right down here, Mr. Graves," ordered the captain. "I'll try
to keep you supplied with solid cargo, and Abbie'll 'tend to the
moistenin'. Hope that teapot is full up, Abbie. Hot tea tastes good
after you've swallered as much cold rain as Mr. Graves and I have...
Father-we-thank-thee-for-these-mercies-set-before-us-Amen.... How's
your appetite when it comes to clam pie, Mr. Graves?"

Mr. Graves's appetite was good, and the clam pie was good. So, too,
were the hot biscuits and the tea and homemade preserves and cake.
Conversation during the meal was, for the most part, a monologue by the
captain. He gave Miss Baker a detailed and exaggerated account of his
adventures in Ostable, on board the train, and during the drive home.
The housekeeper listened, fidgeting in her chair.

"'Lisha Warren," she interrupted, "how you do talk! Rainin' so hard you
had to hold the reins taut to keep the horse's head out of water so he
wouldn't drown! The idea!"

"Fact," asserted Captain Warren, with a wink at his guest. "And that
wa'n't the worst of it. 'Twas so dark I had to keep feelin' the buggy
with my foot to be sure I was in it. Ain't that so, Mr. Graves?... Here!
Abbie won't like to have you set lookin' at that empty plate. She's
always afraid folks'll notice the gilt's wearin' off. Pass it over
quick, and let me cover it with some more pie."

"Yes, and have some more tea," urged Miss Abbie. "You mustn't pay
attention to what he says, Mr. Graves," she went on. "Some day he'll
tell the truth by accident, and then I'll know it's time to send for the
doctor."

Several times the lawyer attempted to mention the business which had
brought him to the Cape, and the probability of his having made a
mistake. But neither host nor housekeeper would listen.

"When you've been in South Denboro as long as I have," declared the
former, "you'll understand that the time to talk business is when you
can't think of anything else. Wait till we get into the settin' room.
Abbie, those six or eight biscuits I've ate are gettin' lonesome. I'll
take another for sociability, thank you."

But, at last, when all the biscuits but one were gone, and the cake
plate looked like the Desert of Sahara, the captain pushed back his
chair, rose, and led the way into the next room. Miss Baker remained to
clear the table.

"Set down by the fire, Mr. Graves," urged the captain. "Nothin' like
burnin' wood to look hot and comf'table, is there? It don't always make
you