Chapter XXII: Thanksgiving

Gus rose early that morning. The storm had awakened her. She pulled aside the window shade and peered out at the bare branches of the silverleaf beating and whipping in the wind, at the sheets of rain scudding across the little pond in the pasture, at the whitecaps in the inlet and harbor and at the angry sea outside. Down in the village the storm signals were flying from the pole on the cupola of “Cy” Warner’s observatory. The southeast gale, foretold by the newspapers, had come.

She saw the lighthouse on Baker’s Beach, a small shadowy dot in the distance. Beyond it was the bay, and miles beyond that lay Setuckit Point. Only the landward end of the long beach was visible through the smears of wind-driven rain, but she gazed in that direction for minutes.

Grandmother Baker was still asleep when Gus came downstairs. The girl went out into the kitchen, where Winfield, gray-muzzled and rheumatic, came, stretching and yawning, to meet her. She fixed the fire in the range, filled the teakettle, and, putting on her apron, began mixing the rye muffins for breakfast. Every now and then she left her work to go to the window. The storm was growing steadily worse.

The muffins were ready and she put them in the oven. She went to the sink and pumped the tin hand basin full of water; but before her fingers touched it she heard the yard gate shut with a bang. She thought that “Blount’s boy” must be coming with the morning’s milk, and stepped to the outside door to meet him, lifting the hook from the staple.

The door opened and Bradley Nickerson came in.

He wore no overcoat or oilskins, and his clothes were wet through. The rain poured from the visor of his cap, from his sleeves and the hem of his jacket. His face was dotted with drops, like beads of perspiration. He did not wipe them away, but stood there, on Mrs. Baker’s cherished ingrain carpet, dripping and looking at the girl before him.

She did not seem to notice his condition, nor appear astonished at his coming. Her first words were strange ones.

“Oh!” she cried. “Is she lost?”

“Lost?” he repeated. “Lost?”

“Yes, yes! the barge? Has the gale wrecked her?”

Bradley seemed to be waking from a dream. “Oh, the barge!” he answered slowly. “The barge? Oh! she’s all right. We got her off.”

Gus gave a little sob of joy. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m _so_ glad!” she exclaimed. “I was afraid----”

He interrupted her by stepping forward and seizing her hands.

“Gus!” he begged. “Oh, Gus! do you love me?”

She did not hesitate nor seem surprised. “Yes,” she said simply, looking up at him.

For an instant he returned the look. Then the reaction came. He swayed, sank to his knees, and cried like a child, hiding his face in her apron.

And like a child she soothed him, stroking his wet hair, and crying silently in sympathy.

“Oh, my dear!” he pleaded, over and over again. “I’ve behaved like a foolish child. Can you forgive me?”

She smiled like the sun shining through the last drops of a summer shower. “It was my fault, more than yours,” she said. “I was selfish and so silly, but I didn’t know--I didn’t know.”

“But you know now? You’re _sure_?”

The answer was not in words alone, and was entirely satisfactory.

* * * * *

“Tell me about the barge,” she begged, a little later. “I’m so glad and so very proud that my boy--really my boy now--should have done such a thing. If you know how I have worked with you in spirit, and how I have prayed that you might succeed. Tell me all about it, please.”

But he would not. “Never mind that, now!” he cried. “Let’s talk of something worth while. Tell me how you rowed to the schooner the night of the fire. You brave girl!”

“Oh, Brad!” she answered, with a shudder. “It was dreadful! I could see you on the deck with the fire all around, and I heard people on the bridge talking about the dynamite. I kept thinking, over and over, that I should never get there in time. Suppose I hadn’t! Oh, _suppose_ I hadn’t!”

“I wonder,” he said, musingly, and with such worshipping admiration in his gaze that she blushed; “I wonder if I can ever do enough to make you happy--as happy as you deserve to be. I shall try, but how can I do enough?”

“Hush, dear!” she whispered softly. “Do you think I’m not perfectly happy now?”

* * * * *

He asked her to come with him to the big house. “I want them to know,” he said. “They’ll guess it quick enough when they see me, but I want them to _know_. Come.”

Gus hesitated. She looked rather doubtful. “Remember, Brad,” she said, “Miss Prissy and her sister have never liked me.”

Bradley laughed, a boyish, merry laugh. “That’s all right,” he replied. “Come and see.”

As she moved to the hooks by the door to get her hood, he noticed her gown.

“Why!” he exclaimed, “you’re soaking wet! I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

“Why, so I am! And, oh, dear, you’re wet to the skin! You’ll get cold. And I’ve _covered_ you with flour!”

Bradley looked down at his sodden boots and garments. His coat was ornamented with white fingerprints. “I’m all right,” he observed, referring to the wet. “I’m used to it. But I was a brute to let you get that way. Jiminy! look at that carpet!”

The section of the carpet near the doormat looked like the flats at low tide. There were islands in the shape of muddy footmarks, and channels of dirty water between.

“Never mind the carpet,” laughed Gus. “Come; I’m ready.”

They hurried through the rain to the door of the Allen dining-room. Bradley knocked and Miss Prissy answered it.

“Why, Bradley!” she exclaimed. “Why, _Bradley_!”

Miss Tempy came running from the kitchen. “Who----” she began. Then, like her sister, she cried, “Why, _Bradley_!”

“Aren’t you going to ask us in?” queried the young man, calmly. “It’s a little bit damp out here.”

Wonderingly the sisters stepped aside and Bradley and Gus entered the dining-room. The table was set, the fire was roaring in the big air-tight stove, the ship at the top of the tall clock in the corner rocked behind its tin waves, the boat load of passengers in the “Shore to Shore” picture had advanced no further on their journey--the room looked just the same as it did when a little boy in a man’s dingy overcoat entered it on a winter’s night years before. Nothing was changed, nothing looked older--except the sisters and the boy.

“Has anything happened?” asked Miss Tempy, anxiously. Miss Prissy did not speak; she was looking at Gus.

“Miss Prissy and Miss Tempy,” Bradley began, “I’ve got good news for you. The _Freedom_ came off the shoal last night; she’s anchored behind the Point, safe and sound.”

Miss Tempy cried out and clasped her hands. Her sister’s face lit up, and she opened her lips; but she did not speak; she only looked at Gus.

“But that isn’t the best news,” Bradley went on. “Gus has promised to marry me.”

Again Miss Tempy cried out, but in a different tone. And still Miss Prissy was silent. Her sister came forward and tremblingly took her arm.

“Aren’t you glad?” asked Bradley.

Miss Prissy’s lip quivered. “Yes,” she faltered, “I know we ought to be glad. She’s a good girl, I’m sure, and she saved you from drowning. But it’s hard----”

She stopped and turned away. Miss Tempy put an arm about her waist.

It was Gus herself who did precisely the right thing. She went straight up to Miss Prissy and took her hands.

“Try to like me,” she pleaded. “Please try, because--because _I_ like Brad very much, too.”

And then Miss Prissy threw her arms about the girl’s neck and kissed her. “Bless you, dearie,” she said. “I do like you and I am glad Bradley has chose so well. It’s only because we’ve had him to ourselves so long that---- Ah, well! Tempy, we mustn’t be selfish old women.”

Gus kissed them both, and all three cried a little. And with those tears the last scrap of resentment against the “dog girl” was washed away.

From across the yard came the sound of a window being raised. Mrs. Baker was heard calling. “Gusty!” she screamed. “Gus-tee!”

Gus ran to the door. “What is it, Grandma?” she asked.

“Is _that_ where you be? The muffins are burned black as a coal, and the kitchen’s full of smoke. Cat’s foot! I never saw such a girl!”

Gus ran home laughing. Bradley turned to find Miss Tempy staring at him. “My sakes alive!” she cried wildly, rushing to the kitchen. “Prissy, the boy’s wet soppin’, soakin’ through! Fetch me the milk, and that pepper shaker, quick!”

Bradley swallowed the last drop of the “pepper tea”--he was in a mood where nothing short of a gallon would have daunted him--and hastened upstairs to put on dry clothes. When he came down he went through the motions of eating breakfast, and answered, as best he could, the hundred and one questions regarding the floating of the _Freedom_ that the “old maids” and Clara asked. He had been up practically all night, but was too excited to think of sleep, and, remembering how unceremoniously he had deserted Captain Titcomb, decided to go down to the post-office and telephone to the Point.

The storm was in full blast by this time. The wind screamed through the tree tops and the thick ropes of rain shot downward with savage force. As he entered the post-office the postmaster called to him through the little window in the centre of the frame of mail boxes.

“Hi, Brad!” he hailed. “Is that you? I jest sent a boy uptown after you. Cap’n Ez has been keepin’ the telephone hot for the last ha’f hour. He wants to talk to you the worst way.”

Bradley was alarmed. Had anything happened to the _Freedom_? He entered the telephone closet, stood his drenched umbrella in a corner, and gave the four rings which made up the Setuckit Point call.

The wire buzzed and hummed like an overturned bee hive. The receiver at his ear wailed and screeched like a banshee. At length a faint “Hello!” answered his call.

“Hello!” he shouted. “That you, Cap’n Knowles? Yes, this is Brad Nickerson. I want to talk with Cap’n Ez. Can you get him for me?”

The life-saver laughed. There was more buzzing and humming. Then Captain Titcomb’s voice rose above the music of the storm.

“Hello, partner!” it called. “That you? You don’t say! Well, this is Titcomb. No, the _Freedom’s_ all serene; she’ll ride it out as slick as a duck in a bucket. But there’s a feller here wants to talk with you. Prick up your ears now!”

Bradley heard his partner laugh. Then another voice began--a drawling, high-pitched voice.

“Is that you, Bradley?” it droned. “This is me talkin’. Do you hear?”

“_Me?_ Who’s me?”

“Me, Peleg--Peleg Myrick. Cap’n Ez wants to know what I’d better do with the dynamite I’ve got buried under my shanty? I’m scart to death of it.”

“The dynamite? What dynamite?”

“The dynamite I took off the _Divin’ Belle_ the day afore she was burnt. Cap’n Ez ordered me to take it all out, so I done it the next forenoon. What’ll I do with it? I’ve been tryin’ to tell you’n’ the Cap’n about it, but you never give me no chance. Skeezicks is the divil to dig, and if he scratches that stuff up, why----”

“_Stop!_” Bradley shouted it. “Wait a minute! Peleg, what are you talkin’ about? Do you mean there was no dynamite aboard the _Diving Belle_ when she burned?”

“Ya-as. I took it all out that mornin’. What’ll----”

Again Bradley shouted, “Stop!” He wanted to think. If there was no dynamite aboard the schooner, why--why then the insurance could be collected. If---- His heart sank again.

“I’m afraid that won’t do, Peleg,” he called. “She certainly blew up. I heard her, and felt the shock under water. Everybody on the hill heard the explosion and saw it, too. No, Peleg. Much obliged, but I guess you must have left some of it.”

The wire whirred and sang. Then the drawling voice went on. It said:

“Cap’n Ez wants to know if the explosion wan’t pretty small for a dynamite one--now that you come to think of it. He says, what about the gasoline tanks?”

The gasoline tanks! The gasoline for the engine! It had been stowed in the bow of the schooner.

The receiver fell from Bradley’s hand. He stared at the calendar on the wall of the telephone booth.

* * * * *

Thanksgiving came late that year, but it was a beautiful day when it did come. Clear and frosty, with the tingle of early winter in the breeze, and a thin skim of ice along the edges of the brooks and the ponds in the pasture. Not a vestige of haze on the horizon. The sea a deep rich blue, with the white sails scattered lightly over it like fallen rose petals. A salty tang of the ocean in the air, the savor of wide, clean distances and rolling billows. A day to set one’s shoulders back and make him grateful to the God who gives life and health. An ideal Thanksgiving Day.

Bradley, with an expression of serene contentment on his face, was leaning on the fence by the Allen barn, gazing out across the inlet and the harbor. Captain Titcomb leaned beside him, smoking a cigar. He also looked like a thoroughly happy man.

And the Captain had reason to be happy. The _Freedom_ had been towed up to Boston and Cook and Son had forwarded a check for the amount of the contract, accompanying it with an enthusiastic letter of approval and congratulation. Obed Nickerson, after a thorough cross-questioning of Peleg Myrick and the partners--whose statements were substantiated by Barney Small, Bearse and the rest--had written to Boston recommending the payment of the insurance on the _Diving Belle_. The newspapers had given much space to the clearing of the _Freedom_ under such adverse circumstances, and, from this advertising, had followed the receipt of many communications from skippers and ship-owners who had anchor-dragging or other wrecking work to be done.

Also--and this was no small help to the Captain’s happiness--he had made his peace with the “old maids.” The burning of the schooner, Bradley’s injury, and the fight for the firm’s life that followed, had diverted the minds of the sisters from the shock caused by the disclosure of Captain Ezra’s love affair. They had had time to think it over, and, while they agreed that the Captain was making a woeful mistake in marrying a “young, thoughtless girl,” still, as Miss Prissy said, “He’s old enough to know his own mind, and ’tain’t for us to try to change it, no matter how much we may pity him.”

Forgiving Clara was a much harder matter. Miss Tempy especially was inclined to blame the girl for “settin’ a trap for the Cap’n--he bein’ such an honest, unsuspectin’ man--and leadin’ him on.” But they forgave her finally, thanks to the influence of Bradley and Gus. And so Captain Titcomb had been invited to the Thanksgiving dinner, and the “old maids” and Grandmother Baker and Gus and Clara were now at work in the kitchen preparing the feast.

“Cap’n,” observed Bradley, “I’m afraid our getting the _Freedom_ clear has put the Jeremiah Club out of business. They won’t have anything to talk about.”

The Captain took his cigar from his lips and blew a cloud of smoke. “Oh, I’ve fixed that all right!” he replied. “They’re puttin’ in their time findin’ fault with Clara for marryin’ a man twice as old as she is. Brad,” he added, “have you made up your mind yit about that Cook offer?”

The letter from Cook and Son had contained something beside the check and the congratulations. The firm was the largest owner in a copper mining property on the shores of Lake Superior. This property was to be developed in the near future. A harbor was to be dredged and built, a fleet of tugs and barges was to be employed. Mr. Cook had offered to put Captain Titcomb and Bradley in command of this fleet, and the salaries entailed were by no means small.

Bradley took from his pocket the envelope containing the offer. He turned it slowly about in his hands.

“Cap’n Ez,” he said, “I’ve made up my mind, subject, of course, to your approval. The offer is a good one, the wages are as high as our earnings in the wrecking business are likely to be for some years. And they’re sure.”

His partner looked disappointed, but he nodded and said, “Yes, that’s so.”

“But,” went on Bradley, “in spite of that I don’t like the idea of quitting. So--if you agree with me--I say let’s stick it out down here.”

The Captain thumped the fence-rail. “Good enough!” he exclaimed. “That’s what _I_ say. We’re our own bosses, the outlook’s better’n we had a reason to expect at the end of our fust season, and I b’lieve we can build up a good trade. We’ve made a fair profit on the _Freedom_, spite of the heavy expense, and we can have a new vessel built and still have cash enough on hand to put some good-sized jobs through. I’m with you! We’ll stick it out.

“To tell the truth,” he continued, “I don’t much take to the idea of gittin’ back under ‘owners’ orders’ ag’in. That is to say, I don’t wake up nights and cry for it. The monkey does the dancin’, but it’s the organ man on t’other end of the string that gits the money. For a feller built on my lines it’s too fascinatin’ to be safe, and---- What on airth?”

He pointed to the road. Along the sidewalk came shambling a tall, red-whiskered figure, with the remains of what had once been a fur cap on its head, and a dirty worsted tippet knotted about its neck. Bradley looked, and all at once he was back in a rocking, stuffy stagecoach, with the cold night air blowing about his feet and the snow pelting against the windows. He could even smell the musty straw on the coach floor.

“Do you see it, too?” asked Captain Titcomb, anxiously. “’Cause if you don’t, I’m goin’ to turn Speritu’list right off. Sol! Hey, Sol!”

The figure stopped and looked up and down the road. Upon a repetition of the Captain’s hail it turned its eyes in the right direction.

“Hi, there!” it bellowed.

“Foolish Sol Newcomb!” exclaimed the Captain. “Blessed if it ain’t! Thought he must be dead by this time. Come on, Brad!”

They went down to the gate and the figure came to meet them.

“For the land sakes, Sol!” said Captain Titcomb, “where’d you light from?”

Mr. Newcomb looked sadly at the sky. “I’ve been livin’ over to East Wellmouth,” he answered in a drawl that made Peleg’s seem like rapid transit. “But I moved back ag’in to where I used to be. ’Twas too lively over there. Too much goin’ on.”

Captain Titcomb nodded appreciatively. “Yes,” he agreed. “I sh’d think ’twould be. Must be many as thirty-two folks over to East Wellmouth--not countin’ dogs.”

“Ya-as,” replied Sol, without enthusiasm. Then he added, “I’m c’lectin’ my road taxes.”

“You are, hey? Road taxes?”

“Ya-as. Bill Hinckley he says to me, he says, ‘Sol, you walk so much I should think you’d c’lect road taxes.’ So I’m a-doin’ of it.”

“Good idea! About what’s the rate?”

“Oh, I dunno! ’bout ten cents, maybe.”

The Captain contributed a quarter, so did Bradley. The tax collector looked at the coins doubtfully.

“I ain’t got no change,” he said.

“Oh, well, that’s all right. I’m behind, anyway. Ain’t paid my road taxes for--let me see--pretty nigh fifty years. And Brad, he’s payin’ in advance.”

Sol pocketed the money, and turned to go. He had taken but a few steps, however, when he stopped. “Hi, there!” he yelled after them. “Got any terbacker?”

“Blessed if that ain’t like renewin’ your youth,” observed the Captain, as they re-entered the yard. “Takes me back to the night I first saw you, Brad. Hum! well, I swan!”

They were both silent for a moment. Then Captain Titcomb said:

“Brad, if I hadn’t tried to dive through the _Thomas Doane’s_ plankin’, and you hadn’t had that little argument with friend Burke, where do you cal’late you and me’d be now?”

The junior partner smiled. “On board some coaster or other, I suppose,” he answered.

“Yes, I guess likely we would. I’d be runnin’ that big four-master for Williams Brothers, and you’d be fust mate prob’ly. Sorry?”

“Not a bit.”

“Me neither. If I’d stuck to the old line, I’d had a conscience by this time that I’d have been scared to sleep in the same bunk with. That is, if I’d lasted so long without bein’ jailed. I’ve been doin’ consider’ble thinkin’ for the last few months, even if I ain’t said much. Brad, remember that debate you and me had as to whether honesty was the best policy or not?”

“Yes, I remember it.”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind some sence then. Seein’ you plow right ahead, not knucklin’ to anybody, but doin’ what was right ’cause you thought _’twas_ right, and havin’ the respect of all hands the way you have, has kind of set me to overhaulin’ my own kit. I ain’t ready yit to say that honesty’s the best _policy_, fur’s gittin’ rich goes, but I will say this: It’s mighty nice to be able to pass a lookin’ glass without feelin’ like holdin’ on to your watch and hollerin’ for the constable. And I’ll say more’n that: Brad, for what you did that night aboard the _Thomas Doane_, and for the sermon next day that led up to my tellin’ Williams Brothers to set sail to where it’s everlastin’ summer--thanks.”

Bradley looked at his friend. Both men were smiling, but their eyes were serious enough.

“You’re welcome,” said the junior partner, simply.

A bell jingled loudly at the kitchen door.

“Din-ner!” called Miss Prissy, shrilly.

They walked around the corner of the barn. There they were in the doorway, the “old maids” and Gus. All three with smiles on their faces--the dearest faces in the world, so Bradley thought. And over their shoulders beamed Grandmother Baker and Clara.

“Hurry up!” cried Miss Prissy, waving the bell. “Turkey’s on the table and gittin’ cold.”

“What _have_ you been talkin’ about all this time?” asked Miss Tempy.

The Captain answered. “Oh!” he said, “bein’ as it’s Thanksgiving Brad and me have been holdin’ a special service--kind of a grace afore meat. Now, Tempy, live up to your name and go easy on the pepper tea. It biteth like a sarpent--that’s no joke--and stingeth----”

“Hum!” interrupted Miss Tempy serenely; “some folks take their pepper in tea, and others seem to like to git it by the wholesale out of the box in the closet.”

At this most unexpected retort everybody laughed, and Captain loudest of all.

“Hold on there! hold on!” he protested; “I’ll holler, ‘’Nough!’ Tempy, don’t hit a feller when he’s down.”

“If you don’t march right into that dinin’-room,” observed Miss Prissy, “you won’t git any dinner--pepper tea or anything else.”

They went in, laughing.

THE END.

=Transcriber’s Notes=

Perceived typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation and compound words have been maintained
as printed.