Fair Harbor | Page 7

he had made, and before him--not
even the opportunity to make more.
Overhead, amid the cherry branches, the bees buzzed and the robins
chirped. From the kitchen window came the click of dishes as Mrs.
Macomber washed and wiped them. Around the curve of the road by
the meeting-house came Dr. Sheldon's old horse, drawing Dr. Sheldon's
antiquated chaise, with the doctor himself leaning back comfortably
upon its worn cushions. Captain Kendrick, not being in the mood for a
chat just then even with as good a friend as his physician, made no
move, and the old chaise and its occupant passed by and disappeared
around the next curve. Sarah-Mary and Edgar and Bemis noisily
trooped out of the house and started for school. Edgar was
enthusiastically carolling a ditty which was then popular among
Bayport juvenility. It was reminiscent of a recent presidential
campaign.

"Grant and Greely were fightin' for flies, Grant gave Greely a pair of
black eyes--"
The children, like Doctor Sheldon and the chaise, passed out of sight
around the bend of the road. Edgar's voice, more or less tunefully,
drifted back:
"Grant said, 'Do you want any more?' Greely said, 'No, for my eyes are
too sore.'"
Sears Kendrick crossed his knees and changed position upon the bench.
Obviously he could not hope to go to sea again for months at the very
earliest. Obviously he could not live during those months at his sister's.
She would be only too delighted to have him do so, but on that point
his mind was made up. And, quite as obviously, he could not long exist,
and pay an adequate price for the privilege of existing, with the small
sum which was left after his disastrous voyage upon the sea of business.
His immediate problems then were two: First, to find a boarding place
which was very, very cheap. Second, if possible, to find a means of
earning a little money. The first of these he might, perhaps, solve after
a fashion, but the second--and he a cripple! He groaned aloud.
Then he gradually became aware of a new set of sounds, sounds
approaching along the road from the direction in which the children and
the doctor's equipage had disappeared. The sounds, at first rather
confused, gradually separated themselves into two varieties, one the
sharp, irregular rattle of a springless cart, the second a hoarse
unmusical voice which, like Edgar's, was raised in song. But in this
case the rattle of the cart caused the song to be broken unexpectedly
into jerky spasms, so to speak. Nevertheless, the singer kept manfully
at his task.
"Now the Dreadnought's a-bowlin' (Bump! Rattle) down the wild Irish
sea Where the pass (Bump!) engers are merry with hearts full of glee,
While the sailors like lions (Gid-dap! What's the matter with ye) walk
the decks to and fro, She's the Liverpool packet (Bump! Bang! Crack!)
Good Lord, let her go!"

Sears Kendrick sat upright on the settee. Of course he recognized the
song, every man who had ever sailed salt water knew the old
Dreadnought chantey, but much more than that, he believed he
recognized the voice of the singer. Leaning forward, he watched for the
latter to appear.
Then, around the clump of lilacs which leaned over Captain Sol Snow's
fence at the corner, came an old white horse drawing an old
"truck-wagon," the wagon painted, as all Cape Cod truck-wagons then
were and are yet, a bright blue; and upon the high seat of the wagon sat
a chunky figure, a figure which rocked back and forth and sang:
"Now the Dreadnought's a sailin' the (Bang! Bump!) Atlantic so wide,
While the (Thump! Bump!) dark heavy seas roll along her black side,
With the sails neatly spread (Crump! Jingle!) and the red cross to show,
She's the Liverpool packet; Good Lord, let----"
Captain Kendrick interrupted here.
"Ahoy, the Dreadnought!" he hailed. "Dreadnought ahoy!"
"Good Lord, let 'er go!" roared the man on the seat of the truck-wagon,
finishing the stanza of his chantey. Then he added "Whoa!" in a mighty
bellow. The white horse stopped in his tracks, as if he had one ear
tipped backward awaiting the invitation. His driver leaned down and
peered into the shadow of the lilac bush.
"Who--?" he began. "Eh? What? Limpin', creepin', crawlin', jumpin'
Moses and the prophets! It ain't Cap'n Sears Kendrick, is it? It is, by
Henry! Well, well, well, WELL, WELL!"
Each succeeding "well" was louder and more emphatic than its
predecessor. They were uttered as the speaker rolled, rather than
climbed, down from the high seat. Alighting upon a pair of enormous
feet shod in heavy rubber boots, the tops of which were turned down,
he thumped up the little slope from the road to the sidewalk. Then,
thrusting over