Chapter VIII: Home Again

“Brad,” asked Captain Titcomb, creasing the morning paper into folds and tossing it on the bed, “what are you plannin’ to do, now that our late lamented owners have committed financial suicide by cuttin’ you off in the flower of your youth, so to speak?”

It was late the morning of the third day after the Captain’s return from his flying visit to New York. They had said good-bye to the _Thomas Doane_ the previous forenoon, and were now occupying a room in the United States Hotel. Bradley had rather expected to leave at once for Orham, but the Captain asked him to wait a little while. “If we go home now,” he said, “we’ll have to answer four million questions, and my head’s a little leaky yet from tryin’ to stave in the deck with it. I don’t believe I could answer more’n three million and a ha’f without strainin’ my intellect. I can sympathize with Bluey Batcheldor. Bluey works like blazes most of the time, keepin’ a chair from slippin’ its moorin’s, and ’bout once a year he has to come up to Boston on a vacation. What I need is a vacation. We’ll hang ’round here for a spell, if you don’t care. Besides, I want to think.”

He had barely alluded to the momentous happenings of the recent voyage, nor had he given any details of the circumstances leading up to them. Bradley, for his part, had asked no questions. It was sufficient for him to know that his best friend had been saved from committing what, in his eyes, was a crime.

“Well,” repeated Captain Titcomb, “what are you plannin’ to do?”

Bradley, who was sitting by the window, looking down upon the hats of the people in the narrow street, answered, slowly: “I don’t know. I’ve been waiting to find out what you intended doing.”

The Captain crossed his legs and tilted back in his chair.

“I cal’late,” he observed, “that I could walk out of this gilded palace of luxury and run afoul of another skipper’s berth inside of an hour. Not at my old wages, of course, but a pretty fair berth, all the same. You see, they know me pretty well alongshore. And I wouldn’t wonder if I could hook a second mate’s place for you, at the same time. I don’t know, though,” he added, slyly, “as you’d feel safe, bein’ an honest man and ‘whiter than snow,’ as the hymn-book says, to sail along with me again. Hey?”

Bradley laughed. “I’d be willing to risk it, if you think you can stand your end,” he said.

“Well, I ain’t jest sure whether the parson is the best supercargo for a coastin’ packet, or not. He’s a sort of spare hawser in case your morals part, but the business end of the deal is a question. However, I don’t believe we’ll stop to fight that out jest now. Fact is, Brad, I’ve had a kink in my mainsheet for a consider’ble spell. I’ve been gittin sicker and sicker of jumpin’ when somebody else piped ‘All hands.’ I’ve had a notion that some day I was goin’ to cut loose, and cruise on my own hook. You know I’ve hinted at it for over a year. Now, it looks as if this was my chance, or never. Brad, how’d you like to be a wrecker?”

“_A wrecker?_” Bradley’s face showed his absolute astonishment.

“Oh, I don’t mean the line of wreckin’ that is makin’ your eyes stick out at this minute. Thanks to my second mate, I seem to have graduated from that, as you might say. Maybe I did right--maybe I didn’t. At present I don’t know whether to bless you or to kick you. That’s another thing to be decided on by and by. But I mean a different kind of wreckin’. Do you know Caleb Burgess, Cap’t Jerry’s cousin?”

Yes; Bradley knew him. He owned a little schooner that flitted along the Cape Cod coast, picking up floating wreckage, when it was of value, dragging for anchors, dredging for chains and iron-work lost by vessels in trouble, and doing a sort of nautical old junk business.

“Well,” went on the Captain, “Caleb’s gittin’ old, and he’d like to sell out. Most folks think he’s scratched a bare livin’ from the shoals, but I happen to know that he’s done a good deal better than that. The old man told me how much he had in the bank, and it wan’t to be sneezed at. Now, I could buy that schooner of his cheap. She isn’t much, and money would have to be spent on her, but she’d do for a start. You understand, the wreckin’ business I’d do wouldn’t be anchor-draggin’ alone. There’s money in a first-class wreckin’-plant on Cape Cod. Wrecks! Why, they pile up there three deep every winter. Now, listen a minute, while I rise to blow.”

Bradley listened, and the Captain talked. He had evidently given much thought to this proposition, and his plans were ambitious. He believed that if a capable man bought the _Lizzie_--that was the name of the Burgess schooner--added to her equipment, and sailed her himself, he could build up a profitable business. The salvage of cargoes of stranded schooners, and of the schooners themselves, played a large part in his plans. One or two good-sized jobs of this kind, taken on a commission basis, would bring in capital enough to warrant the purchase of a bigger vessel, fitted with auxiliary power, with a diving equipment, derricks, and the like.

“Then,” said the Captain, rising and pacing up and down the room, “a man could begin to shuck his coat, and sail in. He could git some of the jobs the big city wreckin’ companies git, and there’s money in them--big money. And that would be only the beginnin’. I’m dreamin’, maybe, but why not, some day, a fleet of wreckin’ vessels, maybe a tug or two? And _then_ for raisin’ sunk schooners--and all the rest of it.”

“But wouldn’t that take capital?”

“Sartin sure. But let me--us--prove that the profit’s there, and the capital’ll be donated, like frozen potaters at a minister’s surprise party. Oh, I’ve thought it out! Now, here!”

And again he proceeded to go over the ground, giving figures this time, showing for just how much, in his opinion, the _Lizzie_ could be bought, and how much it would cost to fit her up for the preliminary work. He said that he believed himself capable of carrying on the business, as he had spent two years in wrecking when he was Bradley’s age, and so on.

“Now, Brad,” he concluded, “what do you think of it?”

“I believe that _you_ could do it, Cap’n Ez.”

“No; I couldn’t do it, either--not alone. I’m too much like the dinner the passenger on the steam-boat told about--I’m good, but I need somethin’ to keep me down. I’m too much of a born gambler; take big risks for the fun of it. But _you_ and me could do it. Oh, I’ve watched you, Brad, the way the youngest boy watched the last piece of cake! You’re cool-headed, and you look to see whether there’s a rope tied to the anchor ’fore you heave it overboard. With you to plan and figure, and me to whoop her up, why---- Well, I’ve made mistakes before now, but _I_ can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t, in two or three years, both be makin’ more money than Williams Brothers would ever have paid us. Now, this is how you can come in, if you want to.”

The Captain’s plan for Bradley’s co-operation was, briefly stated, just this. He (Captain Titcomb) would provide the money for buying the _Lizzie_ and whatever else was immediately necessary. Bradley would contribute his savings to the pile. They were to be partners on equal shares, but Bradley was to pay, from his share of whatever profits might come from time to time, the amount necessary to make his investment the equal of the Captain’s. No new move was to be made without the consent of both partners. It was a very generous offer, and Bradley said so.

“No generosity about it,” protested Captain Ezra. “I’m lookin’ out for myself, and I need you, as the tipsy man said to the lamp-post. I tell you, honest--I sha’n’t go into this thing unless you go in with me. Maybe it’s a fool notion, anyway. Well, there,” he concluded, “now that I’ve unloaded my mind, we’ll go down to the Cape this afternoon. I’ll look ’round, and you take a week to think things over in. At the ends of the week you can say ‘Yes,’ or ‘No.’”

The conversation did not end here. Bradley was, by this time, catching some of the Captain’s enthusiasm, and he had a great many questions to ask. The forenoon was over by the time they had finished, and Bradley agreed to take the week to “think it over in.”

They caught the four o’clock train for Orham. On the way down Captain Titcomb said:

“Brad, if it ain’t too much of a strain on an honest man’s conscience, p’raps ’twould be a good thing for us to say nothin’ ’bout the reel reason why we left the _Thomas Doane_. What do you think?”

Bradley looked up quickly.

“Cap’n, you didn’t think I would say anything about it, did you?”

“No; of course I didn’t. Beg pardon, and much obliged, Brad.”

The “old maids” were washing the supper dishes when Bradley surprised them by walking into the dining-room. When the first shock was over, the sisters were the most delighted pair in Orham. They insisted on preparing a bran-new meal for their “boy,” and no amount of protestation on his part could change their minds.

“I do declare, Bradley!” said Miss Prissy, cutting slices of bread for toast; “I honestly b’lieved you saved Tempy from havin’ a conniption fit. We hadn’t got a letter from you for over a week, and she was about ready to start for Boston and swim after you. Drownin’ was the least thing she was sure had happened.”

“Don’t you b’lieve her, Bradley,” exclaimed Miss Tempy, hurrying past with the “fruit-cake” box. “She was jest as worried as I was, and only last night she said if you wasn’t under Cap’n Titcomb’s care, she didn’t know as she should sleep a wink.”

They were very curious to know why Bradley had come home so unexpectedly, and when they learned that he had left the _Thomas Doane_ and, not only that, but that the Captain also had left, they asked one question after another. Bradley simply said that the Captain had other plans, and that he couldn’t tell what they were yet. The sisters knew from experience that there was no use coaxing when their ward had made up his mind, and so changed the subject. But Miss Tempy indulged in a good deal of silent speculation as she watched him eat.

After supper they adjourned to the sitting-room. Bradley was uneasy and several times glanced at the clock. After a while he said that, if they didn’t mind, he should like to go out for an hour or so. Of course, the sisters said, they “didn’t mind,” and he put on his hat and went.

“There now!” exclaimed Miss Tempy, as the door closed. “Where do you s’pose he’s goin’? To see the Cap’n, I presume likely.”

Miss Prissy shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she answered, dubiously. “Tempy, Bradley’s a young man now, and I expect we mustn’t look to have as much of his society as we used to. I have a sneakin’ notion that, if you wanted to find him this evenin’, ’twould be a good idea to hunt up Augusty Baker.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed her sister. “That dreadful dog girl!”

Miss Prissy’s shrewd guess wasn’t far wrong. Bradley passed out of the Allen gate only to open the one of the yard adjoining. His knock at the side door apparently started a canine insurrection, for there was a tremendous barking and growling inside, and when old Mrs. Baker answered the knock the heads of Tuesday and Winfield, the only survivors of Gus’ troop of pets, protruded from either side of her skirt. Both dogs and old lady were surprised and glad to see the visitor.

“Why, Bradley Nickerson!” exclaimed Mrs. Baker. “How do you do? Come right in, won’t you? Git out! Git _out_, you provokin’ critters! Seems to me the older these dogs git, the worse they are. But ’Gusty thinks as much of ’em as if they was solid gold. When Peter was run over by the cars--and ’twas a mercy, ’cause he had the mange comin’ on and was a sight to behold; ’Gusty said herself he looked like a map of the South Sea Islands--she felt as bad as if ’twas a human, every bit. No; she ain’t in, jest now. It’s prayer-meetin’ night, and she thought she’d go--to save the reputation of the fam’ly, she said. She’s jest as much of an odd stick as ever. Well, I’m sorry you won’t step in and wait. Come again, won’t you? How’s Tempy’s cold? Did Cap’n Titcomb come down with you? You don’t say! Good-night.”

The Bakers attended the Baptist Church, and thither walked Bradley, his hands in his pockets and his head full of the wrecking scheme. Already the germs scattered by the Captain had begun to take effect, and the proposition looked more and more attractive. It appealed to his ambition, and there was an adventurous element in it that was especially alluring. But the whole thing was such a radical departure from all his former plans for the future that he did not intend to decide offhand; a week was not too much time. He wanted to talk the mater over with Gus, for she was a good listener and was almost like a brother so far as interest in masculine affairs was concerned. He had not seen her for nearly six months, although he had been at home three times during that period. Once she had been at New Bedford on a visit, once she was ill, and the third time both she and her grandmother had gone to Boston on a Mechanics’ Fair excursion. Her letters came regularly, however, and were bright and “newsy” always.

It was nearly nine o’clock, and the fence in front of the little church was ornamented by a row of Orham’s young men, who were waiting for the meeting to come to an end. Prayer-meetings in Orham seemed to be held especially for the benefit of feminine worshippers and a few old men. The young fellows drifted around to the church just before nine o’clock, sat on the fence, and whittled and told stories. Then, as the final hymn was sung, they formed in line at either side of the vestry door, and, when the young women came out, stepped forward to “see them home.” The old people were the only objectors to this performance; the girls didn’t object at all, and the clergyman only mildly criticised. Possibly he realized that the sense of religious duty which filled the vestry settees with rows of pretty faces might be considerably weakened by the absence of that other row on the fence.

Bradley joined the fence brigade and was hailed by half a dozen acquaintances, mostly old school-fellows. He heard all the news, and a lot more that might become news if it ever happened.

“Sam Hammond was down last month,” so “Hart” Sears informed him. “Talk about dudes! Say, Snuppy, wan’t he a lulla-cooler?”

“I should smile if he wan’t,” replied “Snuppy” Black. “Gold watch--and clothes! You never saw such clothes! Sam’s working for the Metropolitan Wrecking Company, and he must be getting rich. And he has a good time in New York. ’Member those yarns about the girls, Hart?”

Sears laughed and winked knowingly. “Sam’s a great feller for girls,” he observed. “He was chasin’ ’em down here, I tell you. Gus Baker was the one he chased most, but Gus can keep him guessin’; he ain’t the only one that’s been runnin’ after her--hey, Snup?” Then the whole row laughed uproariously.

Bradley, somehow, didn’t enjoy the rest of the conversation. In the first place, he didn’t relish the idea, so suddenly brought home to him, that “fellers” were running after Gus, and particularly he didn’t care to have Sam Hammond among the runners. He had met Sam once or twice in New York; a big chap he was, handsome and well dressed, in a rather loud fashion, and with a boastful knowledge of life about town. Bradley was not a prig, but saloons and after-theatre suppers had little attraction for him, even if his salary had been large enough to pay the bills. He had wondered, idly, how Sam could afford the “fun” he was always describing.

As for Gus, Bradley’s feeling for her was not in the least sentimental, but now there was a new and odd sensation of jealousy. Evidently she was considered attractive by others, and it seemed that he was not the only young man who had a share in her thoughts. She had not written him about Hammond, and he didn’t like that.

The melodeon in the vestry struck up “God be with you till me meet again,” and the loungers on the fence began to move over toward the door. He went with them, standing a little way back from the entrance. The final verse of the hymn died away in deaf Mrs. Piper’s tremulous falsetto. Then there was a hush as the benediction was pronounced, the door swung open, and, with giggles and a rustle of conversation, the worshippers began to emerge.

The young ladies were delightfully unconscious that any one was waiting for them. They were _so_ surprised when the right man, smiling bashfully, stepped forward. “Why, hello! Are you here? Yes; I s’pose so. Good night, Emmie. Don’t forget what I told you.” And the couple--the “beau” with a tight grip on his sweetheart’s arm just above the elbow--disappeared around the corner.

Bradley looked for Gus, and at last he saw her. She was talking to Mr. Langworthy, and the light from the bracket lamp in the entry shone upon her face. Again he decided, just as he had when he left her before going to sea, that she was pretty, but now he realized that hers was not a doll-like prettiness, but that there was character in her dark eyes and the expression of her mouth. It seemed to him, too, that she was well dressed, and Bradley had not been accustomed to notice the dress of his female acquaintances. Not that Gus wore anything rich or costly, but her hat wasn’t purple and yellow, like Georgiana Bailey’s, and whatever she had on seemed to be the right thing. It was not to be wondered at, so he thought, that Sam Hammond and the rest ran after her, and again he felt that odd, uneasy jealousy.

She came out and stood on the step, buttoning her glove. Two of the young fellows stepped out of the line toward her. She spoke to both of them and laughed. Then she caught sight of Bradley, who also had moved into the lamplight, and, brushing past the rival pair of volunteer escorts, she held out her hand.

“Why, Brad!” she exclaimed. “Where on earth did you come from? I’m ever so glad to see you. How do you do?”

Bradley shook hands and said, “How do you do?” There was no earthly reason why he should be embarrassed, but he was, just a little. He stammered, and then asked if he might have the pleasure of “seeing her home.”

Gus laughed--a jolly, unaffected laugh.

“Why, of course you may,” she said. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? I hope so, at any rate.”

Bradley laughed too, and admitted that he guessed that was about it. Gus took his arm, and they moved down the path and down the rough stone steps to the sidewalk. The two young fellows who had been so unceremoniously slighted gazed after them blankly for a moment, and then turned to see if there were any more eligibles left.

“Why, I haven’t seen you for an age,” said Gus. “And you haven’t written for nearly three weeks. Why did you come home now? You didn’t expect to come home so soon, did you?”

Bradley explained why he had come home. Captain Titcomb had left the _Thomas Doane_, he said, and he had left with him. He didn’t tell the real reason for the leaving, but hinted at dissatisfaction with the owners. To head off further questions on this ticklish subject he asked Gus what she had been doing that winter.

“Well,” she said, “I graduated from high school, for one thing, and I’m keeping house for grandma. I guess that’s about all.”

“What’s been going on in town? Any dances?”

“Yes; a few. I went to the Washington’s Birthday Ball, but it wasn’t much fun. Most of the floor committee were old, married people, and about every other dance was ‘Hull’s Victory’ or a quadrille. Round dances, you know, are wicked--especially if you don’t know how to dance them.”

“You wrote me you went to that. Sam Hammand’s been home, hasn’t he?”

“Oh, yes; I went to the ball with him. He’s a lovely dancer, and we waltzed whenever they played a waltz tune, no matter whether the rest were busy with a quadrille or not. I suppose it wasn’t very polite, but--oh, dear! a ball is supposed to be a good time, and I’d rather wash dishes than have my toes stepped on by Captain Bailey in a contra-dance. Do you ever see Sam in New York?”

“No; not very often.”

“He must be doing splendidly in his business. He seems to have lots of money, and he tells the most exciting things about diving and saving things from wrecks. He’s very handsome, too; don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know; never noticed.”

Gus laughed, apparently at nothing in particular. “I think,” she said, slyly, “that going away must be a great help to a person’s looks. Most of my friends who have been away have improved very much.”

Bradley glanced at her.

“Shall I say ‘Thank you’?” he inquired, drily.

“Why, of course!”

“All right. Much obliged. Staying at home seems to agree with some people; but I suppose you didn’t know that?”

“Shall I make you a curtsey, or be cross at the sarcasm? What makes you act so different to-night? Why don’t you tell me what you are going to do, now that you’ve given up your position?”

“I wasn’t sure that you’d be interested. You didn’t ask!”

“You didn’t use to wait to be asked. Of course I want to know. Tell me, please.”

So Bradley told her of Captain Titcomb’s idea concerning the purchase of the _Lizzie_, and the offer of partnership in the wrecking business. As he talked, his growing interest in the plan became more evident, and he spoke of it as something already nearly decided upon. “What do you think of it?” he asked, in conclusion.

“Why, I don’t know,” replied Gus. “If it all works out as the Cap’n hopes it will be a fine thing; but isn’t it rather risky? It means staying at home here in Orham, where people’s ideas get into a rut, it seems to me. The cities seem so big and to have such chances for a man. You know yourself, Brad, that you’ve improved a lot since you went away.”

“I haven’t got a gold watch yet, nor any fine clothes, and my dancing wouldn’t draw a crowd, I guess.”

“Don’t be silly. Sam _is_ a good waltzer, and he _has_ improved in his manners and in other ways. I shouldn’t want you to settle down into nothing but a ’longshoreman. I guess I’m like Miss Tempy--I hoped you’d be captain of an ocean liner some of these days.”

“Well, I don’t mean to cramp myself to ’longshoreman size, just because I stay in the village. It looks to me like a chance--a good chance--to be my own boss and make something of myself. I hoped you’d see it that way.”

“Perhaps I shall, when I get more used to it. Tell me more, please.”

They had reached the little house, and, leaning on the gate under the big silver-leaf tree, Bradley again went over the details of the new plan. Gus was interested, and asked many questions, but to both of them the interview was not entirely satisfactory. The old, boy-and-girl, whole-hearted exchange of confidences seemed to be lacking. To Bradley, in particular, as he turned away after saying “Good-night,” the consciousness of a difference in his relation with his old-time “chum” was keen. She was interested in him and in his hopes and plans, but she had plans and hopes of her own now, and perhaps he was not so much the central figure as he used to be.

He said nothing to the “old maids” about where he had been, but, although he didn’t know it, this was not necessary. After he had gone to his room, Miss Tempy whispered:

“Prissy, I peeked under the window shade in the parlor for as much as five minutes, and he and she was leanin’ over that gate and talkin’ away as if there wasn’t anything else in the whole world. Do you s’pose we ought to say anything?”

“Say anything!” sighed the sister. “What should we say? Bradley’s a man now, and you and me can’t put him to bed without his supper any more.”

Next day Bradley called on the Captain. The latter had seen Caleb Burgess, and the _Lizzie_ could be bought for a very reasonable sum. Captain Titcomb was also preparing a long table of figures showing the cost of what was needed to fit her up. They talked for over an hour, but Bradley was not yet ready to decide; he would take his full week, he said.

But by the end of the week his mind was made up; he was ready to take the chance that the Captain offered. He told Gus so, and she agreed that, perhaps, he was doing right. He told the “old maids,” and so knocked Miss Tempy’s air-castles into smithereens in one tremendous crash. Not that this was an irretrievable calamity, for she immediately began to build new ones on a different plan.

“Isn’t it splendid!” she exclaimed. “Now he’ll be home all the time, as you might say, and we won’t have to worry when it storms, ’cause we’ll know _jest_ where he is. And when he begins to get rich, we’ll have the barn shingled, and maybe the house can be painted. I think a cream-yellow with dark green trimmin’s would be nice; that’s the way Cap’n Jonadab Wixon is goin’ to paint his house. And, oh, Prissy! perhaps, now that Bradley and he are partners in bus’ness, the Cap’n’ll come here once in a while, I hope he will; his advice is _so_ valuable.”

The partnership articles were signed, Bradley drew his money from the savings bank, and the _Lizzie_ changed hands. The next month was a very busy one, for they were at work on the schooner every day, refitting and rigging. One noon of the fourth week the Captain came down to the wharf with a Boston paper in his hand.

“Brad,” he said abruptly--they were alone--“I b’lieve I never told you the full inside of that last v’yage of ours. ’Twas this way: When we got into New York on the trip before the last one, Williams he sent for me, and nothin’ would do but I must go to dinner with him. I thought ’twas queer, for Williams ain’t heavin’ dinners ’round the way you feed corn to chickens; but when I saw the lay-out that noon I _knew_ somethin’ was up. Talk about your feeds! Why, Brad, there was oysters, and soup, and lobster a la poleyvoo--or somethin’ like it--and turkey, and ice cream, and the Lord knows what. I swan! I expected to see ’em bring on fricasseed bird of paradise and giraffe steak ’fore they got through. And champagne! Say, I could have swilled champagne to float the _Thomas Doane_ and had enough left for a bath for all hands and the cook. But I kind of shortened sail on the champagne tack; I wanted my deadlights clear for what was comin’. Then, when ’twas over, and we was burnin’ dollar bills in the shape of cigars, your old messmate Williams begins to heave over the ground bait. Wasn’t I sick of bein’ skipper of an undertaker’s cart? I was capable of runnin’ the fastest craft afloat--best man they ever had, and so on. Talk about taffy! He poured it on till I thought I’d stick to the chair. Then I was to have the new four-master, only--what should they do with the _Doane_? He couldn’t sell her for enough to pay the agent’s commission. If she was piled up on the beach, why, the insurance would----

“Well, you see the drift. I smelt bilge before the pumps had worked five minutes. First, I said ‘No,’ flat-footed, jest like your little tin honest man. That was the first day. But that was only the beginnin’. He kept at it all the time. There was no chance of losin’ a life; ’twas what was done fifty times a year. See what was comin’ to me. More money? Why, sure. _And_ the new schooner, best in the bus’ness. He’d always swore by me. His brother that’s dead used to say Cap’n Titcomb would stick to owners’ orders, if he was told to jump overboard. They’d treated me better than any skipper they ever had, and now, the first time I was asked to really _do_ somethin’ to help the firm, I went back on ’em.

“Never mind the rest. Fin’lly they got me to say that maybe I’d do it. And I hated myself every minute afterwards. But, you see, I’d always been used to takin’ risks, _liked_ to take ’em, and I ain’t got your saintly disposition, my son. Well, let it go at that. This in the paper is what started me talkin’ about it to-day, and I tell you honest, it wan’t surprise enough to give me a shock of palsy.”

Bradley took the paper and saw on the page indicated the words, “Wreck on the Long Island Sand Bars. The Schooner Thomas Doane Lost. All Hands Saved.” He glanced over the article, which briefly stated that the three-masted schooner _Thomas Doane_, Burke master, had struck on the shoals off Long Island and would be a total loss. The crew, after trying in vain to save the vessel, had taken to the boats and reached shore in safety.

“I didn’t believe they’d dare do it!” exclaimed Bradley. “We know, and they know we know.”

“Who’ll tell?” asked the Captain, shortly. “Not me, for I was in it as bad as the rest. Not you, for they know you and me were thicker’n flies on a molasses stopper. No; ’twas ‘Good-bye, Susan Jane,’ so far as the old _Doane_ was concerned, and I’ve been expectin’ it. Well, I wasn’t at the funeral, so let’s forgit it.”

And apparently Captain Titcomb did forget it; a good many months were to pass before Bradley was again to hear his friend mention that subject.