says I. "So did every other woman round the place. You'd think so if--"
He walked off then, laughing himself into a fit. "Good night, old man," he says, between spasms. "See you later. No, I don't think I shall worry much."
If he hadn't been so big I cal'lated I'd have risked a kick. A man hates to be made a fool of and not know why.
A whole lot of the boarders had gone on the evening train, and at our house Van Wedderburn was the only one left. He and Mabel and me was the full crew at the breakfast-table the follering morning. The fruit season was a quiet one. I done all the talking there was; every time the broker and the housekeeper looked at each other they turned red.
Finally 'twas "chopped-hay" time, and in comes the waiter with the tray. And again we had a surprise, just like the one back in July. Percy wa'n't on hand, and Jonesy was.
But the other surprise wa'n't nothing to this one. The Seabury girl was mightily set back, but old Van was paralyzed. His eyes and mouth opened and kept on opening.
"Cereal, sir?" asks Jones, polite as ever.
"Why! why, you--you rascal!" hollers Van Wedderburn. "What are you doing here?"
"I have a few days' vacation from my position at Providence, sir," answers Jones. "I'm a waiter at present."
"Why, ROBERT!" exclaims Mabel Seabury.
Van swung around like he was on a pivot. "Do you know HIM?" he pants, wild as a coot, and pointing.
'Twas the waiter himself that answered.
"She knows me, father," he says. "In fact she is the young lady I told you about last spring; the one I intend to marry."
Did you ever see the tide go out over the flats? Well, that's the way the red slid down off old Van's bald head and across his cheeks. But it came back again like an earthquake wave. He turned to Mabel once more, and if ever there was a pleading "Don't tell" in a man's eyes, 'twas in his.
"Cereal, sir?" asks Robert Van Wedderburn, alias "Jonesy."
Well, I guess that's about all. Van Senior took it enough sight more graceful than you'd expect, under the circumstances. He went straight up to his room and never showed up till suppertime. Then he marches to where Mabel and his son was, on the porch, and says he:
"Bob," he says, "if you don't marry this young lady within a month I'll disown you, for good this time. You've got more sense than I thought. Blessed if I see who you inherit it from!" says he, kind of to himself.
Jonadab ain't paid me the quarter yet. He says the bet was that she'd land a millionaire, and a Van Wedderburn, afore the season ended, and she did; so he figgers that he won the bet. Him and me got wedding cards a week ago, so I suppose "Jonesy" and Mabel are on their honeymoon now. I wonder if she's ever told her husband about what I heard in the bayberry bushes. Being the gamest sport, for a woman, that ever I see, I'll gamble she ain't said a word about it.
THE END
CAP'N DAN'S DAUGHTER
By Joseph C. Lincoln
1914
CAP'N DAN'S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER I
The Metropolitan Dry Goods and Variety Store at Trumet Centre was open for business. Sam Bartlett, the boy whose duty it was to take down the shutters, sweep out, dust, and wait upon early-bird customers, had performed the first three of these tasks and gone home for breakfast. The reason he had not performed the fourth--the waiting upon customers--was simple enough; there had been no customers to wait upon. The Metropolitan Dry Goods and Variety Store was open and ready for business--but, unfortunately, there was no business.
There should have been. This was August, the season of the year when, if ever, Trumet shopkeepers should be beaming across their counters at the city visitor, male or female, and telling him or her, that "white duck hats are all the go this summer," or "there's nothin' better than an oilskin coat for sailin' cruises or picnics." Outing shirts and yachting caps, fancy stationery, post cards, and chocolates should be changing hands at a great rate and the showcase, containing the nicked blue plates and cracked teapots, the battered candlesticks and tarnished pewters, "genuine antiques," should be opened at frequent intervals for the inspection of bargain-seeking mothers and their daughters. July and August are the Cape Cod harvest months; if the single-entry ledgers of Trumet's business men do not show good-sized profits during that season they are not likely to do so the rest of the year.
Captain Daniel Dott, proprietor of the Metropolitan Store, bending over his own ledger spread on the little desk by the window at the rear of his establishment, was realizing this fact, realizing it with a sinking heart and a sense of hopeless discouragement. The summer was almost over; September was only three days off; in another fortnight the hotels would be closed, the boarding houses would be closing, and Trumet, deserted by its money spending visitors, would be falling asleep, relapsing into its autumn and winter hibernation. And the Dott ledger, instead of showing a profit of a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars, as it had the first summer after Daniel bought the business, showed but a meager three hundred and fifty, over and above expenses.
Through the window the sun was shining brightly. From the road in front of the store--Trumet's "Main Street"--came the rattle of wheels and the sound of laughter and conversation in youthful voices. The sounds drew nearer. Someone shouted "Whoa!" Daniel Dott, a ray of hope illuminating his soul at the prospect of a customer, rose hurriedly from his seat by the desk and hastened out into the shop.
A big two-horsed vehicle, the "barge" from the Manonquit House, had stopped before the door. It was filled with a gay crowd, youths and maidens from the hotel, dressed in spotless flannels and "blazers," all talking at once, and evidently carefree and happy. Two of the masculine members of the party descended from the "barge" and entered the store. Daniel, smiling his sweetest, stepped forward to meet them.
"Good mornin', good mornin'," he said. "A fine mornin', ain't it?"
The greeting was acknowledged by both of the young fellows, and one of them added that it was a fine morning, indeed.
"Don't know as I ever saw a finer," observed Daniel. "Off on a cruise somewhere, I presume likely; hey?"
"Picnic down at the Point."
"Well, you've got picnic weather, all right. Yes sir, you have!"
Comment concerning the weather is the inevitable preliminary to all commercial transactions in Trumet. Now, preliminaries being over, Daniel waited hopefully for what was to follow. His hopes were dashed.
"Is--is Miss Dott about?" inquired one of the callers.
"Miss Dott? Oh, Gertie! No, she ain't. She's gone down street somewheres. Be back pretty soon, I shouldn't wonder."
"Humph! Well, I'm afraid we can't wait. We hoped she might go with us on the picnic. We--er--we wanted her very much."
"That so? I'm sorry, but I'm afraid she couldn't go, even if she was here. You see, it's her last day at home, and--we--her mother and I--that is, I don't believe she'd want to leave us to-day."
"No; no, of course not. Well, tell her we wish she might have come, but we understand. Yes, yes," in answer to the calls from the "barge," "we're coming. Well, good by, Captain Dott."
"Er--good by. Er--er--don't want anything to take along, do you? A nice box of candy, or--or anything?"
"No, I think not. We stopped at the Emporium just now, and loaded up with candy enough to last a week. Good morning."
"How are you fixed for sun hats and things? I've got a nice line of hats and--well, good by."
"Good by."
The