deal like old Beriah
Doane must have on his last 'vacation.' You see, Beriah is one of our
South Denboro notorieties; he's famous in his way. He works and loafs
by spells until cranberry pickin' time in the fall; then he picks steady
and earns thirty or forty dollars all at once. Soon's he's paid off, he
starts for Boston on a 'vacation,' an alcoholic one. Well, last fall
his married sister was visitin' him, and she, bein' strong for good
Templarism, was determined he shouldn't vacate in his regular way. So
she telegraphed her husband's brother in Brockton to meet Beriah there,
go with him to Boston, and see that he behaved himself and stayed sober.
Beriah heard of it, and when his train gets as far as Tremont what does
he do but get off quiet and change cars for New Bedford. He hadn't been
there for nine years, but he had pleasant memories of his last visit.
And when he does get to New Bedford, chucklin' over the way he's
befooled his sister and her folks, I'm blessed if he didn't find that
the town had gone no-license, and every saloon was shut up! Ho! ho! ho!
Well, I felt about the way he did, I guess, when I stood on the steps
of your Fifth Avenue house and realized you'd gone away. I wouldn't have
had Abbie see me there for somethin'. Ho! ho!"

He leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud. Caroline smiled faintly.
Stephen threw down his napkin and sprang to his feet.

"Sis," he cried, "I'm going to my room. By gad! I can't--"

Catching a warning glance from his sister, he did not finish his
sentence, but stood sulkily beside his chair. Captain Elisha looked at
him, then at the girl, and stopped laughing. He folded his napkin with
care, and rose.

"That's about all of it," he said, shortly. "I asked around at two or
three of the neighbors' houses, and the last one I asked knew where
you'd moved and told me how to get here."

When the trio were again in the library, the captain spoke once more.

"I'm 'fraid I've talked too much," he said, gravely. "I didn't realize
how I was runnin' on. Thought I was home, I guess, with the fellers of
my own age down at the postoffice, instead of bein' an old countryman,
tirin' out you two young city folks with my yarns. I beg your pardon.
Now you mustn't mind me. I see you're expectin' company or goin' callin'
somewheres, so I'll just go to my bedroom and write Abbie a line. She'll
be kind of anxious to know if I got here safe and sound and found you.
Don't worry about me, I'