The Portygee | Page 6

at that age also, manhood and boyhood are closely intermingled. He
choked again and then, squaring his shoulders, reached into his coat
pocket for the silver cigarette case which, as a recent acquisition, was
the pride of his soul. He had just succeeded in lighting a cigarette when,
borne upon the wind, he heard once more the sound of hoofs and
wheels and saw in the distance a speck of light advancing toward the

station.
The sounds drew nearer, so did the light. Then an old-fashioned buggy,
drawn by a plump little sorrel, pulled up by the platform and a hand
held a lantern aloft.
"Hello!" hailed a voice. "Where are you?"
The hail did not have to be repeated. Before the vehicle reached the
station the boy had tossed away the cigarette, picked up the suitcase,
and was waiting. Now he strode into the lantern light.
"Here I am," he answered, trying hard not to appear too eager. "Were
you looking for me?"
The holder of the lantern tucked the reins between the whip-socket and
the dash and climbed out of the buggy. He was a little man, perhaps
about forty-eight or fifty, with a smooth-shaven face wrinkled at the
corners of the mouth and eyes. His voice was the most curious thing
about him; it was high and piping, more like a woman's than a man's.
Yet his words and manner were masculine enough, and he moved and
spoke with a nervous, jerky quickness.
He answered the question promptly. "Guess I be, guess I be," he said
briskly. "Anyhow, I'm lookin' for a boy name of--name of-- My soul to
heavens, I've forgot it again, I do believe! What did you say your name
was?"
"Speranza. Albert Speranza."
"Sartin, sartin! Sper--er--um--yes, yes. Knew it just as well as I did my
own. Well, well, well! Ye-es, yes, yes. Get right aboard, Alfred. Let me
take your satchel."
He picked up the suitcase. The boy, his foot upon the buggy step, still
hesitated. "Then you're--you're not my grandfather?" he faltered.
"Eh? Who? Your grandfather? Me? He, he, he!" He chuckled shrilly.

"No, no! No such luck. If I was Cap'n Lote Snow, I'd be some older'n I
be now and a dum sight richer. Yes, yes. No, I'm Cap'n Lote's
bookkeeper over at the lumber consarn. He's got a cold, and
Olive--that's his wife--she said he shouldn't come out to-night. He said
he should, and while they was Katy-didin' back and forth about it,
Rachel--Mrs. Ellis--she's the hired housekeeper there--she telephoned
me to harness up and come meet you up here to the depot. Er--er--little
mite late, wan't I?"
"Why, yes, just a little. The other man, the one who drives the mail
cart--I think that was what it was--said perhaps the horse was sick, or
something like that."
"No-o, no, that wan't it this time. I--er-- All tucked in and warm enough,
be you? Ye-es, yes, yes. No, I'm to blame, I shouldn't wonder. I stopped
at the--at the store a minute and met one or two of the fellers, and that
kind of held me up. All right now? Ye-es, yes, yes. G'long, gal."
The buggy moved away from the platform. Its passenger, his chilly feet
and legs tightly wrapped in the robes, drew a breath of relief between
his chattering teeth. He was actually going somewhere at last; whatever
happened, morning would not find him propped frozen stiff against the
scarred and mangy clapboards of the South Harniss station.
"Warm enough, be you?" inquired his driver cheerfully.
"Yes, thank you."
"That's good, that's good, that's good. Ye-es, yes, yes. Well-- er--
Frederick, how do you think you're goin' to like South Harniss?"
The answer was rather non-committal. The boy replied that he had not
seen very much of it as yet. His companion seemed to find the
statement highly amusing. He chuckled and slapped his knee.
"Ain't seen much of it, eh? No-o, no, no. I guess you ain't, guess you
ain't. He, he, he . . . Um . . . Let's see, what was I talkin' about?"

"Why, nothing in particular, I think, Mr.--Mr.--"
"Didn't I tell you my name? Sho, sho! That's funny. My name's
Keeler--Laban B. Keeler. That's my name and bookkeeper is my station.
South Harniss is my dwellin' place--and I guess likely you'll have to see
the minister about the rest of it. He, he, he!"
His passenger, to whom the old schoolbook quatrain was entirely
unknown, wondered what on earth the man was talking about. However,
he smiled politely and sniffed with a dawning suspicion. It seemed to
him there was an unusual scent in the air, a spirituous scent, a--
"Have a peppermint lozenger," suggested Mr. Keeler, with sudden
enthusiasm. "Peppermint is good for what ails you, so they tell me.