Part 29 (1/2)

Kendrick was silent. The question was ridiculous enough, but he did not laugh, nor feel like laughing. Nor did he want to answer.

”Oh, I know that it's a child's question,” put in Kent, disgustedly.

”Never mind answering. I am a child sometimes, feel like one, anyhow.

And I've got to fight this out with myself, I suppose, so what's the use?”

He turned on his heel, but the captain laid a hand on his shoulder.

”George,” he said, slowly, ”of course, the way you put this thing makes it pretty foggy navigatin' for a stranger; but--humph!--well, in cases somethin' like yours, when I've cared anything about the--er--friends.h.i.+p of the other fellow, I've generally found 'twas good business to go and say I was sorry first, and then, if 'twas worth while, argue the point of who was right or wrong later. You never can do much fis.h.i.+n' through the ice unless somebody chops the hole.”

The young man was silent. He seemed to be reflecting and to find his reflections not too pleasant. Before they were at an end the first group of townspeople came up the steps. Some of them paused to greet Kendrick and at their heels was another group. The captain was chatting with them when he heard Kent's voice at his ear.

”Excuse me, Cap'n,” he whispered. ”I'll see you by and by. I'm going to chop the ice.”

”Eh?... Oh, all right, George. Good luck.”

George hurried up the stairs. A minute or two later Captain Sears slowly limped after him and sought a secluded corner on one of the settees at the rear of the hall. There was still a full half hour before the rising of the curtain, and as yet there was but a handful of people present. He turned his face away from the handful and hoped that he might not be recognized. He did not feel like talking. His good spirits had left him.

He was blue and despondent and discouraged. And for no reason--that was the worst of it--no earthly, sensible, worth while reason at all.

Those two children--that is what they were, children--had quarreled and that was why Elizabeth had asked to ride to the hall with him that evening. It was not because she cared for his company; of course he knew that all the time, or would have known it if he permitted himself to reason. She had gone with him because she had quarreled with George. And that young idiot's conscience had troubled him and, thanks to his own--Kendrick's--advice, he had gone to her now to beg pardon and make up. And they would make up. Children, both of them.

And they ought to make up; they should, of course. He wanted them to do so. What sort of a yellow dog in the manger would he be if he did not?

He liked them both, and they were young and well--and he was--what that railway accident had made of him.

The audience poured in, the settees filled, the little boys down in front kicked the rounds, and pinched each other and giggled. Mr. Asaph Tidditt importantly strode down the aisle and turned up the wicks of the kerosene foot-lamps. Mrs. Sophronia Eldridge, Captain Orrin's sister-in-law, seated herself at the piano and played the accompaniments while Mrs. Mary Pashy Foster imparted the information that she could not sing the old songs now. When she had finished, most people were inclined to believe her. The delegation from the Fair Harbor, led by Mrs. Berry and Elvira Snowden, arrived in a body. The Universalist minister and his wife came, and looked remarkably calm for a couple leading a flock of fellow humans to perdition. Captain Elkanah Wingate and Mrs. Wingate came last of all and marched majestically to the seats reserved for them by the obsequious Mr. Tidditt. The hall lights were dimmed. The curtain rose. And George Kent, very handsome and manly as ”March Gale,” was seen and heard, singing:

”Oh, my name was Captain Kidd As I sailed, as I sailed.”

And these were the opening lines of the play, ”Down by the Sea.”

That performance was a great success, everybody said so. Mr. Tidditt expressed the general opinion when he declared that all hands done about as fine as the rest but some of 'em done finer. John Carleton, the schoolteacher, shone with particular brilliancy as he delivered himself of such natural, everyday speeches as: ”I have dispatched a messenger to town with the glad tidings,” or ”We will leave this barren spot and hie to the gay scenes of city life.” And Frank Crosby, as ”September Gale,”

the n.o.ble young fisherman, tossed the English language about as a real gale might toss what he would have called ”a c.o.c.kle sh.e.l.l,” as he declared, ”With a true heart and a stout arm, who cares for danger?...

To be upon the sea when the winds are roaring and the waves are seething in anger; ... to have a light bark obedient to your command, braving the fury of the tempest....” Bayport was fairly well acquainted with fishermen, numbering at least thirty among its inhabitants, but no one of the thirty could talk like that.

Sam Ryder's performance of ”Captain Dandelion,” the city exquisite, was, so the next issue of the _Item_ said, ”remarkable”; there is little doubt that the _Item_ selected the right word. Joel Macomber was good, when he remembered his lines; Miss Wingate was very elegant as ”a city belle”; Mrs. Ba.s.sett made a competent fisherman's wife. But everybody declared that Elizabeth Berry and George Kent, as ”Kitty Gale” and ”March Gale,” were the two brightest stars in that night's firmament.

Captain Kendrick, between the acts, could hear whispered comments all about him. ”Isn't Elizabeth fine!” ”Don't they do well!” ”Ain't she a good-lookin' girl, now--eh?” ”Yes, and, my soul and body, if that George Kent ain't a match for her then _I_ don't know!” ”Oh, don't they make a lovely couple!” And, from a seat two rows in front, the penetrating voice of Mrs. Noah Baker made proclamations: ”Lovers on the stage and off the stage, too, I guess. Ha, ha!” And there was a general buzz of agreement and many pleased t.i.tters.

Sears tried very hard to enjoy the performance, but his thoughts would wander. And, when the final curtain fell and the applause subsided, he rose to hobble to the door, glad that the evening was over.

He was one of the last to reach the landing and, at the top of the stairs, Judah met him. Mr. Cahoon's manner was a combination of dismay and triumph.

”Oh, there you be, Cap'n Sears,” he exclaimed. ”Well, I told you! You can't say I never, that's one comfort.”

”Told me what, Judah?”

”That 'twas goin' to rain. I told you the gla.s.s was fallin'. It's a pourin'-down rainstorm now, that's what 'tis.”

Judah, his faith rooted in the prophecy of the falling barometer, had come to the hall with oilskins upon his arm. Now he was arrayed in them and weather-proof.