Читать книгу Galusha the Magnificent - Joseph Crosby Lincoln - Страница 3

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Mr. Horatio Pulcifer was on his way home. It was half-past five of a foggy, gray afternoon in early October; it had rained the previous day and a part of the day before that and it looked extremely likely to rain again at any moment. The road between Wellmouth Centre, the village in which Mr. Pulcifer had been spending the afternoon, and East Wellmouth, the community which he honored with his residence, was wet and sloppy; there were little puddles in the hollows of the macadam and the ruts and depressions in the sand on either side were miniature lakes. The groves of pitch pines and the bare, brown fields and knolls dimly seen through the fog looked moist and forsaken and dismal. There were no houses in sight; along the East Wellmouth road there are few dwellings, for no one but a misanthrope or a hermit would select that particular section as a place in which to live. Night was coming on and, to accent the loneliness, from somewhere in the dusky dimness a great foghorn groaned at intervals.

It was a sad and deserted outlook, that from the seat of Mr. Pulcifer's “flivver” as it bounced and squeaked and rattled and splashed its way along. But Mr. Pulcifer himself was not sad, at least his appearance certainly was not. Swinging jauntily, if a trifle ponderously, with the roll of the little car, his clutch upon the steering wheel expressed serene confidence and his manner self-satisfaction quite as serene. His plaid cap was tilted carelessly down toward his right ear, the tilt being balanced by the upward cock of his cigar toward his left ear. The light-colored topcoat with the soiled collar was open sufficiently at the throat to show its wearer's chins and a tasty section of tie and cameo scarf-pin below them. And from the corner of Mr. Pulcifer's mouth opposite that occupied by the cigar came the words and some of the tune of a song which had been the hit of a “Follies” show two seasons before. No, there was nothing dismal or gloomy in Mr. Horatio Pulcifer's appearance as he piloted his automobile toward home at the close of that October afternoon.

And his outward seeming did not belie his feelings. He had spent a pleasant day. At South Wellmouth, his first port of call, he had strengthened his political fences by dropping in upon and chatting with several acquaintances who prided themselves upon being “in the know” concerning local political opinion and drift. Mr. “Raish” Pulcifer—no one in Ostable county ever referred to him as Horatio—had already held the positions of town clerk, selectman, constable and postmaster. Now, owing to an unfortunate shift in the party vote, the public was, temporarily, deprived of his services. However, it was rumored that he might be persuaded to accept the nomination for state representative if it were offered to him. His acquaintances at South Wellmouth had that day assured him there was “a good, fair fightin' chance” that it might be.

Then, after leaving South Wellmouth, he had dined at the Rogers' House in Wellmouth Centre, “matching” a friend for the dinners and “sticking” the said friend for them and for the cigars afterward. Following this he had joined other friends in a little game in Elmer Rogers' back room and had emerged from that room three dollars and seventy-two cents ahead. No wonder he sang as he drove homeward. No wonder he looked quite care free. And, as a matter of fact, care free he was, that is, as care free as one is permitted to be in this care-ridden world. Down underneath his bright exterior there were a few cankers which might have gnawed had he permitted himself to think of them, but he did not so permit. Mr. Pulcifer's motto had always been: “Let the other feller do the worryin'.” And, generally speaking, in a deal with Raish that, sooner or later, was what the other fellow did.

The fog and dusk thickened, Mr. Pulcifer sang, and the flivver wheezed and rattled and splashed onward. At a particularly dark spot, where the main road joined a cross country byroad, Raish drew up and climbed out to light the car lamps, which were of the old-fashioned type requiring a gas tank and matches. He had lighted one and was bending forward with the match ready to light the other when a voice at his elbow said:

“I beg your pardon, but—but will you kindly tell me where I am?”

It was not a loud, aggressive voice; on the contrary, it was hesitating and almost timid, but when one is supposedly alone at twilight on the East Wellmouth road any sort of voice sounding unexpectedly just above one's head is startling. Mr. Pulcifer's match went out, he started violently erect, bumping his head against the open door of the lamp compartment, and swung a red and agitated face toward his shoulder.

“I—beg your pardon,” said the voice. “I'm afraid I startled you. I'm extremely sorry. Really I am.”

“What the h-ll?” observed Raish, enthusiastically.

“I'm very sorry, very—yes, indeed,” said the voice once more. Mr. Pulcifer, rubbing his bumped head and puffing from surprise and the exertion of stooping, stared wide-eyed at the speaker.

The latter was no one he knew, so much was sure, to begin with. The first impression Raish gained was of an overcoat and a derby hat. Then he caught the glitter of spectacles beneath the hat brim. Next his attention centered upon a large and bright yellow suitcase which the stranger was carrying. That suitcase settled it. Mr. Pulcifer's keen mind had diagnosed the situation.

“No,” he said, quickly, “I don't want nothin'—nothin'; d'you get me?”

“But—but—pardon me, I—”

“Nothin'. Nothin' at all. I've got all I want.”

The stranger seemed to find this statement puzzling.

“Excuse me,” he faltered, after a moment's hesitation, during which Raish scratched another match. “I—You see—I fear—I'm sure you don't understand.”

Mr. Pulcifer bent and lighted the second lamp. Then he straightened once more and turned toward his questioner.

“I understand, young feller,” he said, “but you don't seem to. I don't want to buy nothin'. I've got all I want. That's plain enough, ain't it?”

“But—but—All you want? Really, I—”

“All I want of whatever 'tis you've got in that bag. I never buy nothin' of peddlers. So you're just wastin' your time hangin' around. Trot along now, I'm on my way.”

He stepped to the side of the car, preparatory to climbing to the driver's seat, but the person with the suitcase followed him.

“Pardon me,” faltered that person, “but I'm not—ah—a peddler. I'm afraid I—that is, I appear to be lost. I merely wish to ask the way to—ah—to Mr. Hall's residence—Mr. Hall of Wellmouth.”

Raish turned and looked, not at the suitcase this time, but at the face under the hat brim. It was a mild, distinctly inoffensive face—an intellectual face, although that is not the term Mr. Pulcifer would have used in describing it. It was not the face of a peddler, the ordinary kind of peddler, certainly—and the mild brown eyes, eyes a trifle nearsighted, behind the round, gold-rimmed spectacles, were not those of a sharp trader seeking a victim. Also Raish saw that he had made a mistake in addressing this individual as “young feller.” He was of middle age, and the hair, worn a little longer than usual, above his ears was sprinkled with gray.

“Mr. Hall, of—ah—of Wellmouth,” repeated the stranger, seemingly embarrassed by the Pulcifer stare. “I—I wish to find his house. Can you tell me how to find it?”

Raish took the cigar, which even the bump against the lamp door had failed to dislodge, from the corner of his mouth, snapped the ash from its end, and then asked a question of his own.

“Hall?” he repeated. “Hall? Why, he don't live in Wellmouth. East Wellmouth's where he lives.”

“Dear me! Are you sure?”

“Sure? Course I'm sure. Know him well.”

“Oh, dear me! Why, the man at the station told me—”

“What station? The Wellmouth depot, do you mean?”

“No, the—ah—the South Wellmouth station. You see, I got off the train at South Wellmouth by mistake. It was the first Wellmouth called, you know, and I—I suppose I caught the name and—ah—rushed out of the car. I thought—it seemed to be a—a sort of lonely spot, you know—”

“Haw, haw! South Wellmouth depot? It's worse'n lonesome, it's God-forsaken.”

“Yes—yes, it looked so. I should scarcely conceive of the Almighty's wishing to remain there long.”

“Eh?”

“Oh, it's not material. Pardon me. I inquired of the young man in charge of the—ah—station.”

“Nelse Howard? Yes, sure.”

“You know him, then?”

Mr. Pulcifer laughed. “Say,” he observed, patronizingly, “there's mighty few folks in this neighborhood I don't know. You bet that's right!”

“The young man—the station man—was very kind and obliging, very kind indeed. He informed me that there was no direct conveyance from the South Wellmouth station to Wellmouth—ah—Centre, but he prevailed upon the driver of the station—ah—vehicle—”

“Eh? You mean Lem Lovett's express team?”

“I believe the driver's name was Lovett—yes. He prevailed upon him to take me in his wagon as far as a crossroads where I was to be left. From there I was to follow another road—ah—on foot, you know—until I reached a second crossroad which would, he said, bring me directly into Wellmouth Middle—ah—Centre, I should say. He told me that Mr. Hall lived there.”

“Well, he told you wrong. Hall lives up to East Wellmouth. But what I can't get a-hold of is how you come to fetch up way off here. The Centre's three mile or more astern of us; I've just come from there.”

“Oh, dear me! I must have lost my way. I was quite sure of it. It seemed to me I had been walking a very long time.”

Mr. Pulcifer laughed. “Haw, haw!” he guffawed, “I should say you had! I tell you what you done, Mister; you walked right past that crossroad Nelse told you to turn in at. THAT would have fetched you to the Centre. Instead of doin' it you kept on as you was goin' and here you be 'way out in the fag-end of nothin'. The Centre's three mile astern and East Wellmouth's about two and a ha'f ahead. Haw, haw! that's a good one, ain't it!”

His companion's laugh was not enthusiastic. It was as near a groan as a laugh could well be. He put the yellow suitcase down in the mud and looked wearily up and down the fog-draped road. There was little of it to be seen, but that little was not promising.

“Dear me!” he exclaimed. “Dear me!” And then added, under his breath: “Oh, dear!”

Mr. Pulcifer regarded him intently. A new idea was beginning to dawn beneath the plaid cap.

“Say, Mister,” he said, suddenly, “you're in a bad scrape, ain't you?”

“I beg your pardon? What? Yes, I am—I fear I am. Is it—is it a VERY long walk back to Wellmouth?”

“To the Centre? Three good long Cape Cod miles.”

“And is the-ah—the road good?”

“'Bout as you see it most of the way. Macadam ain't so bad, but if you step off it you're liable to go under for the third time.”

“Dear me! Dear me!”

“Dear me's right, I cal'late. But what do you want to go to the Centre for? Hall don't live there. He lives on ahead here—at East Wellmouth.”

“Yes—that's true, that's true. So you said. But the South Wellmouth station man—”

“Oh, never mind Nelse Howard. He's a smart Aleck and talks too much, anyhow. He made a mistake, that's all. Now I tell you, Mister, I'm goin' to East Wellmouth myself. Course I don't make a business of carryin' passengers and this trip is goin' to be some out of my way. Gasoline and ile are pretty expensive these days, too, but—Eh? What say?”

The pale face beneath the derby hat for the first time showed a ray of hope. The eyes behind the spectacles were eager.

“I—I didn't say anything, I believe,” was the hurried answer, “but I should like to say that—that if you COULD find it possible to take me with you in your car—if you COULD do me so great a favor, I should be only too happy to pay for the privilege. Pay—ah—almost anything. I am—I have not been well and I fatigue easily. If you could—”

Mr. Pulcifer's hand descended squarely upon the shoulder of the dark overcoat.

“Don't say nothin' more,” he ordered, heartily. “I'm only too glad to do a feller a favor any time, if it's a possible thing. That's me, that is. I shouldn't think of chargin' you a cent, but of course this cruise is a little mite off my track and it's late and—er—well, suppose we call it three dollars? That's fair, ain't it?”

“Oh, yes, quite, quite. It's very reasonable. Very generous of you. I'm extremely grateful, really.”

This prompt and enthusiastic acceptance of his offer was a bit disconcerting. Raish was rather sorry that he had not said five. However, to do him justice, the transaction was more or less what he would have called “chicken-feed stuff.” Mr. Pulcifer was East Wellmouth's leading broker in real estate, in cranberry bog property, its leading promoter of deals of all kinds, its smartest trader. Ordinarily he did not stoop to the carrying of passengers for profit. But this particular passenger had been delivered into his hand and gasoline WAS expensive.

“Jump right in, Mister,” he said, blithely. “All aboard! Jump right in.”

His fare did not jump in, exactly. He climbed in rather slowly and painfully. Raish, stowing the suitcase between his feet, noticed that his shoes and trouser legs above them were spattered and daubed with yellow mud.

“You HAVE had some rough travelin', ain't you, Mister?” he observed. “Oh—er—what did you say your name was? Mine's Pulcifer.”

“Oh, yes—yes. Ah—how do you do, Mr. Pulcifer? My name is Bangs.”

“Bangs, eh? That's a good Cape name, or used to be. You any relation to Sylvanus Bangs, over to Harniss?”

“No—no, not that I am aware. Ours is a Boston branch of the family.”

“Boston, eh? Um-hm. I see. Yes, yes. What's your first name?”

“Mine? Oh, my name is Galusha.”

“Eh? Ga—WHAT did you say 'twas?”

“Galusha. It IS an odd name.”

“Yes, I'd say 'twas. Don't cal'late as I ever heard tell of it afore. Ga—Ga—”

“Galusha.”

“Galushy, eh? I see. Strange what names folks 'll christen onto children, ain't it? There's lots of queer things in the world; did you ever stop to think about that, Mister—Mister Bangs?”

Mr. Bangs, who was leaning back against the upholstered seat as if he found the position decidedly comforting, smiled faintly.

“We have all thought that, I'm sure,” he said. “'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'”

Mr. Pulcifer was not easily startled, but his jerk of surprise sent the car perilously near the side of the road.

“How in the devil did you know my name?” he demanded.

“Your name? Why, you told me. It is Pulcifer, isn't it?”

“No, no. My first name—Horatio. I never told you that, I'll swear.”

Mr. Bangs smiled and the smile made his face look younger.

“Now that's rather odd, isn't it?” he observed. “Quite a coincidence.”

“A what?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing. I didn't know your name, Mr.—ah—Pulcifer. My using it was an accident. I was quoting—ah—from Hamlet, you know.”

Mr. Pulcifer did not know, but he thought it not worth while advertising the fact. Plainly this passenger of his was a queer bird, as queer within as in dress and appearance. He turned his head slightly and looked him over. It was growing too dark to see plainly, but one or two points were obvious. For instance, the yellow leather suitcase was brand new and the overcoat was old. It was shiny about the cuffs. The derby hat—and in October, in Wellmouth, derby hats are seldom worn—the derby hat was new and of a peculiar shade of brown; it was a little too small for its wearer's head and, even as Raish looked, a gust of wind lifted it and would have sent it whirling from the car had not Mr. Bangs saved it by a sudden grab. Raish chuckled.

“Come pretty nigh losin' somethin' overboard that time, didn't you?” he observed.

Mr. Bangs pulled the brown derby as far down upon his head as it would go.

“I—I'm afraid I made a mistake in buying this hat,” he confided. “I told the man I didn't think it fitted me as it should, but he said that was because I wasn't used to it. I doubt if I ever become used to it. And it really doesn't fit any better to-day than it did yesterday.”

“New one, ain't it?” inquired Raish.

“Yes, quite new. My other blew out of the car window. I bought this one at a small shop near the station in Boston. I'm afraid it wasn't a very good shop, but I was in a great hurry.”

“Where was you comin' from when your other one blew away?”

“From the mountains.”

“White Mountains?”

“Yes.”

Raish said that he wanted to know and waited for his passenger to say something more. This the passenger did not do. Mr. Pulcifer whistled a bar or two of his “Follies” song and then asked another question.

“You any relation to Josh?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Eh? Oh, that's all right. I just asked you if you was a relation of Josh's—of Hall's, I mean, the folks you're goin' to see.”

“Oh, no, no. We are not related. Merely friends.”

“I see. I thought there wan't any Bangses in that family. His wife was a Cahoon, wan't she?”

“I—I BEG your pardon?”

“I asked you if she wan't a Cahoon; Cahoon was her name afore she married Hall, wan't it?”

“Oh, I don't know, I'm sure.... Now, really, that's very funny, very.”

“What's funny?”

“Why, you see, I—” Mr. Bangs had an odd little way of pausing in the middle of a sentence and then, so to speak, catching the train of his thought with a jerk and hurrying on again. “I understood you to ask if she was a—a cocoon. I could scarcely believe my ears. It WAS funny, wasn't it?”

Raish Pulcifer thought it was and said so between roars. His conviction that his passenger was a queer bird was strengthening every minute.

“What's your line of business, Mr. Bangs?” was his next question.

“I am not a business man. I am connected with the Archaeological Department of the National Institute at Washington.”

If he had said he was connected with the interior department of a Brontosaurus the statements would have conveyed an equal amount of understanding to the Pulcifer mind. However, it was a fixed principle with Raish never to admit a lack of knowledge of any subject whatsoever. So he said:

“From Washin'ton, eh? I see. Yes, yes. Cal'latin' to stay here on the Cape long, Mr. Bangs?”

“Why, I don't know, I'm sure. I have not been—ah—well of late. The doctors advise rest and—ah—outdoor air and all that. I tried several places, but I didn't care for them. The Halls invited me to visit them and so I—well, I came.”

“Never been here to the Cape afore, then?”

“No.”

“Well, sir, you've come to the right place when you came to Wellmouth. I was born right here in East Wellmouth and I've lived here for fifty-two year and if anybody should ask me what I thought of the place I'd tell 'em—”

He proceeded to tell what he would tell 'em. It was a favorite topic with him, especially in the summer and with visitors from the city. Usually the discourse ended with a suggestion that if the listener should ever think of investing a little money in real estate “that'll be wuth gold dollars to you—yes, sir, gold dollars—” he, Horatio G. Pulcifer, would be willing to point out and exhibit just the particular bit of real estate to invest in. He did not reach the climax this time, however. A gentle nasal sound at his shoulder caused Raish to turn his head. Mr. Bangs had fallen asleep. Awakened by a vigorous nudge, he apologized profusely.

“Really,” he declared, with much embarrassment, “I—I am quite ashamed of myself. I—you see—I have, as I say, been somewhat unwell of late, and the fatigue of walking—I DO hope you will excuse me. I was very much interested in what you were saying. What—ah—what was it?”

Before Raish could have repeated his real estate sermon, even had he so desired, the car came to the top of a hill, emerged from the clumps of pines shutting in the road on both sides, and began to descend a long slope. And through the fog and blackness at the foot of the slope there shone dimly first one and then several lights. Mr. Bangs leaned forward and peered around the edge of the wet windshield.

“Is that it?” he asked, in much the same tone that Mrs. Noah may have used when her husband announced that the lookout had sighted Ararat.

Raish Pulcifer nodded. “Yes, sir,” he declared, proudly. “Yes, sir, that's East Wellmouth.”

The fog in the valley was thicker even than that upon the hill and East Wellmouth was almost invisible. Mr. Bangs made out a few houses, a crossroads, a small store, and that was about all. From off to the right a tremendous bellow sounded. The fog seemed to quiver with it.

“WHAT is that?” asked Mr. Bangs, nervously. “I've heard it ever since I left the train, I believe. Some sort of a—ah—steam whistle, isn't it?”

“Foghorn over to the light,” replied Raish, briskly. “Well, sir, here you be.”

The car rolled up to the side of the road and stopped.

“Here you be, Mr. Bangs,” repeated Mr. Pulcifer. “Here's where Hall lives, right here.”

Mr. Bangs seemed somewhat astonished. “Right here?” he asked. “Dear me, is it possible!”

“Possible as anything ever you knew in your life. Why not? Ain't sorry, are you?”

“Oh, no—no, indeed, I'm very glad. I was—ah—a trifle surprised, that is all. You said—I think you spoke of Mr. Hall's cottage as being—ah—off the track and so I—well I scarcely expected to reach his house so easily.”

Raish had forgotten his “off the track” statement, which was purely a commercial fiction invented on the spur of the moment to justify the high price he was charging for transportation. He was somewhat taken aback, but before he could think of a good excuse his companion spoke again. He was leaning forward, peering out at the house before which the car had stopped. It was a small, gray-shingled dwelling, sitting back from the road in the shadow of two ancient “silver-leafs,” and Mr. Bangs seemed to find its appearance surprising.

“Are you—are you SURE this is the Hall cottage?” he stammered.

“Am I sure? Me? Well, I ought to be. I've lived in East Wellmouth all my life and Josh Hall's lived in this house ever since I can remember.”

This should have been reassuring, but it did not appear to be. Mr. Pulcifer's passenger drew a startled breath.

“What—WHAT is his Christian name?” he asked. “The—the Mr. Hall who lives here?”

“His name is—Why? What's the matter?”

“I'm afraid there has been a mistake. Is this Mr. Hall an entomologist?”

“Eh? He ain't nothin' in particular. Don't go to meetin' much, Josh don't. His wife's a Spiritu'list.”

“But—but, I mean—Dear me, dear me!” Mr. Bangs was fumbling in the inside pocket of his coat. “If I—Would you mind holding this for me?” he begged. “I have a photograph here and—Oh, thank you very much.”

He handed Pulcifer a small pocket electric lamp. Raish held it and into its inch of light Mr. Bangs thrust a handful of cards and papers taken from a big and worn pocketbook. One of the handful was a postcard with a photograph upon its back. It was a photograph of a pretty, old-fashioned colonial house with a wide porch covered with climbing roses. Beneath was written: “This is our cottage. Don't you think it attractive?”

“Mrs. Hall sent me that—ah—last June—I think it was in June,” explained Mr. Bangs, hurriedly. “But you SEE,” he added, waving an agitated hand toward the gray-shingled dwelling beneath the silver-leafs, “that CAN'T be the house, not if”—with a wave of the photograph in the other hand—“if THIS is.”

Mr. Pulcifer took the postcard and stared at it. His brows drew together in a frown.

“Say,” he said, turning toward his passenger, “is this the house you've been tryin' to find? This is a picture of the old Parker place over to Wellmouth Centre. I thought you told me you wanted to be took to Joshua Hall's house in East Wellmouth.”

“Joshua? Oh, no, I'm sure I never could have said Joshua. That isn't his name.”

“Then when I said 'Josh Hall' why didn't you say so?”

“Oh, good gracious! Did you say 'Josh?' Oh, dear, that explains it; I thought you said 'George.' My friend's name is George Hall. He is an entomologist at the New York Museum of Natural History. I—”

“Say,” broke in Raish, again, “is he a tall, bald-headed man with whiskers; red whiskers?”

“Yes—yes, he is.”

“Humph! Goes gallopin' round the fields chasin' bugs and grasshoppers like a young one?”

“Why—why, entomology is his profession, so naturally he—”

“Humph! So THAT'S the feller! Tut, tut, tut! Well, if you'd only said you meant him 'twould have been all right. I forgot there was a Hall livin' in the Parker place. If you'd said you meant 'Old Bughouse' I'd have understood.”

“Bughouse?”

“Oh, that's what the Wellmouth post-office gang call him. Kind of a joke 'tis. And say, this is kind of a joke, too, my luggin' you 'way over here, ain't it, eh? Haw, haw!”

Mr. Bangs' attempt at a laugh was feeble.

“But what shall I do now?” he asked, anxiously.

“Well, that's the question, ain't it? Hum... hum... let's see. Sorry I can't take you back to the Centre myself. Any other night I'd be glad to, but there's a beans and brown-bread supper and sociable up to the meetin' house this evenin' and I promised the old woman—Mrs. Pulcifer, I mean—that I'd be on hand. I'm a little late as 'tis. Hum... let's see... Why, I tell you. See that store over on the corner there? That's Erastus Beebe's store and Ras is a good friend of mine. He's got an extry horse and team and he lets 'em out sometimes. You step into the store and ask Ras to hitch up and drive you back to the Centre. Tell him I sent you. Say you're a friend of Raish Pulcifer's and that I said treat you right. Don't forget: 'Raish says treat me right.' You say that to Ras and you'll be TREATED right. Yes, SIR! If Ras ain't in the store he'll be in his house right back of it. Might as well get out here, Mr. Bangs, because there's a hill just ahead and I kind of like to get a runnin' start for it. Shall I help you with the suitcase? No, well, all right... Sorry you made the mistake, but we're all liable to make 'em some time or another. Eh? haw, haw!”

Poor Mr. Bangs clambered from the automobile almost as wearily and stiffly as he had climbed into it. The engine of the Pulcifer car had not stopped running so Raish was not obliged to get out and crank. He took a fresh grip on the steering wheel and looked down upon his late passenger.

“Well, good-night, Mr. Bangs,” he said.

“Good-night—ah—good-night, Mr. Pulcifer. I'm very much obliged to you, I am indeed. I'm sorry my mistake made you so much trouble.”

“Oh, that's all right, that's all right. Don't say a word... Well—er—good-night.”

“Good-night, sir... good-night.”

But still the little car did not start. It's owner's next remark was explanatory of the delay.

“Course I HOPE you and I'll meet again, Mr. Bangs,” said Raish. “May see you in Wellmouth, you know. Still, such things are—er—kind of uncertain and—er—sendin' bills is a nuisance, so perhaps 'twould be better—er—easier for both of us—if we settled that little matter of ours right now. Eh?”

“I beg your pardon. Little matter? I'm afraid I don't quite—”

“Oh, that little matter of the three dollars for fetchin' you over. Course it don't amount to nothin', but I kind of like to get them little things off my mind, don't you? Eh?”

Mr. Bangs was very much “fussed.” He hurriedly dragged forth the big pocketbook.

“I beg your pardon—really I BEG your pardon,” he stammered over and over again. “I quite forgot. It was inexcusable of me. I'm SO sorry.”

Evidently he felt that he had committed a crime. Mr. Pulcifer took the three one dollar bills and waved the apologies aside with them.

“Don't say a word, Mr. Bangs,” he called, cheerily, as the car began to move. “Anybody's liable to forget. Do it myself sometimes. Well, so long. Hope to see you again one of these days. Good-night.”

The flivver moved rapidly away, gaining speed as it rushed for the hill. Galusha Bangs watched its tail-light soar and dwindle until it disappeared over the crest. Then, with a weary sigh, he picked up the heavy suitcase, plodded across the road and on until he reached the step and platform of Erastus Beebe's “General and Variety Store.” There was a kerosene lamp burning dimly upon the counter within, but the door was locked. He pounded on the door and shook it, but no one answered. Then, remembering Mr. Pulcifer's instructions, he entered the yard behind the store, found the door of Mr. Beebe's house and knocked upon that. There was not even a light in the house. The Beebes had gone—as most of East Wellmouth had gone—to the baked beans and brown-bread supper and sociable at the church. Galusha Bangs was not aware of this, of course. What he was aware of—painfully, distressingly aware—was the fact that he was alone and supperless, very, very weak and tired, and almost discouraged.

However, there was no use in standing in the wet grass of the Beebe yard and giving way to his discouragement. Galusha Bangs was a plucky little soul, although just now a weak and long-suffering one. He waded and slopped back to the store platform, where he put down his suitcase and started on a short tour of exploration. Through the fog and darkness he could dimly perceive a signpost standing at the corner of the crossroad where the store was located. He tramped over to look at it.

There were two signs affixed to the post. By the aid of the pocket flashlight he read them. That at the top read thus: “TO THE LIGHTHOUSE—1 1/2 MILES.” There was an arrow pointing along the crossroad and off to the right. Galusha paid little attention to this sign; it was the other nailed beneath it which caught and held his attention. It was a rather gaudy sign of red, white, and blue, and it read thus: “THE RESTABIT INN AT GOULD'S BLUFFS—1 MILE.” And the arrow pointed in the same direction as the other.

Mr. Bangs uttered his favorite exclamation.

“Dear me! Why, dear me!”

He read the sign again. There was no mistake, his first reading had been correct.

He trotted back to the platform of Mr. Beebe's store. Then, once more dragging forth the big pocketbook, he fumbled in its various compartments. After spilling a good many scraps of paper upon the platform and stopping to pick them up again, he at length found what he was looking for. It was an advertisement torn from the Summer Resort advertising pages of a magazine. Holding it so that the feeble light from Mr. Beebe's lamp fell upon it, Galusha read, as follows:

THE RESTABIT INN at Beautiful Gould's Bluffs, East Wellmouth, Mass. Rest, sea air, and pleasant people: Good food and plenty of it. Reasonable prices. NO FRILLS.

He had chanced upon the advertisement in a tattered, back number magazine which a fellow passenger had left beside him in a car seat a month before. He had not quite understood the “NO FRILLS” portion. Apparently it must be important because the advertiser had put it in capital letters, but Mr. Bangs was uncertain as to just what it meant. But there was no uncertainty about the remainder of the “ad.”

Rest! His weary muscles and aching joints seemed to relax at the very whisper of the word. Food! Well, he needed food, it would be welcome, of course—but rest! Oh, rest!!

And food and rest, not to mention reasonable prices and pleasant people and no frills, were all but a mile away at the Restabit Inn at Gould's Bluffs—beautiful Gould's Bluffs. No wonder they called them beautiful.

He returned the pocketbook to his inside pocket and the flashlight to an outside one, turned up his coat collar, pulled the brown derby down as tightly upon his brow as he could, picked up the heavy suitcase and started forth to tramp the mile which separated his tired self from food and rest—especially rest.

The first hundred yards of that mile cut him off entirely from the world. It was dark now, pitch dark, and the fog was so thick as to be almost a rain. His coat and hat and suitcase dripped with it. The drops ran down his nose. He felt as if there were almost as much water in the air as there was beneath him on the ground—not quite as much, for his feet were wetter than his body, but enough.

And it was so still. No sound of voices, no dogs barking, no murmur of the wind in trees. There did not seem to be any trees. Occasionally he swept a circle of his immediate surroundings with the little flashlight, but all its feeble radiance showed was fog and puddles and wet weeds and ruts and grass—and more fog.

Still! Oh, yes, deadly still for a long minute's interval, and then out of the nowhere ahead, with a suddenness which each time caused his weakened nerves to vibrate like fiddle strings, would burst the bellow of the great foghorn.

Silence, the splash and “sugg” of Galusha's sodden shoes moving up and down, up and down—and then:

“OW—ooo—ooo—-ooo—OOO!!”

Once a minute the foghorn blew and once a minute Galusha Bangs jumped as if he were hearing it for the first time.

The signboard had said “1 MILE.” One hundred miles, one thousand miles; that was what it should have said to be truthful. Galusha plodded on and on, stopping to put down the suitcase, then lifting it and pounding on again. He had had no luncheon; he had had no dinner. He was weak from illness. He was wet and chilled. And—yes, it was beginning to rain.

He put down the suitcase once more.

“Oh, my soul!” he exclaimed, and not far away, close at hand, the word “soul” was repeated.

“Oh, dear!” cried Galusha, startled.

“Dear!” repeated the echo, for it was an echo.

Galusha, brandishing the tiny flashlight, moved toward the sound. Something bulky, huge, loomed in the blackness, a building. The flashlight's circle, growing dimmer now for the battery was almost exhausted, disclosed steps and a broad piazza. Mr. Bangs climbed the steps, crossed the piazza, the boards of which creaked beneath him. There were doors, but they were shut tight; there were windows, but they were shuttered. Down the length of the long piazza tramped Galusha, his heart sinking. Every window was shuttered, every door was boarded up. Evidently this place, whatever it was, was closed. It was uninhabited.

He came back to the front door again. Over it was a sign, he had not looked as high before. Now he raised the dimming flashlight and read:

“THE RESTABIT INN. Open June 15 to September 15.”

September 15!!! Why, September was past and gone. This was the 3rd of October. The Restabit Inn was closed for the season.

Slowly, Galusha, tugging the suitcase, stumbled to the edge of the piazza. There he collapsed, rather than sat down, upon the upper step. Above him, upon the piazza roof, the rain descended heavily. The flashlight dimmed and went out altogether.

“OW—ooo—-ooo—ooo—OOO!!” whooped the foghorn.

Later, just how much later he never knew exactly, Mr. Bangs awoke from his faint or collapse or doze, whichever it may have been, to hear some one calling his name.

“Loosh! Loosh! Loosh!”

This was odd, very odd. “Loosh” was what he had been called at college. That is, some of the fellows had called him that, those he liked best. The others had even more offensive nicknames. He disliked “Loosh” very much, but he answered to it—then.

“Loosh! Loosh! Loosh, where are you?”

Queer that any one should be calling him “Loosh”—any one down here in... Eh? Where was he? He couldn't remember much except that he was very tired—except—

“Loosh! Looshy! Come Looshy!”

He staggered to his feet and, leaving the suitcase where it was, stumbled away in the direction of the voice. The rain, pouring down upon him, served to bring him back a little nearer to reality. Wasn't that a light over there, that bright yellow spot in the fog?

It was a light, a lighted doorway, with a human figure standing in it. The figure of a woman, a woman in a dark dress and a white apron. It must be she who was calling him. Yes, she was calling him again.

“Loosh! Loosh! Looshy! Oh, my sakes alive! Why don't you come?”

Mr. Bangs bumped into something. It was a gate in a picket fence and the gate swung open. He staggered up the path on the other side of that gate, the path which led to the doorway where the woman was standing.

“Yes, madam,” said Galusha, politely but shakily lifting the brown derby, “here I am.”

The woman started violently, but she did not run nor scream.

“My heavens and earth!” she exclaimed. Then, peering forward, she stared at the dripping apparition which had appeared to her from the fog and rain.

“Here I am, madam,” repeated Mr. Bangs.

The woman nodded. She was middle-aged, with a pleasant face and a figure of the sort which used to be called “comfortable.” Her manner of looking and speaking were quick and businesslike.

“Yes,” she said, promptly, “I can see you are there, so you needn't tell me again. WHY are you there and who are you?”

Galusha's head was spinning dizzily, but he tried to make matters clear.

“My name is—is—Dear me, how extraordinary! I seem to have forgotten it. Oh, yes, it is Bangs—that is it, Bangs. I heard you calling me, so—”

“Heard ME calling YOU?”

“Yes. I—I came down to the hotel—the rest—Rest—that hotel over there. It was closed. I sat down upon the porch, for I have been ill recently and I—ah—tire easily. So, as I say—”

The woman interrupted him. She had been looking keenly at his face as he spoke.

“Come in. Come into the house,” she commanded, briskly.

Mr. Bangs took a step toward her. Then he hesitated.

“I—I am very wet, I'm afraid,” he said. “Really, I am not sure that—”

“Rubbish! It's because you are wet—wet as a drowned rat—that I'm askin' you to come in. Come now—quick.”

Her tone was not unkind, but it was arbitrary.

Galusha made no further protest. She held the door open and he preceded her into a room, then into another, this last evidently a sitting room. He was to know it well later; just now he was conscious of little except that it was a room—and light—and warm—and dry.

“Sit down!” ordered his hostess.

Galusha found himself standing beside a couch, an old-fashioned sofa. It tempted him—oh, how it tempted him!—but he remembered the condition of his garments.

“I am very wet indeed,” he faltered. “I'm afraid I may spoil your—your couch.”

“Sit DOWN!”

Galusha sat. The room was doing a whirling dervish dance about him, but he still felt it his duty to explain.

“I fear you must think this—ah—very queer,” he stammered. “I realize that I must seem—ah—perhaps insane, to you. But I have, as I say, been ill and I have walked several miles, owing to—ah—mistakes in locality, and not having eaten for some time, since breakfast, in fact, I—”

“Not since BREAKFAST? Didn't you have any dinner, for mercy sakes?”

“No, madam. Nor luncheon. Oh, it is quite all right, no one's fault but my own. Then, when I found the—the hotel closed, I—I sat down to rest and—and when I heard you call my name—”

“Wait a minute. What IS your name?”

“My name is Bangs, Galusha Bangs. It seems ridiculous now, as I tell it, but I certainly thought I heard you or some one call me by the name my relatives and friends used to use. Of course—”

“Wait. What was that name?”

Even now, dizzy and faint as he was, Mr. Bangs squirmed upon the sofa.

“It was—well, it was Loosh—or—ah—Looshy” he admitted, guiltily.

His hostess' face broke into smiles. Her “comfortable” shoulders shook.

“Well, if that doesn't beat everything!” she exclaimed. “I was callin' my cat; his name is Lucy—Lucy Larcom; sometimes we call him 'Luce' for short.... Eh? Heavens and earth! Don't do THAT!”

But Galusha had already done it. The dervish dance in his head had culminated in one grand merry-go-round blotting out consciousness altogether, and he had sunk down upon the sofa.

The woman sprang from her chair, bent over him, felt his pulse, and loosened his collar.

“Primmie,” she called. “Primmie, come here this minute, I want you!”

There was the sound of scurrying feet, heavy feet, from the adjoining room, the door opened and a large, raw-boned female, of an age which might have been almost anything within the range of the late teens or early twenties, clumped in. She had a saucer in one hand and a dishcloth in the other.

“Yes'm,” she said, “here I be.” Then, seeing the prone figure upon the sofa, she exclaimed fervently, “Oh, my Lord of Isrul! Who's that?”

“Now don't stand there swearin' and askin' questions, but do as I tell you. You go to the—”

“But—but what AILS him? Is he drunk?”

“Drunk? What put such a notion as that in your head? Of course he isn't drunk.”

“He ain't—he ain't dead?”

“Don't be so silly. He's fainted away, that's all. He's tired out and half sick and half starved, I guess. Here, where are you goin'?”

“I'm a-goin' to fetch some water. They always heave water on fainted folks.”

“Well, this one's had all the water he needs already. The poor thing is soaked through. You go to the pantry and in the blue soup tureen, the one we don't use, you'll find a bottle of that cherry rum Cap'n Hallet gave me three years ago. Bring it right here and bring a tumbler and spoon with it. After that you see if you can get Doctor Powers on the telephone and ask him to come right down here as quick as he can. HURRY! Primmie Cash, if you stop to ask one more question I—I don't know what I'll do to you. Go ALONG!”

Miss Cash went along, noisily along. Her mistress bent over the wet, pitiful little figure upon the sofa.

And thus, working by devious ways, did Fate bring about the meeting of Galusha Cabot Bangs, of the National Institute, Washington, D. C., and Miss Martha Phipps, of East Wellmouth, which, it may be said in passing, was something of an achievement, even for Fate.