly,' says Jonadab. 'Yes, here 'tis. Now, "James Kelly." Land of Love! Barzilla, look here.'

"I looked, and there wa'n't no less than a dozen pages of James Kellys beginning with fifty James A.'s and endin' with four James Z.'s. The Y in 'New York' ought to be a C, judgin' by that directory.

"'Godfrey mighty!' I says. 'This ain't no forenoon's job, Jonadab. If you're goin' through that list you'll have to spend the rest of your life here. Only, unless you want to be lonesome, you'll have to change your name to Kelly.'

"'If I'd only got his middle letter,' says he, mournful, ''twould have been easier. He had four middle names, if I remember right—the old man was great on names—and 'twas too much trouble to write 'em all down. Well, I've done my duty, anyhow. We'll go and call on Ase Baker.'

"But 'twas after eleven o'clock then, and the doughnuts and cheese I had for breakfast was beginnin' to feel as if they wanted company. So we decided to go back to the Golconda and have some dinner first.

"We had ham and eggs for dinner, some that was left over from the last time Jonadab stopped there, I cal'late. Lucky there was hot bread and coffee on the bill or we'd never got a square meal. Then we went up to our room and the Cap'n laid down on the bed. He was beat out, he said, and wanted to rest up a spell afore haulin' anchor for another cruise."



CHAPTER XII

A VISION SENT

"Where's the arrestin' come in?" demanded Stitt.

"Comes quick now, Bailey. Plenty quick enough for me and Jonadab, I tell you that! After we got to our room the Cap'n went to sleep pretty soon and I set in the one chair, readin' the newspaper and wishin' I hadn't ate so many of the warm bricks that the Golconda folks hoped was biscuit. They made me feel like a schooner goin' home in ballast. I guess I was drowsin' off myself, but there comes a most unearthly yell from the bed and I jumped ha'f out of the chair. There was Jonadab settin' up and lookin' wild.

"'What in the world?' says I.

"'Oh! Ugh! My soul!' says he.

"'Your soul, hey?' says I. 'Is that all? I thought mebbe you'd lost a quarter.'

"'Barzilla,' he says, comin' to and starin' at me solemn, 'Barzilla, I've had a dream—a wonderful dream.'

"'Well,' I says, 'I ain't surprised. A feller that h'isted in as much fried dough as you did ought to expect—'

"'But I tell you 'twas a WONDERFUL dream,' he says. 'I dreamed I was on Blank Street, where we was this mornin', and Patrick Kelly comes to me and p'ints his finger right in my face. I see him as plain as I see you now. And he says to me—he said it over and over, two or three times—Seventeen," says he, "Seventeen." Now what do you think of that?'

"'Humph!' I says. 'I ain't surprised. I think 'twas just seventeen of them biscuits that you got away with. Wonder to me you didn't see somebody worse'n old Pat.'

"But he was past jokin'. You never see a man so shook up by the nightmare as he was by that one. He kept goin' over it and tellin' how natural old Kelly looked and how many times he said 'Seventeen' to him.

"'Now what did he mean by it?' he says. 'Don't tell me that was a common dream, 'cause twa'n't. No, sir, 'twas a vision sent to me, and I know it. But what did he mean?'

"'I think he meant you was seventeen kinds of an idiot,' I snorts, disgusted. 'Get up off that bed and stop wavin' your arms, will you? He didn't mean for you to turn yourself into a windmill, that's sartin sure.'

"Then he hits his knee a slap that sounds like a window blind blowin' to. 'I've got it!' he sings out. 'He meant for me to go to number seventeen on that street. That's what he meant.'

"I laughed and made fun of him, but I might as well have saved my breath. He was sure Pat Kelly's ghost had come hikin' back from the hereafter to tell him to go to 17 Blank Street and find his boy. 'Else why was he ON Blank Street?' he says. 'You tell me that.'

"I couldn't tell him. It's enough for me to figger out what makes live folks act the way they do, let alone dead ones. And Cap'n Jonadab was a Spiritu'list on his mother's side. It ended by my agreein' to give the Jimmie chase one more try.

"'But it's got to be the last,' I says. 'When you get to number seventeen don't you say you think the old man meant to say "seventy" and stuttered.'

"Number 17 Blank Street was a little combination fruit and paper store run by an Eyetalian with curly hair and the complexion of a molasses cooky. His talk sounded as if it had been run through a meat chopper. All he could say was, 'Nica grape, genta'men? On'y fifteen cent a pound. Nica grape? Nica apple? Nica pear? Nica ploom?'

"'Kelly?' says Jonadab, hollerin' as usual. 'Kelly! d'ye understand? K-E-L-Kel L-Y-ly, Kelly. YOU know, KELLY! We want to find him.'

"And just then up steps a feller about six feet high and three foot through. He was dressed in checkerboard clothes, some gone to seed, and you could hardly see the blue tie he had on for the glass di'mond in it. Oh, he was a little wilted now—for the lack of water, I judge—but 'twas plain that he'd been a sunflower in his time. He'd just come out of a liquor store next door to the fruit shop and was wipin' his mouth with the back of his hand.

"'What's this I hear?' says he, fetchin' Jonadab a welt on the back like a mast goin' by the board. 'Is it me friend Kelly you're lookin' for?'

"I was just goin' to tell him no, not likin' his looks, but Jonadab cut in ahead of me, out of breath from the earthquake the feller had landed him, but excited as could be.

"'Yes, yes!' says he. 'It's Mr. Kelly we want. Do you know him?'

"'Do I know him? Why, me bucko, 'tis me old college chum he is. Come on with me and we'll give him the glad hand.'

"He grabs Jonadab by the arm and starts along the sidewalk, steerin' a toler'ble crooked course, but gainin' steady by jerks.

"'I was on me way to Kelly's place now,' says he. 'And here it is. Sure didn't I bate the bookies blind on Rosebud but yesterday—or was it the day before? I don't know, but come on, me lads, and we'll do him again.'

"He turned in at a little narrer entry-like, and went stumblin' up a flight of dirty stairs. I caught hold of Jonadab's coat tails and pulled him back.

"'Where you goin', you crazy loon?' I whispered. 'Can't you see he's three sheets in the wind? And you haven't told him what Kelly you want, nor nothin'.'

"But I might as well have hollered at a stone wall. 'I don't care if he's as fur gone in liquor as Belshazzer's goat,' sputters the Cap'n, all worked up. 'He's takin' us to a Kelly, ain't he? And is it likely there'd be another one within three doors of the number I dreamed about? Didn't I tell you that dream was a vision sent? Don't lay to NOW, Barzilla, for the land sakes! It's Providence a-workin'.'

"'Cording to my notion the sunflower looked more like an agent from t'other end of the line than one from Providence, but just then he commenced to yell for us and upstairs we went, Jonadab first.

"'Whisht!' says the checkerboard, holdin' on to Jonadab's collar and swingin' back and forth. 'Before we proceed to blow in on me friend Kelly, let us come to an understandin' concernin' and touchin' on—and—and—I don't know. But b'ys,' says he, solemn and confidential, 'are you on the square? Are yez dead game sports, hey?'

"'Yes, yes!' says Jonadab. 'Course we be. Mr. Kelly and us are old friends. We've come I don't know how fur on purpose to see him. Now where's—'

"'Say no more,' hollers the feller. 'Say no more. Come on with yez.' And he marches down the dark hall to a door with a 'To let' sign on it and fetches it a bang with his fist. It opens a little ways and a face shows in the crack.

"'Hello, Frank!' hails the sunflower, cheerful. 'Will you take that ugly mug of yours out of the gate and lave me friends in?'

"'What's the matter wid you, Mike?' asks the chap at the door. 'Yer can't bring them two yaps in here and you know it. Gwan out of this.'

"He tried to shut the door, but the checkerboard had his foot between it and the jamb. You might as well have tried to shove in the broadside of an ocean liner as to push against that foot.

"'These gents are friends of mine,' says he. 'Frank, I'll do yez the honor of an introduction to Gin'ral Grant and Dan'l O'Connell. Open that door and compose your face before I'm obliged to break both of 'em.'

"'But I tell you, Mike, I can't,' says the door man, lookin' scared. 'The boss is out, and you know—'

"'WILL you open that door?' roars the big chap. And with that he hove his shoulder against the panels and jammed the door open by main force, all but flattenin' the other feller behind it. 'Walk in, Gin'ral,' he says to Jonadab, and in we went, me wonderin' what was comin' next, and not darin' to guess.

"There was a kind of partitioned off hallway inside, with another door in the partition. We opened that, and there was a good-sized room, filled with men, smokin' and standin' around. A high board fence was acrost one end of the room, and from behind it comes a jinglin' of telephone bells and the sounds of talk. The floor was covered with torn papers, the window blinds was shut, the gas was burnin' blue, and, between it and the smoke, the smells was as various as them in a fish glue factory. On the fence was a couple of blackboards with 'Belmont' and 'Brighton' and suchlike names in chalk wrote on 'em, and beneath that a whole mess in writin' and figures like, 'Red Tail 4—Wt—108—Jock Smith—5—1,' 'Sourcrout 5—Wt—99—Jock Jones—20—5,' and similar rubbish. And the gang—a mighty mixed lot—was scribblin' in little books and watchin' each other as if they was afraid of havin' their pockets picked; though, to look at 'em, you'd have guessed the biggest part had nothin' in their pockets but holes.

"The six-foot checkerboard—who, it turned out, answered to the hail of 'Mike'—seemed to be right at home with the gang. He called most of 'em by their first names and went sasshayin' around, weltin' 'em on the back and tellin' 'em how he'd 'put crimps in the bookies rolls t'other day,' and a lot more stuff that they seemed to understand, but was hog Greek to me and Jonadab. He'd forgot us altogether which was a mercy the way I looked at it, and I steered the Cap'n over into a corner and we come to anchor on a couple of rickety chairs.

"'What—why—what kind of a place IS this, Barzilla?' whispers Jonadab, scared.

"'Sh-h-h!' says I. 'Land knows. Just set quiet and hang on to your watch.'

"'But—but I want to find Kelly,' says he.

"'I'd give somethin' to find a back door,' says I. 'Ain't this a collection of dock rats though! If this is a part of your dream, Jonadab, I wish you'd turn over and wake up. Oh land! here's one murderer headin' this way. Keep your change in your fist and keep the fist shut.'

"A more'n average rusty peep, with a rubber collar on and no necktie, comes slinkin' over to us. He had a smile like a crack in a plate.

"'Say, gents,' he says, 'have you made your bets yet? I've got a dead straight line on the handicap,' says he, 'and I'll put you next for a one spot. It's a sure t'ing at fifteen to three. What do you say?'

"I didn't say nuthin'; but that fool dream was rattlin' round in Jonadab's skull like a bean in a blowgun, and he sees a chance for a shot.

"'See here, mister,' he says. 'Can you tell me where to locate Mr. Kelly?'

"'Who—Pete?' says the feller. 'Oh, he ain't in just now. But about that handicap. I like the looks of youse and I'll let youse in for a dollar. Or, seein' it's you, we'll say a half. Only fifty cents. I wouldn't do better for my own old man,' he says.

"While the Cap'n was tryin' to unravel one end of this gibberish I spoke up prompt.

"'Say,' says I, 'tell me this, will you? Is the Kelly who owns this—this palace, named Jimmie—James, I mean?'

"'Naw,' says he. 'Sure he ain't. It's Pete Kelly, of course—Silver Pete. But what are you givin' us? Are you bettin' on the race, or ain't you?'

"Well, Jonadab understood that. He bristled up like a brindled cat. If there's any one thing the Cap'n is down on, it's gamblin' and such—always exceptin' when he knows he's won already. You've seen that kind, maybe.

"'Young feller,' he says, perkish, 'I want you to know that me and my friend ain't the bettin' kind. What sort of a hole IS this, anyway?'

"The rubber collared critter backed off, lookin' worried. He goes acrost the room, and I see him talkin' to two or three other thieves as tough as himself. And they commenced to stare at us and scowl.

"'Come on,' I whispered to Jonadab. 'Let's get out of this place while we can. There ain't no Jimmie Kelly here, or if there is you don't want to find him.'

"He was as willin' to make tracks as I was, by this time, and we headed for the door in the partition. But Rubber Collar and some of the others got acrost our bows.

"'Cut it out,' says one of 'em. 'You can't get away so easy. Hi, Frank! Frank! Who let these turnip pullers in here, anyhow? Who are they?'

"The chap who was tendin' door comes out of his coop. 'You've got me,' he says. 'They come in with Big Mike, and he was loaded and scrappy and jammed 'em through. Said they was pals of his. Where is he?'

"There was a hunt for Mike, and, when they got his bearin's, there he was keeled over on a bench, breathin' like an escape valve. And an admiral's salute wouldn't have woke him up. The whole crew was round us by this time, some ugly, and the rest laffin' and carryin' on.

"'It's the Barkwurst gang,' says one.

"'It's old Bark himself,' says another. 'Look at them lace curtains.' And he points to Jonadab's whiskers.

"'This one's Jacobs in disguise,' sings out somebody else. 'You can tell him by the Rube get-up. Haw! haw!'

"'Soak 'em! Do 'em up! Don't let 'em out!' hollers a ha'f dozen more.

"Jonadab was game; I'll say that for him. And I hadn't been second mate in my time for nothin'.

"'Take your hands off me!' yells the Cap'n. 'I come in here to find a man I'm lookin' for, James Kelly it was, and—You would, would you! Stand by, Barzilla!'

"I stood by. Rubber Collar got one from me that made him remember home and mother, I'll bet. Anyhow, my knuckles ached for two days afterwards. And Jonadab was just as busy. But I cal'late we'd have been ready for the oven in another five minutes if the door hadn't bu'st open with a bang, and a loud dressed chap, with the sweat pourin' down his face, come tearin' in.

"'Beat it, fellers!' he yells. 'The place is goin' to be pinched. I've just had the tip, and they're right on top of me.'

"THEN there was times. Everybody was shoutin' and swearin' and fallin' over each other to get out. I was kind of lost in the shuffle, and the next thing I remember for sartin is settin' up on Rubber Collar's stomach and lookin' foggy at the door, where the loud dressed man was wrestlin' with a policeman. And there was police at the windows and all around.

"Well, don't talk! I got up, resurrects Jonadab from under a heap of gamblers and furniture, and makes for harbor in our old corner. The police was mighty busy, especially a fat, round-faced, red-mustached man, with gold bands on his cap and arms, that the rest called 'Cap'n.' Him and the loud dressed chap who'd give the alarm was talkin' earnest close to us.

"'I can't help it, Pete,' says the police cap'n. ''Twas me or the Vice Suppression crowd. They've been on to you for two weeks back. I only just got in ahead of 'em as it was. No, you'll have to go along with the rest and take your chances. Quiet now, everybody, or you'll get it harder,' he roars, givin' orders like the skipper of a passenger boat. 'Stand in line and wait your turns for the wagon.'

"Jonadab grabbed me by the wrist. He was pale and shakin' all over.

"'Oh, Lordy!' says he, 'we're took up. Will we have to go to jail, do you think?'

"'I don't know,' I says, disgusted. 'I presume likely we will. Did you dream anything like this? You'd better see if you can't dream yourself out now.' Twas rubbin' it in, but I was mad.

"'Oh! oh!' says he, flappin' his hands. 'And me a deacon of the church! Will folks know it, do you think?'

"'Will they know it! Sounds as if they knew it already. Just listen to that.'

"The first wagon full of prizes was bein' loaded in down at the front door, and the crowd outside was cheerin' 'em. Judgin' by the whoops and hurrahs there wa'n't no less than a million folks at the show, and they was gettin' the wuth of admission.

"'Oh, dear!' groans Jonadab. 'And it'll be in the papers and all! I can't stand this.'

"And afore I could stop him he'd run over and tackled the head policeman.

"'Mister—Mister Cap'n,' he says, pantin', 'there's been a mistake, an awful mis—take—'

"'That's right,' says the police cap'n, 'there has. Six or eight of you tin horns got clear. But—' Then he noticed who was speakin' to him and his mouth dropped open like a hatch. 'Well, saints above!' he says. 'Have the up-state delegates got to buckin' the ponies, too? Why ain't you back home killin' pertater bugs? You ought to be ashamed.'

"'But we wa'n't gamblin'—me and my friend wa'n't. We was led in here by mistake. We was told that a feller named Kelly lived here and we're huntin' for a man of that name. I've got a message to him from his poor dead father back in Orham. We come all the way from Orham, Mass.—to find him and—'

"The police cap'n turned around then and stared at him hard. 'Humph!' says he, after a spell. 'Go over there and set down till I want you. No, you'll go now and we'll waste no breath on it. Go on, do you hear!'

"So we went, and there we set for ha'f an hour, while the rest of the gang and the blackboards and the paper slips and the telephones and Big Mike and his chair was bein' carted off to the wagon. Once, when one of the constables was beatin' acrost to get us, the police cap'n spoke to him.

"'You can leave these two,' he says. 'I'll take care of them.'

"So, finally, when there was nothin' left but the four walls and us and some of the police, he takes me and Jonadab by the elbows and heads for the door.

"'Now,' says he, 'walk along quiet and peaceable and tell me all about it. Get out of this!' he shouts to the crowd of small boys and loafers on the sidewalk, 'or I'll take you, too.'

"The outsiders fell astern, lookin' heartbroke and disapp'inted that we wa'n't hung on the spot, and the fat boss policeman and us two paraded along slow but grand. I felt like the feller that was caught robbin' the poorhouse, and I cal'late Jonadab felt the same, only he was so busy beggin' and pleadin' and explainin' that he couldn't stop to feel anything.

"He told it all, the whole fool yarn from one end to t'other. How old Pat give him the message and how he went to the laundry, and about his ridiculous dream, every word. And the fat policeman shook all over, like a barrel of cod livers.

"By and by we got to a corner of a street and hove to. I could see the station house loomin' up large ahead. Fatty took a card from his pocketbook, wrote on it with a pencil, and then hailed a hack, one of them stern-first kind where the driver sits up aloft 'way aft. He pushed back the cap with the gilt wreath on it, and I could see his red hair shinin' like a sunset.

"'Here,' says he to the hack driver, 'take these—this pair of salads to the—what d'ye call it?—the Golconda House, wherever on top of the pavement that is. And mind you, deliver 'em safe and don't let the truck horses get a bite at 'em. And at half-past eight to-night you call for 'em and bring 'em here,' handin' up the card he'd written on.

"''Tis the address of my house, I'm givin',' he says, turnin' to Jonadab. 'I'll be off duty then and we'll have dinner and talk about old times. To think of you landin' in Silver Pete's pool room! Dear! dear! Why, Cap'n Wixon, barrin' that your whiskers are a bit longer and a taste grayer, I'd 'a' known you anywheres. Many's the time I've stole apples over your back fence. I'm Jimmie Kelly,' says he."

"Well, by mighty!" exclaimed the depot master, slapping his knee. "So HE was the Kelly man! Humph!"

"Funny how it turned out, wa'n't it?" said Barzilla. "Course, Cap'n Jonadab was perfectly sat on spiritu'lism and signs and omens and such after that. He's had his fortune told no less'n eight times sence, and, nigh's I can find out, each time it's different. The amount of blondes and brunettes and widows and old maids that he's slated to marry, accordin' to them fortune tellers, is perfectly scandalous. If he lives up to the prophecies, Brigham Young wouldn't be a twospot 'longside of him."

"It's funny about dreams," mused Captain Hiram. "Folks are always tellin' about their comin' true, but none of mine ever did. I used to dream I was goin' to be drowned, but I ain't been yet."

The depot master laughed. "Well," he observed, "once, when I was a youngster, I dreamed two nights runnin' that I was bein' hung. I asked my Sunday school teacher if he believed dreams come true, and he said yes, sometimes. Then I told him my dream, and he said he believed in that one. I judged that any other finish for me would have surprised him. But, somehow or other, they haven't hung me yet."

"There was a hired girl over at the Old Home House who was sat on fortune tellin'," said Wingate. "Her name was Effie, and—"

"Look here!" broke in Captain Bailey Stitt, righteous indignation in his tone, "I've started no less than nineteen different times to tell you about how I went sailin' in an automobile. Now do you want to hear it, or don't you?"

"How you went SAILIN' in an auto?" repeated Barzilla. "Went ridin', you mean."

"I mean sailin'. I went ridin', too, but—"

"You'll have to excuse me, Bailey," interrupted Captain Hiram, rising and looking at his watch. "I've stayed here a good deal longer'n I ought to, already. I must be gettin' on home to see how poor little Dusenberry, my boy, is feelin'. I do hope he's better by now. I wish Dr. Parker hadn't gone out of town."

The depot master rose also. "And I'll have to be excused, too," he declared. "It's most time for the up train. Good-by, Hiram. Give my regards to Sophrony, and if there's anything I can do to help, in case your baby should be sick, just sing out, won't you?"

"But I want to tell about this automobilin' scrape," protested Captain Bailey. "It was one of them things that don't happen every day."

"So was that fortune business of Effie's," declared Wingate. "Honest, the way it worked out was queer enough."

But the train whistled just then and the group broke up. Captain Sol went out to the platform, where Cornelius Rowe, Ed Crocker, Beriah Higgins, Obed Gott, and other interested citizens had already assembled. Wingate and Stitt followed. As for Captain Hiram Baker, he hurried home, his conscience reproving him for remaining so long away from his wife and poor little Hiram Joash, more familiarly known as "Dusenberry."



CHAPTER XIII

DUSENBERRY'S BIRTHDAY

Mrs. Baker met her husband at the door.

"How is he?" was the Captain's first question. "Better, hey?"

"No," was the nervous answer. "No, I don't think he is. His throat's terrible sore and the fever's just as bad."

Again Captain Hiram's conscience smote him.

"Dear! dear!" he exclaimed. "And I've been loafin' around the depot with Sol Berry and the rest of 'em instead of stayin' home with you, Sophrony. I KNEW I was doin' wrong, but I didn't realize—"

"Course you didn't, Hiram. I'm glad you got a few minutes' rest, after bein' up with him half the night. I do wish the doctor was home, though. When will he be back?"

"Not until late to-morrer, if then. Did you keep on givin' the medicine?"

"Yes, but it don't seem to do much good. You go and set with him now, Hiram. I must be seein' about supper."

So into the sick room went Captain Hiram to sit beside the crib and sing "Sailor boy, sailor boy, 'neath the wild billow," as a lugubrious lullaby.

Little Hiram Joash tossed and tumbled. He was in a fitful slumber when Mrs. Baker called her husband to supper. The meal was anything but a cheerful one. They talked but little. Over the home, ordinarily so cheerful, had settled a gloom that weighed upon them.

"My! my!" sighed Captain Hiram, "how lonesome it seems without him chatterin' and racketin' sound. Seems darker'n usual, as if there was a shadow on the place."

"Hush, Hiram! don't talk that way. A shadow! Oh, WHAT made you say that? Sounds like a warnin', almost."

"Warnin'?"

"Yes, a forewarnin', you know. 'The valley of the shadow—'"

"HUSH!" Captain Baker's face paled under its sunburn. "Don't say such things, Sophrony. If that happened, the Lord help you and me. But it won't—it won't. We're nervous, that's all. We're always so careful of Dusenberry, as if he was made out of thin china, that we get fidgety when there's no need of it. We mustn't be foolish."

After supper Mrs. Baker tiptoed into the bedroom. She emerged with a very white face.

"Hiram," she whispered, "he acts dreadful queer. Come in and see him."

The "first mate" was tossing back and forth in the crib, making odd little choky noises in his swollen throat. When his father entered he opened his eyes, stared unmeaningly, and said: "'Tand by to det der ship under way."

"Good Lord! he's out of his head," gasped the Captain. Sophronia and he stepped back into the sitting room and looked at each other, the same thought expressed in the face of each. Neither spoke for a moment, then Captain Hiram said:

"Now don't you worry, Sophrony. The Doctor ain't home, but I'm goin' out to—to telegraph him, or somethin'. Keep a stiff upper lip. It'll be all right. God couldn't go back on you and me that way. He just couldn't. I'll be back in a little while."

"But, oh, Hiram! if he should—if he SHOULD be taken away, what WOULD we do?"

She began to cry. Her husband laid a trembling hand on her shoulder.

"But he won't," he declared stoutly. "I tell you God wouldn't do such a thing. Good-by, old lady. I'll hurry fast as I can."

As he took up his cap and turned to the door he heard the voice of the weary little first mate chokily calling his crew to quarters. "All hands on deck!"

The telegraph office was in Beriah Higgins's store. Thither ran the Captain. Pat Sharkey, Mr. Higgins's Irish helper, who acted as telegraph operator during Gertie Higgins's absence, gave Captain Hiram little satisfaction.

"How can I get Dr. Parker?" asked Pat. "He's off on a cruise and land knows where I can reach him to-night. I'll do what I can, Cap, but it's ten chances out of nine against a wire gettin' to him."

Captain Hiram left the store, dodging questioners who were anxious to know what his trouble might be, and dazedly crossed Main Street, to the railway station. He thought of asking advice of his friend, the depot master.

The evening train from Boston pulled out as he passed through the waiting room. One or two passengers were standing on the platform. One of these was a short, square-shouldered man with gray side whiskers and eyeglasses. The initials on his suit case were J. S. M., Boston, and they stood for John Spencer Morgan. If the bearer of the suit case had followed the fashion of the native princes of India and had emblazoned his titles upon his baggage, the commonplace name just quoted might have been followed by "M.D., LL.D., at Harvard and Oxford; vice president American Medical Society; corresponding secretary Associated Society of Surgeons; lecturer at Harvard Medical College; author of 'Diseases of the Throat and Lungs,' etc., etc."

But Dr. Morgan was not given to advertising either his titles or himself, and he was hurrying across the platform to Redny Blount's depot wagon when Captain Hiram touched him on the arm.

"Why, hello, Captain Baker," exclaimed the Doctor, "how do you do?"

"Dr. Morgan," said the Captain, "I—I hope you'll excuse my presumin' on you this way, but I want to ask a favor of you, a great favor. I want to ask if you'll come down to the house and see the boy; he's on the sick list."

"What, Dusenberry?"

"Yes, sir. He's pretty bad, I'm 'fraid, and the old lady's considerable upsot about him. If you just come down and kind of take an observation, so's we could sort of get our bearin's, as you might say, 'twould be a mighty help to all hands."

"But where's your town physician? Hasn't he been called?"

The Captain explained. He had inquired, and he had telegraphed, but could get no word of Dr. Parker's whereabouts.

The great Boston specialist listened to Captain Hiram's story in an absent-minded way. Holidays were few and far between with him, and when he accepted the long-standing invitation of Mr. Ogden Williams to run down for the week end he determined to forget the science of medicine and all that pertained to it for the four days of his outing. But an exacting patient had detained him long enough to prevent his taking the train that morning, and now, on the moment of his belated arrival, he was asked to pay a professional call. He liked the Captain, who had taken him out fishing several times on his previous excursions to East Harniss, and he remembered Dusenberry as a happy little sea urchin, but he simply couldn't interrupt his pleasure trip to visit a sick baby. Besides, the child was Dr. Parker's patient, and professional ethics forbade interference.

"Captain Hiram," he said, "I am sorry to disappoint you, but it will be impossible for me to do what you ask. Mr. Williams expected me this morning, and I am late already. Dr. Parker will, no doubt, return soon. The baby cannot be dangerously ill or he would not have left him."

The Captain slowly turned away.

"Thank you, Doctor," he said huskily. "I knew I hadn't no right to ask."

He walked across the platform, abstractedly striking his right hand into his left. When he reached the ticket window he put one hand against the frame as if to steady himself, and stood there listlessly.

The enterprising Mr. Blount had been hanging about the Doctor like a cat about the cream pitcher; now he rushed up, grasped the suit case, and officiously led the way toward the depot wagon. Dr. Morgan followed more slowly. As he passed the Captain he glanced up into the latter's face, lighted, as it was, by the lamp inside the window.

The Doctor stopped and looked again. Then he took another step forward, hesitated, turned on his heel, and said:

"Wait a moment, Blount. Captain Hiram, do you live far from here?"

The Captain started. "No, sir, only a little ways."

"All right. I'll go down and look at this boy of yours. Mind you, I'll not take the case, simply give my opinion on it, that's all. Blount, take my grip to Mr. Williams's. I'm going to walk down with the Captain."

"Haul on ee bowline, ee bowline, haul!" muttered the first mate, as they came into the room. The lamp that Sophronia was holding shook, and the Captain hurriedly brushed his eyes with the back of his hand.

Dr. Morgan started perceptibly as he bent forward to look at the little fevered face of Dusenberry. Graver and graver he became as he felt the pulse and peered into the swollen throat. At length he rose and led the way back into the sitting room.

"Captain Baker," he said simply, "I must ask you and your wife to be brave. The child has diphtheria and—"

"Diphthery!" gasped Sophronia, as white as her best tablecloth.

"Good Lord above!" cried the Captain.

"Diphtheria," repeated the Doctor; "and, although I dislike extremely to criticize a member of my own profession, I must say that any physician should have recognized it."

Sophronia groaned and covered her face with her apron.

"Ain't there—ain't there no chance, Doctor?" gasped the Captain.

"Certainly, there's a chance. If I could administer antitoxin by to-morrow noon the patient might recover. What time does the morning train from Boston arrive here?"

"Ha'f-past ten or thereabouts."

Dr. Morgan took his notebook from his pocket and wrote a few lines in pencil on one of the pages. Then he tore out the leaf and handed it to the Captain.

"Send that telegram immediately to my assistant in Boston," he said. "It directs him to send the antitoxin by the early train. If nothing interferes it should be here in time."

Captain Hiram took the slip of paper and ran out at the door bareheaded.

Dr. Morgan stood in the middle of the floor absent-mindedly looking at his watch. Sophronia was gazing at him appealingly. At length he put his watch in his pocket and said quietly:

"Mrs. Baker, I must ask you to give me a room. I will take the case." Then he added mentally: "And that settles my vacation."

Dr. Morgan's assistant was a young man whom nature had supplied with a prematurely bald head, a flourishing beard, and a way of appearing ten years older than he really was. To these gifts, priceless to a young medical man, might be added boundless ambition and considerable common sense.

The yellow envelope which contained the few lines meaning life or death to little Hiram Joash Baker was delivered at Dr. Morgan's Back Bay office at ten minutes past ten. Dr. Payson—that was the assistant's name—was out, but Jackson, the colored butler, took the telegram into his employer's office, laid it on the desk among the papers, and returned to the hall to finish his nap in the armchair. When Dr. Payson came in, at 11:30, the sleepy Jackson forgot to mention the dispatch.

The next morning as Jackson was cleaning the professional boots in the kitchen and chatting with the cook, the thought of the yellow envelope came back to his brain. He went up the stairs with such precipitation that the cook screamed, thinking he had a fit.

"Doctah! Doctah!" he exclaimed, opening the door of the assistant's chamber, "did you git dat telegraft I lef' on your desk las' night?"

"What telegraph?" asked the assistant sleepily. By way of answer Jackson hurried out and returned with the yellow envelope. The assistant opened it and read as follows:

Send 1,500 units Diphtheritic Serum to me by morning train. Don't fail. Utmost importance.

J. S. MORGAN.

Dr. Payson sprang out of bed, and running to the table took up the Railway Guide, turned to the pages devoted to the O. C. and C. C. Railroad and ran his finger down the printed tables. The morning train for Cape Cod left at 7:10. It was 6:45 at that moment. As has been said, the assistant had considerable common sense. He proved this by wasting no time in telling the forgetful Jackson what he thought of him. He sent the latter after a cab and proceeded to dress in double-quick time. Ten minutes later he was on his way to the station with the little wooden case containing the precious antitoxin, wrapped and addressed, in his pocket.

It was seven by the Arlington Street Church clock as the cab rattled down Boylston Street. A tangle of a trolley car and a market wagon delayed it momentarily at Harrison Avenue and Essex Street. Dr. Payson, leaning out as the carriage swung into Dewey Square, saw by the big clock on the Union Station that it was 7:13. He had lost the train.

Now, the assistant had been assistant long enough to know that excuses—in the ordinary sense of the word—did not pass current with Dr. Morgan. That gentleman had telegraphed for antitoxin, and said it was important that he should have it; therefore, antitoxin must be sent in spite of time-tables and forgetful butlers. Dr. Payson went into the waiting room and sat down to think. After a moment's deliberation he went over to the ticket office and asked:

"What is the first stop of the Cape Cod express?"

"Brockboro," answered the ticket seller.

"Is the train usually on time?"

"Well, I should smile. That's Charlie Mills's train, and the old man ain't been conductor on this road twenty-two years for nothin'."

"Mills? Does he live on Shawmut Avenue?"

"Dunno. Billy, where does Charlie Mills live?"

"Somewhere at the South End. Shawmut Avenue, I think."

"Thank you," said the assistant, and, helping himself to a time-table, he went back rejoicing to his seat in the waiting room. He had stumbled upon an unexpected bit of luck.

There might be another story written in connection with this one; the story of a veteran railroad man whose daughter had been very, very ill with a dreaded disease of the lungs, and who, when other physicians had given up hope, had been brought back to health by a celebrated specialist of our acquaintance. But this story cannot be told just now; suffice it to say that Conductor Charlie Mills had vowed that he would put his neck beneath the wheels of his own express train, if by so doing he could confer a favor on Dr. John Spencer Morgan.

The assistant saw by his time-table that the Cape Cod express reached Brockboro at 8:05. He went over to the telegraph office and wrote two telegrams. The first read like this:

CALVIN S. WISE, The People's Drug Store, 28 Broad Street, Brockboro, Mass.:

Send package 1,500 units Diphtheritic Serum marked with my name to station. Hand to Conductor Mills, Cape Cod express. Train will wait. Matter life and death.

The second telegram was to Conductor Mills. It read:

Hold train Brockboro to await arrival C. A. Wise. Great personal favor. Very important.

Both of these dispatches were signed with the magic name, "J. S. Morgan, M.D."

"Well," said the assistant as he rode back to his office, "I don't know whether Wise will get the stuff to the train in time, or whether Mills will wait for him, but at any rate I've done my part. I hope breakfast is ready, I'm hungry."

Mr. Wise, of "The People's Drug Store," had exactly two minutes in which to cover the three-quarters of a mile to the station. As a matter of course, he was late. Inquiring for Conductor Mills, he was met by a red-faced man in uniform, who, watch in hand, demanded what in the vale of eternal torment he meant by keeping him waiting eight minutes.

"Do you realize," demanded the red-faced man, "that I'm liable to lose my job? I'll have you to understand that if any other man than Doc. Morgan asked me to hold up the Cape Cod express, I'd tell him to go right plumb to—"

Here Mr. Wise interrupted to hand over the package and explain that it was a matter of life and death. Conductor Mills only grunted as he swung aboard the train.

"Hump her, Jim," he said to the engineer; "she's got to make up those eight minutes."

And Jim did.

And so it happened that on the morning of the Fourth of July, Dusenberry's birthday, Captain Hiram Baker and his wife sat together in the sitting room, with very happy faces. The Captain had in his hands the "truly boat with sails," which the little first mate had so ardently wished for.

She was a wonder, that boat. Red hull, real lead on the keel, brass rings on the masts, reef points on the main and fore sail, jib, flying jib and topsails, all complete. And on the stern was the name, "Dusenberry. East Harniss."

Captain Hiram set her down in front of him on the floor.

"Gee!" he exclaimed, "won't his eyes stick out when he sees that rig, hey? Wisht he would be well enough to see it to-day, same as we planned."

"Well, Hiram," said Sophrony, "we hadn't ought to complain. We'd ought to be thankful he's goin' to get well at all. Dr. Morgan says, thanks to that blessed toxing stuff, he'll be up and around in a couple of weeks."

"Sophrony," said her husband, "we'll have a special birthday celebration for him when he gets all well. You can bake the frosted cake and we'll have some of the other children in. I TOLD you God wouldn't be cruel enough to take him away."

And this is how Fate and the medical profession and the O. C. and C. C. Railroad combined to give little Hiram Joash Baker his birthday, and explains why, as he strolled down Main Street that afternoon, Captain Hiram was heard to sing heartily:

Haul on the bowline, the 'Phrony is a-rollin', Haul on the bowline, the bowline, HAUL!



CHAPTER XIV

EFFIE'S FATE

Surely, but very, very slowly, the little Berry house moved on its rollers up the Hill Boulevard. Right at its heels—if a house may be said to have heels—came the "pure Colonial," under the guidance of the foreman with "progressive methods." Groups of idlers, male and female, stood about and commented. Simeon Phinney smilingly replied to their questions. Captain Sol himself seemed little interested. He spent most of his daylight time at the depot, only going to the Higginses' house for his meals. At night, after the station was closed, he sought his own dwelling, climbed over the joist and rollers, entered, retired to his room, and went to bed.

Each day also he grew more taciturn. Even with Simeon, his particular friend, he talked little.

"What IS the matter with you, Sol?" asked Mr. Phinney. "You're as glum as a tongue-tied parrot. Ain't you satisfied with the way I'm doin' your movin'? The white horse can go back again if you say so."

"I'm satisfied," grunted the depot master. "Let you know when I've got any fault to find. How soon will you get abreast the—abreast the Seabury lot?"

"Let's see," mused the building mover. "Today's the eighth. Well, I'll be there by the eleventh, SURE. Can't drag it out no longer, Sol, even if the other horse is took sick. 'Twon't do. Williams has been complainin' to the selectmen and they're beginnin' to pester me. As for that Colt and Adams foreman—whew!"

He whistled. His companion smiled grimly.

"Williams himself drops in to see me occasional," he said. "Tells me what he thinks of me, with all the trimmin's added. I cal'late he gets as good as he sends. I'm always glad to see him; he keeps me cheered up, in his way."

"Ye-es, I shouldn't wonder. Was he in to-day?"

"He was. And somethin' has pleased him, I guess. At any rate he was in better spirits. Asked me if I was goin' to move right onto that Main Street lot soon as my house got there."

"What did you say?"

"I said I was cal'latin' to. Told him I hated to get out of the high-society circles I'd been livin' in lately, but that everyone had their comedowns in this world."

"Ho, ho! that was a good one. What answer did he make to that?"

"Well, he said the 'high society' would miss me. Then he finished up with a piece of advice. 'Berry,' says he, 'don't move onto that lot TOO quick. I wouldn't if I was you.' Then he went away, chucklin'."

"Chucklin', hey? What made him so joyful?"

"Don't know"—Captain Sol's face clouded once more—"and I care less," he added brusquely.

Simeon pondered. "Have you heard from Abner Payne, Sol?" he asked. "Has Ab answered that letter you wrote sayin' you'd swap your lot for the Main Street one?"

"No, he hasn't. I wrote him that day I told you to move me."

"Hum! that's kind of funny. You don't s'pose—"

He stopped, noticing the expression on his friend's face. The depot master was looking out through the open door of the waiting room. On the opposite side of the road, just emerging from Mr. Higgins's "general store," was Olive Edwards, the widow whose home was to be pulled down as soon as the "Colonial" reached its destination. She came out of the store and started up Main Street. Suddenly, and as if obeying an involuntary impulse, she turned her head. Her eyes met those of Captain Sol Berry, the depot master. For a brief instant their glance met, then Mrs. Edwards hurried on.

Sim Phinney sighed pityingly. "Looks kind of tired and worried, don't she?" he ventured. His friend did not speak.

"I say," repeated Phinney, "that Olive looks sort of worn out and—"

"Has she heard from the Omaha cousin yet?" interrupted the depot master.

"No; Mr. Hilton says not. Sol, what DO you s'pose—"

But Captain Sol had risen and gone into the ticket office. The door closed behind him. Mr. Phinney shook his head and walked out of the building. On his way back to the scene of the house moving he shook his head several times.

On the afternoon of the ninth Captain Bailey Stitt and his friend Wingate came to say good-by. Stitt was going back to Orham on the "up" train, due at 3:30. Barzilla would return to Wellmouth and the Old Home House on the evening (the "down") train.

"Hey, Sol!" shouted Wingate, as they entered the waiting room. "Sol! where be you?"

The depot master came out of the ticket office. "Hello, boys!" he said shortly.

"Hello, Sol!" hailed Stitt. "Barzilla and me have come to shed the farewell tear. As hirelin's of soulless corporations, meanin' the Old Home House at Wellmouth and the Ocean House at Orham, we've engaged all the shellfish along-shore and are goin' to clear out."

"Yes," chimed in his fellow "hireling," "and we thought the pleasantest place to put in our few remainin' hours—as the papers say when a feller's goin' to be hung—was with you."

"I thought so," said Captain Bailey, with a wink. "We've been havin' more or less of an argument, Sol. Remember how Barzilla made fun of Jonadab Wixon for believin' in dreams? Yes, well that was only make believe. He believes in 'em himself."

"I don't either," declared Wingate. "And I never said so. What I said was that sometimes it almost seemed as if there was somethin' IN fortune tellin' and such."

"There is," chuckled Bailey with another wink at the depot master. "There's money in it—for the fortune tellers."

"I said—and I say again," protested Barzilla, "that I knew a case at our hotel of a servant girl named Effie, and she—"

"Oh, Heavens to Betsy! Here he goes again, I steered him in here on purpose, Sol, so's he'd get off that subject."