Capn Dans Daughter | Page 7

was the beginning of the revolution.

CHAPTER II
Captain Dan's fears concerning the safety of his showcases were groundless. Even as he sprang up the steps to the side door of his place of business, he heard familiar voices in the store. He recognized the voices, and, halting momentarily to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief and to regain some portion of his composure and his breath, he walked in.
Gertrude, his daughter, was seated in his chair by the desk, and John Doane was leaning upon the desk, talking with her. In the front of the store, Sam Bartlett, the boy, who had evidently returned from breakfast, was doing nothing in particular, and doing it with his usual air of enjoyment. It was only when required to work that Sam was unhappy.
Gertrude looked up as her father entered; prior to that she had been looking at the blotter on the desk. John Doane, who had been looking at Gertrude, also changed the direction of his gaze. Captain Dan struggled with the breath and the composure.
"Why, Dad!" exclaimed Gertrude. "What is it?"
"What's the matter, Cap'n Dott?" asked Mr. Doane.
Daniel did his best to appear calm; it was a poor best. At fifty- two one cannot run impromptu hurdle races against time, and show no effects.
"Hey?" he panted. "Matter? Nothin's the matter. I left the store alone for a minute and I was in a kind of hurry to get back to it, that's all."
The explanation was not entirely satisfactory. Gertrude looked more puzzled than ever.
"A minute," she repeated. "Left it a minute! Why, John and I have been here fifteen minutes, and Sam was here when we came."
The captain looked at his watch. "Well, maybe 'twas a little more'n a minute," he admitted.
Master Bartlett sauntered up to take part in the conversation.
"I got here twenty minutes ago," he observed, grinning, "and you wasn't here then, Cap'n Dan'l. I was wonderin' what had become of ye."
Daniel seized the opportunity to change the subject.
"Anybody been in since you came?" he asked, addressing Sam.
"No, nobody special. Abel Calvin was in to see if you wanted to buy some beach plums for puttin' up. He said he had about a bushel of first-rate ones, just picked."
"Beach plums! What in time would I want of beach plums? I don't put up preserves, do I? Why didn't he go to the house?"
"I asked him that, myself, and he said 'twa'n't no use."
"No use! What did he mean by that?"
"Well, he said--he said--" Sam seemed suddenly to realize that he was getting into deep water; "he said--he said somethin' or other; I guess I've forgot what 'twas."
"I guess you ain't. WHAT did he say?"
"Well, he said--he said Serena--Mrs. Dott, I mean--was probably gallivantin' down to the lodge room by this time. Said 'twa'n't no use tryin' to get her to attend to common things or common folks nowadays; she was too busy tryin' to keep up with Annette Black."
This literal quotation from the frank Mr. Calvin caused a sensation. Captain Dan struggled to find words. His daughter laid a hand on his sleeve.
"Never mind, Dad," she said, soothingly. "You know what Abel Calvin is; you don't mind what he says. Sam, you shouldn't repeat such nonsense. Run away now and attend to your work. I'm sure there's enough for you to do."
"You--you go and clean up the cellar," ordered the irate captain. Sam departed cellarward, muttering that it wasn't his fault; HE hadn't said nothin'. Gertrude spoke again.
"Don't mind that, Dad," she urged. "Why, how warm you are, and how excited you look. What is it? You haven't spoken a word to John."
Her father shook his head. "Mornin', John," he said. "I beg your pardon. I ain't responsible to-day, I shouldn't wonder. I--I've had some news that's drivin' everything else out of my mind."
"News? Why, Dad! what do you mean? Bad news?"
"No, no! Good as ever was, and. . . . Humph! no, I don't mean that. It is bad news, of course. Your Great-aunt Laviny's dead, Gertie."
He told of the lawyer's letter, omitting for the present the news of the legacy. Gertrude was interested, but not greatly shocked or grieved. She had met her great-aunt but once during her lifetime, and her memory of the deceased was of a stately female, whose earrings and brooches and rings sparkled as if she was on fire in several places; who sat bolt upright at the further end of a hotel room in Boston, and ordered Captain Dan not to bring "that child" any nearer until its hands were washed. As she had been the child and had distinctly disagreeable recollections of the said hands having been washed three times before admittance to the presence, the memory was not too pleasant. She said she was sorry to hear that Aunt Lavinia was