said. "Spunk was kind of born in us, as you might say. And even now
we're--"

The Atkins tower clock boomed once--a solemn, dignified stroke. Mr.
Tidditt and his companion started and looked at each other.

"Godfrey scissors!" gasped Asaph. "Is that half past twelve?"

Mr. Bangs pulled a big worn silver watch from his pocket and glanced at
the dial.

"It is!" he moaned. "As sure's you're born, it is! We've kept Ketury's
dinner waitin' twenty minutes. You and me are in for it now, Ase
Tidditt! Twenty minutes late! She'll skin us alive."

Mr. Tidditt did not pause to answer, but plunged headlong down the
hill at a race-horse gait, Bailey pounding at his heels. For "born
dare-devils," self-confessed, they were a nervous and apprehensive pair.

The "perfect boarding house" is situated a quarter of a mile beyond
"Whittaker's Hill," nearly opposite the Salters homestead. The sign,
hung on the pole by the front gate, reads, "Bayport Hotel. Bailey Bangs,
Proprietor," but no one except the stranger in Bayport accepts that sign
seriously. When, owing to an unexpected change in the administration
at Washington, Mr. Bangs was obliged to relinquish his position as our
village postmaster, his wife came to the rescue with the proposal that
they open a boarding house. "'Whatsoe'er you find to do,' quoted Keturah
at sewing-circle meeting, 'do it then with all your might!' That's a
good Sabbath-school hymn tune and it's good sense besides. I intend to
make it my life work to run just as complete a--a eatin' and lodgin'
establishment as I can. If, when I'm laid to rest, they can put onto my
gravestone, 'She run the perfect boardin' house,' I'LL be satisfied."

This remark, and subsequent similar declarations, were widely quoted,
and, therefore, though casual visitors may refer to the "Bayport Hotel,"
to us natives the Bangs residence is always "Keturah's perfect boarding
house." As for the sign's affirmation of Mr. Bangs proprietorship,
that is considered the cream of the joke. The idea of meek, bald-headed
little Bailey posing as proprietor of anything while his wife is on
deck, tickles Bayport's sense of humor.

The perspiring delinquents panted into the yard of the perfect boarding
house and tremblingly opened the door leading to the dining room. Dinner
was well under way, and Mrs. Bangs, enthroned at the end of the long
table, behind the silver-plated teapot, was waiting to receive them. The
silence was appalling.

"Sorry to