Produced by Donald Lainson and D. A. Alexander
CAP’N WARREN’S WARDS
By Joseph C. Lincoln
Author of “The Depot Master,” “The Woman Haters,”
“The Postmaster,” “Cap’n Erie,”
“Mr. Pratt,” etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY EDMUND FREDERICK
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT 1911, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published October, 1911_
Printed in the United States of America
[Illustration: “Captain Warren had risen from his chair and was facing
her.” [Page 48]]
CAP’N WARREN’S WARDS
CHAPTER I
“Ostable!” screamed the brakeman, opening the car door and yelling his
loudest, so as to be heard above the rattle of the train and the shriek
of the wind; “Ostable!”
The brakeman’s cap was soaked through, his hair was plastered down on
his forehead, and, in the yellow light from the car lamps, his wet nose
glistened as if varnished. Over his shoulders the shiny ropes of rain
whipped and lashed across the space between the cars. The windows
streamed as each succeeding gust flung its miniature freshet against
them.
The passengers in the car--there were but four of them--did not seem
greatly interested in the brakeman’s announcement. The red-faced person
in the seat nearest the rear slept soundly, as he had done for the
last hour and a half. He had boarded the train at Brockton, and, after
requesting the conductor not to “lemme me git by Bayport, Bill,” at
first favored his fellow travelers with a song and then sank into
slumber.
The two elderly men sitting together on the right-hand side of the car
droned on in their apparently endless Jeremiad concerning the low price
of cranberries, the scarcity of scallops on the flats, the reasons why
the fish weirs were a failure nowadays, and similar cheerful topics. And
in his seat on the left, Mr. Atwood Graves, junior partner in the New
York firm of Sylvester, Kuhn and Graves, lawyers, stirred uneasily on
the lumpy plush cushion, looked at his watch, then at the time-table in
his hand, noted that the train was now seventy-two minutes late, and
for at least the fifteenth time mentally cursed the railway company, the
whole of Cape Cod from Sandwich to Provincetown, and the fates which had
brought him there.
The train slowed down, in a jerky, hiccoughy sort of way, and crept
on till the car in which Mr. Graves was seated was abreast the lighted
windows of a small station, where it stopped. Peering through the
water-streaked pane at the end of his seat, the lawyer saw dim
silhouettes of uncertain outline moving about. They moved with provoking
slowness. He felt that it would be joy unspeakable to rush out there and
thump them into animation. The fact that the stately Atwood Graves even
thought of such an undignified proceeding is sufficient indication of
his frame of mind.
Then, behind the door which the brakeman, after announcing the station,
had closed again, sounded a big laugh. The heartiness of it grated on
Mr. Graves’s nerves. What idiot could laugh on such a night as this
aboard a train over an hour late?
The laugh was repeated. Then the door was flung briskly open, and a
man entered the car. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, inclined to
stoutness, wearing a cloth cap with a visor, and a heavy ulster, the
collar of which was turned up. Through the gap between the open ends of
the collar bristled a short, grayish beard. The face above the beard and
below the visor was sunburned, with little wrinkles about the eyes and
curving lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth. The upper
lip was shaved, and the eyebrows were heavy and grayish black. Cap,
face, and ulster were dripping with water.
The newcomer paused in the doorway for an instant, evidently to add the
finishing touch to a conversation previously begun.
“Well, I tell you, Ezra,” he called, over his shoulder, “if it’s too
deep to wade, maybe I can swim. Fat floats, they tell me, and Abbie says
I’m gettin’ fleshier every day. So long.”
He closed the door and, smiling broadly, swung down the aisle. The pair
of calamity prophets broke off their lament over the declining fisheries
and greeted him almost jovially.
“Hello, Cap’n!” cried one. “What’s the south shore doin’ over here in
this flood?”
“What’s the matter, Cap’n?” demanded the other. “Broke loose from your
moorin’s, have you? Did you ever see such a night in your life?”
The man in the ulster shook hands with each of his questioners, removing
a pair of wet, heavy leather gloves as he did so.
“Don’t know’s I ever did, Dan,” he answered. “Couldn’t see much of this
one but its color--and that’s black. I come over this mornin’ to
attend to some business at the court-house--deeds to some cranberry bog
property I just bought--and Judge Baxter made me go home with him to
dinner. Stayed at his house all the afternoon, and then his man, Ezra
Hallett, undertook to drive me up here to the depot. Talk about blind
pilotin’! Whew! The Judge’s horse was a new one, not used to the roads,
Ezra’s near-sighted, and I couldn’t use my glasses ‘count of the rain.
Let alone that, ‘twas darker’n the fore-hold of Noah’s ark. Ho, ho!
Sometimes we was in the ruts and sometimes we was in the bushes. I told
Ez we’d ought to have fetched along a dipsy lead, then maybe we could
get our bearin’s by soundin’s. ‘Couldn’t see ‘em if we did get ‘em,’
says he. ‘No,’ says I, ‘but we could taste ‘em. Man that’s driven
through as much Ostable mud as you have ought to know the taste of every
road in town.’”
“Well, you caught the train, anyhow,” observed Dan.
“Yup. If we’d been crippled as _well_ as blind we could have done that.”
He seated himself just in front of the pair and glanced across the aisle
at Mr. Graves, to find the latter looking intently at him.
“Pretty tough night,” he remarked, nodding.
“Yes,” replied the lawyer briefly. He did not encourage conversation
with casual acquaintances. The latest arrival had caught his attention
because there was something familiar about him. It seemed to Graves that
he must have seen him before; and yet that was very improbable. This
was the attorney’s first visit to Cape Cod, and he had already vowed
devoutly that it should be his last. He turned a chilling shoulder to
the trio opposite and again consulted the time-table. Denboro was the
next station; then--thank the Lord--South Denboro, his destination.
Conversation across the aisle was brisk, and its subjects were many and
varied. Mr. Graves became aware, more or less against his will, that
the person called “Cap’n” was, if not a leader in politics and local
affairs, still one whose opinions counted. Some of those opinions, as
given, were pointed and dryly descriptive; as, for instance, when a
certain town-meeting candidate was compared to a sculpin--“with a big
head that sort of impresses you, till you get close enough to realize it
_has_ to be big to make room for so much mouth.” Graves, who was fond
of salt water fishing, knew what a sculpin was, and appreciated the
comparison.
The conductor entered the car and stopped to collect a ticket from his
new passenger. It was evident that he, too, was acquainted with the
latter.
“Evening, Cap’n,” he said, politely. “Train’s a little late to-night.”
“It is--for to-night’s train,” was the prompt response, “but if it keeps
on at the rate it’s travelin’ now, it’ll be a little early for to-morrow
mornin’s, won’t it?”
The conductor laughed. “Guess you’re right,” he said. “This is about as
wet a storm as I’ve run through since I’ve been on the road. If we get
to Provincetown without a washout we’ll be lucky.... Well, we’ve made
another hitch. So far, so good.”
The brakeman swung open the door to shout, “Denboro! Denboro!” the
conductor picked up his lantern and hurried away, the locomotive
whistled hoarsely, and the train hiccoughed alongside another little
station. Mr. Graves, peering through his window, imagined that here
the silhouettes on the platform moved more briskly. They seemed almost
excited. He inferred that Denboro was a bigger and more wide-awake
village than Ostable.
But he was mistaken. The reason for the excitement was made plain by the
conductor a moment afterwards. That official entered the car, removed
his uniform cap, and rubbed a wet forehead with a wetter hand.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve been expecting it, and here it is.
Mark me down as a good prophet, will you? There’s a washout a mile
further on, and a telegraph pole across the track. It’s blowing great
guns and raining pitchforks. It’ll be out of the question for us to go
forward before daylight, if then. Darn a railroad man’s job anyhow!”
Five minutes later Mr. Graves descended the steps of the car, his
traveling bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. As soon as
both feet were securely planted on the platform, he put down the bag
to wrestle with the umbrella and the hurricane, which was apparently
blowing from four directions at once. Feeling his hat leaving his head,
he became aware that the umbrella had turned inside out. He threw the
wreck violently under the train and stooped to pick up the bag. The bag
was no longer there.
“It’s all right,” said a calm voice behind him. “I’ve got your satchel,
neighbor. Better beat for harbor, hadn’t we? Here! this way.”
The bewildered New Yorker felt his arm seized in a firm grip, and he was
rushed across the platform, through a deluge of wind-driven water, and
into a small, hot, close-smelling waiting room. When he pushed his hat
clear of his eyes he saw that his rescuer was the big man who boarded
the train at Ostable. He was holding the missing bag and smiling.
“Dirty weather, hey?” he observed, pleasantly. “Sorry your umbrella had
to go by the board. I see you was carryin’ too much canvas and tried to
run alongside in time to give you a tow; but you was dismasted just as I
got there. Here’s your dunnage, all safe and sound.”
He extended the traveling bag at arm’s length. Mr. Graves accepted his
property and murmured thanks, not too cordially. His dignity and temper
had gone overboard with the umbrella, and he had not yet recovered them.
“Well,” went on his companion, “here we are! And I, for one, wanted to
be somewheres else. Caleb,” turning to the station master, who came in
at that moment, “any way of my gettin’ home to-night?”
“‘Fraid not, Cap’n,” was the answer. “I don’t know of any. Guess you’ll
have to put up at the hotel and wait till mornin’.”
“That’s right,” agreed the passenger called “Dan,” who was standing
near. “That’s what Jerry and I are goin’ to do.”
“Yes, but you and Jerry are bound for Orham. I’m booked for South
Denboro, and that’s only seven miles off. I’d _swim_ the whole seven
rather than put up at Sim Titcomb’s hotel. I’ve been there afore, thank
you! Look here, Caleb, can’t I hire a team and drive over?”
“Well, I don’t know. S’pose you might ring up Pete Shattuck and ask him.
He’s pretty particular about his horses, though, and I cal’late he--”
“All right. I’ll ring him up. Pete ought to get over some of his
particularness to oblige me. I’ve helped _him_ once or twice.”
He was on his way to the ticket office, where the telephone hung on the
wall. But Mr. Graves stepped forward and spoke to him.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the lawyer. “Did I understand you to say you were
going to South Denboro?”
“Yes. I am, if the powers--and Pete Shattuck--‘ll let me.”
“You were going to drive over? May I go with you? I’m very anxious to
get to South Denboro to-night. I have some very important business
there, and I want to complete it and get away to-morrow. I must be back
in New York by the morning following.”
The captain looked his questioner over. There was a doubtful look on his
face, and he smiled quizzically.
“Well, I don’t know, Mr.--”
“Graves is my name.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Graves. This ain’t goin’ to be a pleasure cruise
exactly. You might get pretty wet.”
“I don’t care. I can get dry again when I get there. Of course I shall
share the expense of the livery. I shall be greatly obliged if I may go
with you. If not, I must try for a rig myself.”
“Oh, if you feel that way about it, why, come ahead and welcome. I was
only warnin’ you, that’s all. However, with me aboard for ballast, I
guess we won’t blow away. Wait a jiffy till I get after Pete.”
He entered the ticket office and raised a big hand to the little crank
of the telephone bell.
“Let’s see, Caleb,” he called; “what’s Shattuck’s number?”
“Four long and two short,” answered the station master.
Graves, wondering vaguely what sort of telephone system was in use on
Cape Cod, heard his prospective pilot ring the instrument for a full two
seconds, repeating the ring four times altogether. This he followed with
two sharp tinkles. Then came a series of shouted “Hellos!” and, at last,
fragments of one-half of a dialogue.
“That you, Shattuck? Know who this is, don’t you? Yes, that’s right....
Say, how many folks listen every time a bell rings on this line? I’ve
heard no less’n eight receivers come down so far.... Two of ‘em went up
then, did you hear ‘em?... Sartin.... I want to hire a team to go over
home with.... To-night--Sartin.... I don’t care.... Yes, you will,
too.... _Yes_, you _will_... Send my man back with it to-morrow... I
don’t care _what_ it is, so it’s got four legs and wheels....”
And so on for at least five minutes. Then the captain hung up the
receiver and came back to the waiting room.
“Bargain’s made, Mr. Graves,” he announced. “Pete’ll have some sort of
a turn-out alongside soon’s he can get it harnessed. If you’ve got any
extra storm duds in that satchel of yours, I’d advise you to put ‘em on.
We’re goin’ to have a rough passage.”
Just how rough it was likely to be, Graves realized when he emerged from
the station to board the Shattuck buggy. “Pete” himself had driven the
equipage over from the livery stable.
“I wouldn’t do this for anybody but you, Cap’n,” he vouchsafed, in what
might be called a reproachful shout. Shouting was necessary, owing to
the noise of the storm.
“Wouldn’t do what?” replied the captain, looking first at the ancient
horse and then at the battered buggy.
“Let this horse out a night like this.”
“Humph! I should think night would be the only time you would let him
out.... There! there! never mind. Get aboard, Mr. Graves. Put your
satchel on the floor between your feet. Here, let me h’ist that boot for
you.”
The “boot” was a rubber curtain buttoned across the front of the buggy,
extending from the dashboard to just below the level of the driver’s
eyes. The lawyer clambered in behind it, the captain followed, the end
of the reins was passed through a slit in the boot, Mr. Shattuck, after
inquiring if they were “all taut,” gave the command, “Gid-dap!” and
horse and buggy moved around the corner of the station, out into
darkness.
Of the next hour Graves’s memories are keen but monotonous,--a strong
smell of stable, arising from the laprobe which had evidently been
recently used as a horse blanket; the sound of hoofs, in an interminable
“jog, jog--splash, splash,” never hurrying; a series of exasperated
howls from the captain, who was doing his best to make them hurry; the
thunderous roar of rain on the buggy top and the shrieking gale which
rocked the vehicle on its springs and sent showers of fine spray driving
in at every crack and crevice between the curtains.
The view ahead, over the boot, was blackness, bordered by spidery trees
and branches whipping in the wind. Occasionally they passed houses
sitting well back from the road, a lighted window gleaming cozily. And
ever, as they moved, the storm seemed to gather force.
Graves noticed this and, at length, when his nervousness had reached
the breaking point, screamed a question in his companion’s ear. They
had attempted no conversation during the ride, the lawyer, whose
contemptuous opinion of the locality and all its inhabitants was now a
conviction, feeling that the result would not be worth the effort, and
the captain busy with his driving.
“It is blowing worse than ever, isn’t it?” yelled the nervous Graves.
“Hey? No, just about the same. It’s dead sou’west and we’re getting out
of the woods, that’s all. Up on those bare hills we catch the full force
of it right off the Sound. Be there pretty soon now, if this Old Hundred
of a horse would quit walkin’ in his sleep and really move. Them lights
ahead are South Denboro.”
The lights were clustered at the foot of a long and rather steep hill.
Down the declivity bounced and rocked the buggy. The horse’s hoofs
sounded hollow on the planks of a bridge. The road narrowed and became
a village street, bordered and arched by tall trees which groaned and
threshed in the hurricane. The rain, as it beat in over the boot, had,
so the lawyer fancied, a salty taste.
The captain bent down. “Say, Mister,” he shouted, “where was it you
wanted to stop? Who is it you’re lookin’ for?”
“What?”
“I say--Heavens to Betsy! how that wind does screech!--I say where’bouts
shall I land you. This is South Denboro. Whose house do you want to go
to?”
“I’m looking for one of your leading citizens. Elisha Warren is his
name.”
“What?”
“Elisha Warren. I--”
He was interrupted. There was a sharp crack overhead, followed by a
tremendous rattle and crash. Then down upon the buggy descended what,
to Graves, appeared to be an avalanche of scratching, tearing twigs
and branches. They ripped away the boot and laprobe and jammed him back
against the seat, their sharp points against his breast. The buggy was
jerked forward a few feet and stopped short.
He heard the clatter of hoofs and shouts of “Whoa!” and “Stand
still!” He tried to rise, but the tangle of twigs before him seemed
impenetrable, so he gave it up and remained where he was. Then, after an
interval, came a hail from the darkness.
“Hi, there! Mr. Graves, ahoy! Hurt, be you?”
“No,” the lawyer’s tone was doubtful. “No--o, I--I guess not. That you,
Captain?”
“Yes, it’s me. Stand still, you foolhead! Quit your hoppin’ up and
down!” These commands were evidently addressed to the horse. “Glad you
ain’t hurt. Better get out, hadn’t you?”
“I--I’m not sure that I can get out. What on earth has happened?”
“Tree limb carried away. Lucky for us we got the brush end, ‘stead of
the butt. Scooch down and see if you can’t wriggle out underneath. I
did.”
Mr. Graves obediently “scooched.” After a struggle he managed to slide
under the tangle of branches and, at length, stood on his feet in the
road beside the buggy. The great limb had fallen across the street, its
heavy end near the walk. As the captain had said, it was fortunate for
the travelers that the “brush” only had struck the carriage.
Graves found his companion standing at the horse’s head, holding the
frightened animal by the bridle. The rain was descending in a flood.
“Well!” gasped the agitated New Yorker. “I’ll be hanged if this isn’t--”
“Ain’t it? But say, Mr. Graves, _who_ did you say you was comin’ to
see?”
“Oh, a person named Elisha Warren. He lives in this forsaken hole
somewhere, I believe. If I had known what an experience I must go
through to reach him, I’d have seen him at the devil.”
From the bulky figure at the horse’s head came a chuckle.
“Humph! Well, Mr. Graves, if the butt of that limb had fetched us,
instead of t’other end, I don’t know but you _might_ have seen him
there. I’m Elisha Warren, and that’s my house over yonder where the
lights are.”