“I hope she'll hurry up and answer,” said the impatient Captain Perez. “I want to get this thing settled one way or another. Don't you, Jerry?”
“Yes,” was the hesitating reply. “One way or another.”
Captain Eri had seen John Baxter several times since the evening of the “Come-Outers'” meeting. The old man was calmer apparently, and was disposed to take the billiard-saloon matter less seriously, particularly as it was reported that the town selectmen were to hold a special meeting to consider the question of allowing Mr. Saunders to continue in business. The last-named gentleman had given what he was pleased to call a “blow-out” to his regular patrons in celebration of the granting of the license, and “Squealer” Wixon and one or two more spent a dreary day and night in the town lock-up in consequence. Baxter told the Captain that he had not yet made up his mind concerning the proposed Boston trip, but he thought “more 'n likely” he should go.
Captain Eri was obliged to be content with this assurance, but he determined to keep a close watch on his friend just the same.
He had met Ralph Hazeltine once or twice since the latter's arrival in Orham, and, in response to questions as to how he was getting on at the station, the new electrician invariably responded, “First-rate.” Gossip, however, in the person of Miss Busteed, reported that the operators were doing their best to keep Mr. Hazeltine's lot from being altogether a bed of roses, and there were dark hints of something more to come.
On the morning following the receipt of the letter from the Nantucket lady, Captain Eri was busy at his fish shanty, putting his lines in order and sewing a patch on the mainsail of his catboat. These necessary repairs had prevented his taking the usual trip to the fishing grounds. Looking up from his work, he saw, through the open door, Ralph Hazeltine just stepping out of the cable-station skiff. He tucked his sail needle into the canvas and hailed the young man with a shouted “Good-morning!”
“How do you do, Cap'n Hedge?” said Hazeltine, walking toward the shanty. “Good weather, isn't it?”
“Tip-top. Long 's the wind stays westerly and there ain't no Sunday-school picnics on, we don't squabble with the weather folks. The only thing that 'll fetch a squall with a westerly wind is a Sunday-school picnic. That 'll do it, sure as death. Busy over across?”