Here the Captain broke off and seemed to meditate.
Ralph Hazeltine forbore to interrupt, and occupied himself by scrutinizing the buildings that they were passing. They were nearing the center of the town now, and the houses were closer together than they had been on the “depot road,” but never so close as to be in the least crowded. Each house had its ample front yard, and the new arrival could smell the box hedges and see, now and then, the whiteness of the kalsomined stones that bordered a driveway. It was too dark for the big seashells at the front steps to be visible, but they were there, all the same; every third house of respectability in Orham has them. There was an occasional shop, too, with signs like “Cape Cod Variety Store,” or “The Boston Dry Goods Emporium,” over their doors. On the platform of one a small crowd was gathered, and from the interior came shouts of laughter and the sound of a tin-panny piano.
“That's the billiard saloon,” volunteered Captain Eri, suddenly waking from his trance. “Play pool, Mr. Hazeltine?”
“That so! Most of the fellers in there play it with their mouths. Miss a shot and then spend the rest of the evenin' tellin' how it happened.”
“I don't think I should care to play it that way,” said Ralph, laughing.
“Well, it has its good p'ints. Kind of all-round exercise; develops the lungs and strengthens the muscles, as the patent-medicine almanac says. Parker played it considerable.”
“I judge that your opinion of my predecessor isn't a high one.”
“Who? Oh, Parker! He was all right in his way. Good many folks in this town swore by him. I understand the fellers over at the station thought he was about the ticket.”
“Oh, Mr. Langley, bein' manager, had his own ideas, I s'pose! Langley don't play pool much; not at Web Saunders' place, anyhow. We turn in here.”
They rolled up a long driveway, very dark and overgrown with trees, and drew up at the back door of a good-sized two-story house. There was a light in the kitchen window.
“Whoa, Dan'l!” commanded the Captain. Then he began to shout, “Ship ahoy!” at the top of his lungs.
The kitchen door opened and a man came out, carrying a lamp, its light shining full upon his face. It was an old face, a stern face, with white eyebrows and a thin-lipped mouth. Just such a face as looked on with approval when the executioner held up the head of Charles I., at Whitehall. There was, however, a tremble about the chin that told of infirm health.