Cy Whittakers Place | Page 8

WAS a spunky, dare-devil lot in the old days, wan't we, Ase?" he
said. "Spunk was kind of born in us, as you might say. And even now
we're--"
The Atkins tower clock boomed once--a solemn, dignified stroke. Mr.
Tidditt and his companion started and looked at each other.
"Godfrey scissors!" gasped Asaph. "Is that half past twelve?"
Mr. Bangs pulled a big worn silver watch from his pocket and glanced
at the dial.
"It is!" he moaned. "As sure's you're born, it is! We've kept Ketury's
dinner waitin' twenty minutes. You and me are in for it now, Ase
Tidditt! Twenty minutes late! She'll skin us alive."
Mr. Tidditt did not pause to answer, but plunged headlong down the
hill at a race-horse gait, Bailey pounding at his heels. For "born
dare-devils," self-confessed, they were a nervous and apprehensive

pair.
The "perfect boarding house" is situated a quarter of a mile beyond
"Whittaker's Hill," nearly opposite the Salters homestead. The sign,
hung on the pole by the front gate, reads, "Bayport Hotel. Bailey Bangs,
Proprietor," but no one except the stranger in Bayport accepts that sign
seriously. When, owing to an unexpected change in the administration
at Washington, Mr. Bangs was obliged to relinquish his position as our
village postmaster, his wife came to the rescue with the proposal that
they open a boarding house. "'Whatsoe'er you find to do,' quoted
Keturah at sewing-circle meeting, 'do it then with all your might!'
That's a good Sabbath- school hymn tune and it's good sense besides. I
intend to make it my life work to run just as complete a--a eatin' and
lodgin' establishment as I can. If, when I'm laid to rest, they can put
onto my gravestone, 'She run the perfect boardin' house,' I'LL be
satisfied."
This remark, and subsequent similar declarations, were widely quoted,
and, therefore, though casual visitors may refer to the "Bayport Hotel,"
to us natives the Bangs residence is always "Keturah's perfect boarding
house." As for the sign's affirmation of Mr. Bangs proprietorship, that
is considered the cream of the joke. The idea of meek, bald-headed
little Bailey posing as proprietor of anything while his wife is on deck,
tickles Bayport's sense of humor.
The perspiring delinquents panted into the yard of the perfect boarding
house and tremblingly opened the door leading to the dining room.
Dinner was well under way, and Mrs. Bangs, enthroned at the end of
the long table, behind the silver-plated teapot, was waiting to receive
them. The silence was appalling.
"Sorry to be a little behindhand, Ketury," stammered Asaph hurriedly.
"Town affairs are important, of course, and can't be neglected. I--"
"Yes, yes; that's so, Ketury," cut in Mr. Bangs.
"You see--"

"Hum! Yes, I see." Keturah's tone was several degrees below freezing.
"Hum! I s'pose 'twas town affairs kept you, too, hey?"
"Well, well--er--not exactly, as you might say, but--" Bailey squeezed
himself into the armchair at the end of the table opposite his wife, the
end which, with sarcasm not the less keen for being unintentional, was
called the "head." "Not exactly town affairs, 'twan't that kept me,
Ketury, but--My! don't them cod cheeks smell good? You always could
cook cod cheeks, if I do say it."
The compliment was wasted. Mrs. Bangs had a sermon to deliver, and
its text was not "cod cheeks."
"Bailey Bangs," she began, "when I was brought to realize that my
husband, although apparently an able-bodied man, couldn't support me
as I'd been used to be supported, and when I was forced to support HIM
by keepin' boarders, I says, 'If there's one thing that my house shall
stand for it's punctual promptness at meal times. I say nothing,' I says,
'about the inconvenience of gettin' on with only one hired help when we
ought to have three. If Providence, in its unscrutable wisdom,' I says,
'has seen fit to lay this burden onto me, the burden of a household of
boarders and a husband whom--'"
And just then the power referred to by Mrs. Bangs intervened to spare
her husband the remainder of the preachment. From the driveway of the
yard, beside the dining-room windows, came the rattle of wheels and
the tramp of a horse's feet. Mrs. Matilda Tripp, who sat nearest the
windows, on that side, rose and peered out.
"It's the depot wagon, Ketury," she said. "There's somebody inside it. I
wonder if they're comin' here."
"Transients" were almost unknown quantities at the Bayport Hotel in
May. Consequently, all the boarders and the landlady herself crowded
to the windows. The "depot wagon" had drawn up by the steps, and
Gabe Lumley, the driver, had descended from his seat and was doing
his best to open the door of the ancient vehicle. It stuck, of course; the
doors of all depot