Kent Knowles: Quahaug | Page 7

did not speak until we reached the second story. Then he expressed his feelings.
"Say, Kent" he demanded, "are you going to change your clothes?"
"Yes."
"Why? You're no wetter than I am, are you?"
"Not a bit, but I'm going to change, just the same. It's the easier way."
"It is, is it! What's the other way?"
"The other way is to keep on those you're wearing and take the consequences."
"What consequences?"
"Jamaica ginger, hot water bottles and an afternoon's roast in front of the sitting-room fire. Hephzibah went out sailing with me last October and caught cold. That was enough; no one else shall have the experience if she can help it."
"But--but good heavens! Kent, do you mean to say you always have to change when you come in from sailing?"
"Except in summer, yes."
"But why?"
"Because Hephzy tells me to."
"Do you always do what she tells you?"
"Generally. It's the easiest way, as I said before."
"Good--heavens! And she darns your socks and tells you what--er lingerie to wear and--does she wash your face and wipe your nose and scrub behind your ears?"
"Not exactly, but she probably would if I didn't do it."
"Well, I'll be hanged! And she extends the same treatment to all your guests?"
"I don't have any guests but you. No doubt she would if I did. She mothers every stray cat and sick chicken in the neighborhood. There, Jim, you trot along and do as you're told like a nice little boy. I'll join you in the sitting-room."
"Humph! perhaps I'd better. I may be spanked and put to bed if I don't. Well, well! and you are the author of 'The Black Brig!' 'Buccaneers and Blood!' 'Bibs and Butterscotch' it should be! Don't stand out here in the cold hall, Hosy darling; you may get the croup if you do."
I was waiting in the sitting-room when he came down. There was a roaring fire in the big, old-fashioned fireplace. That fireplace had been bricked up in the days when people used those abominations, stoves. As a boy I was well acquainted with the old "gas burner" with the iron urn on top and the nickeled ornaments and handles which Mother polished so assiduously. But the gas burner had long since gone to the junk dealer. Among the improvements which my first royalty checks made possible were steam heat and the restoration of the fireplace.
Jim found me sitting before the fire in one of the two big "wing" chairs which I had purchased when Darius Barlay's household effects were sold at auction. I should not have acquired them as cheaply if Captain Cyrus Whittaker had been at home when the auction took place. Captain Cy loves old-fashioned things as much as I do and, as he has often told me since, he meant to land those chairs some day if he had to run his bank account high and dry in consequence. But the Captain and his wife--who used to be Phoebe Dawes, our school-teacher here in Bayport--were away visiting their adopted daughter, Emily, who is married and living in Boston, and I got the chairs.
At the Barclay auction I bought also the oil painting of the bark "Freedom"--a command of Captain Elkanah Barclay, uncle of the late Darius--and the set--two volumes missing--of The Spectator, bound in sheepskin. The "Freedom" is depicted "Entering the Port of Genoa, July 10th, 1848," and if the port is somewhat wavy and uncertain, the bark's canvas and rigging are definite and rigid enough to make up. The Spectator set is chiefly remarkable for its marginal notes; Captain Elkanah bought the books in London and read and annotated at spare intervals during subsequent voyages. His opinions were decided and his notes nautical and emphatic. Hephzibah read a few pages of the notes when the books first came into the house and then went to prayer-meeting. As she had announced her intention of remaining at home that evening I was surprised--until I read them myself.
Jim came downstairs, arrayed in the suit which Hephzy had laid out for him. I made no comment upon his appearance. To do so would have been superfluous; he looked all the comments necessary.
I waved my hand towards the unoccupied wing chair and he sat down. Two glasses, one empty and the other half full of a steaming mixture, were on the little table beside us.
"Help yourself, Jim," I said, indicating the glasses. He took up the one containing the mixture and regarded it hopefully.
"What?" he asked.
"A Cahoon toddy," said I. "Warranted to keep off chills, rheumatism, lumbago and kindred miseries. Good for what ails you. Don't wait; I've had mine."
He took a sniff and then a very small sip. His face expressed genuine emotion.
"Whew!" he gasped, choking. "What in blazes--?"
"Jamaica ginger, sugar and hot water," I explained blandly. "It won't hurt you--longer than five minutes. It is