Cy Whittakers Place | Page 9

wagons stick.

"Hold on a shake!" commanded some one inside the carriage. "Wait till
I get a purchase on her. Now, then! All hands to the ropes! Heave--ho!
THERE she comes!"
The door flew back with a bang. A man sprang out upon the lower step
of the porch. The eye of every inmate of the perfect boarding house
was on him. Even the "hired help" peered from the kitchen door.
"He's a stranger," whispered Mrs. Tripp. "I never see him before, did
you, Mr. Tidditt?"
The town clerk did not answer. He was staring at the depot wagon's
passenger, staring with a face the interested expression of which was
changing to that of surprise and amazed incredulity. Mrs. Tripp turned
to Mr. Bangs; he also was staring, open-mouthed.
"Godfrey scissors!" gasped Asaph, under his breath. "Godfrey--
SCISSORS! Bailey, I--I believe--I swan to man, I believe--"
"Ase Tidditt!" exclaimed Mr. Bangs, "am I goin' looney, or is that-- is
that--"
Neither finished his sentence. There are times when language seems so
pitifully inadequate.
CHAPTER II
THE WANDERER'S RETURN
Here in Bayport, nowadays, the collecting of "antiques" is a favorite
amusement of our summer visitors. Those of us who were fortunate
enough to possess a set of nicked blue dishes, a warming pan, or a tall
clock with wooden wheels, have long ago parted with these treasures
for considerable sums. Oddly enough Sylvanus Cahoon has profited
most by this craze. Sylvanus used to be judged the unluckiest man in
town; of late this judgment has been revised.
It was Sylvanus who, confined to the house by an illness brought on by

eating too much "sugar cake" at a free sociable given by the Methodist
Society, arose in the night and drank copiously of what he supposed to
be the medicine left by the doctor. It happened to be water-bug poison,
and Sylvanus was nearly killed by the dose. He is reported as having
admitted that he "didn't mind dyin' so much, but hated to die such a
dum mean death."
While convalescent he took to smoking in bed and was burned out of
house and home in consequence. Then it was that his kind-hearted
fellow citizens donated, for the furnishing of his new residence, all the
cast-off bits of furniture and odds and ends from their garrets.
"Charity," observed Captain Josiah Dimick at the time, "begins at home
with us Bayporters, and it generally begins up attic, that bein' nighest to
heaven."
Later Sylvanus sold most of the donations as "antiques" and made
money enough therefrom to buy a new plush parlor set. Miss Angeline
Phinney never called on the Cahoons after that without making her
appearance at the front door. "I'll get some good out of that plush sofy I
helped to pay for," declared Angeline, "if it's only to wear it out by
settin' on it."
There are two "antiques" in Bayport which have not yet been sold or
even bid for. One is Gabe Lumley's "depot wagon," and the other is
"Dan'l Webster," the horse which draws it. Both are very ancient, sadly
in need of upholstery, and jerky of locomotion.
Gabe was, as usual, waiting at the station when the down train arrived,
on the Tuesday--or Wednesday--of the selectmen's meeting. The train
was due, according to the time-table, at eleven forty- five. This
time-table, and the signboard of the "Bayport Hotel" are the only bits of
humorous literature peculiar to our village, unless we add the political
editorials of the Bayport Breeze.
So, at eleven forty-five, Mr. Lumley was serenely dozing on the
baggage truck, which he had wheeled to the sunny side of the platform.
At five minutes past twelve, he yawned, stretched, and looked at his
watch. Then, rolling off the truck, he strolled to the edge of the

platform and spoke authoritatively to "Dan'l Webster."
"Hi there! stand still!" commanded Mr. Lumley.
Standing still being Dan'l's long suit, the order was obeyed. Gabe then
loafed to the door of the station and accosted the depot master, who
was nodding in his chair beside the telegraph instrument.
"Where is she now, Ed?" asked Mr. Lumley, referring to the train.
"Just left South Harniss. Be here pretty soon. What's your hurry?
Expectin' anybody?"
"Naw; nobody that I know of, special. Sophrony Hallett's gone to
Ostable, but she won't be back till to-morrow I cal'late. Hello! there she
whistles now."
Needless to say it was the train, not the widow Hallett, that had
whistled. The depot master rose from his chair. A yellow dog, his
property, scrambled from beneath it, and rushing out of the door and to
the farther end of the platform, barked furiously. Cephas Baker, who
lives across the road from the depot, slouched down to his front gate.
His wife opened the door of her kitchen