Part 13 (1/2)
The morning train for Boston, at that season of the year, reached East Harniss at five minutes to six, an ”unG.o.dly hour,” according to the irascible Mr. Ogden Williams, who, in company with some of his wealthy friends, the summer residents, was pet.i.tioning the railroad company for a change in the time-table. When Captain Sol Berry, the depot master, walked briskly down Main Street the morning following Mr. Gott's eventful evening at the club, the hands of the clock on the Methodist church tower indicated that the time was twenty minutes to six.
Issy McKay was already at the depot, the doors of which were open.
Captain Sol entered the waiting room and unlocked the ticket rack and the little safe. Issy, languidly toying with the broom on the front platform, paused in his pretense of sweeping and awaited permission to go home for breakfast. It came, in characteristic fas.h.i.+on.
”How's the salt air affectin' your appet.i.te, Is?” asked the Captain, casually.
Issy, who, being intensely serious by nature, was uneasy when he suspected the presence of a joke, confusedly stammered that he cal'lated his appet.i.te was all right.
”Payin' for the Major's gla.s.s ain't kept you awake worryin', has it?”
”No-o, sir. I--”
”P'r'aps you thought he was the one to 'do the worryin', hey?”
”I--I don't know.”
”Well, what's your folks goin' to have to eat this mornin'?”
Issy admitted his belief that fried clams were to be the breakfast.
”So? Clams? Is, did you ever read the soap advertis.e.m.e.nt about not bein'
a clam?”
”I--I don't know's I ever did. No, sir.”
”All right; I only called your attention to it as a warnin', that's all.
When anybody eats as many clams as you do there's a fair chance of his turnin' into one. Now clear out, and don't stay so long at breakfast that you can't get back in time for dinner. Trot!”
Issy trotted. The depot master seated himself by the door of the ticket office and fell into a reverie. It was interrupted by the entrance of Hiram Baker. Captain Hiram was an ex-fis.h.i.+ng skipper, fifty-five years of age, who, with his wife, Sophronia, and their infant son, Hiram Joash Baker, lived in a small, old-fas.h.i.+oned house at the other end of the village, near the sh.o.r.e. Captain Hiram, having retired from the sea, got his living, such as it was, from his string of fish traps, or ”weirs.”
The depot master hailed the new arrival heartily.
”h.e.l.lo, there, Hiram!” he cried, rising from his chair. ”Glad to see you once in a while. Ain't goin' to leave us, are you? Not goin' abroad for your health, or anything of that kind, hey?”
Captain Baker laughed.
”No,” he answered. ”No further abroad than Hyannis. And I'll be back from there tonight, if the Lord's willin' and the cars don't get off the track. Give me a round trip ticket, will you, Sol?”
The depot master retired to the office, returning with the desired ticket. Captain Hiram counted out the price from a confused ma.s.s of coppers and silver, emptied into his hand from a blackened leather purse, tied with a string.
”How's Sophrony?” asked the depot master. ”Pretty smart, I hope.”
”Yup, she's smart. Has to be to keep up with the rest of the family--'specially the youngest.”
He chuckled. His friend laughed in sympathy.
”The youngest is the most important of all, I s'pose,” he observed. ”How IS the junior partner of H. Baker and Son?”
”He ain't a silent partner, I'll swear to that. Honest, Sol, I b'lieve my 'Dusenberry' is the cutest young one outside of a show. I said so only yesterday to Mr. Hilton, the minister. I did, and I meant it.”