d in that play. That was his part, he had to
do it."

But Rachel was not convinced. "He didn't have to be so everlastin' mean
and spiteful about it, anyhow," she declared. "But there, that family
of Ellises never did amount to nothin' much. But, as I said to Laban,
Albert, you was Robert Penfold all over."

"What did Labe say to that?" asked Albert, laughing.

"He never had a chance to say nothin'. Afore he could answer, that Maria
B. Price--she was settin' right back of me and eatin' molasses candy out
of a rattly paper bag till I thought I SHOULD die--she leaned forward
and she whispered: 'He looks more to me like that Stevie D. that used to
work for Cap'n Crowell over to the Center. Stevie D. had curly hair like
that and HE was part Portygee, you remember; though there was a little
nigger blood in him, too,' she says. I could have shook her! And then
she went to rattlin' that bag again."

Even Mr. Keeler congratulated him at the office next morning. "You done
well, Al," he said. "Yes--yes--yes. You done fust-rate, fust-rate."

His grandfather was the only one who refused to enthuse.

"Well," inquired Captain Zelotes, sitting down at his desk and glancing
at his grandson over his spectacles, "do you cal'late to be able to get
down to earth this mornin' far enough to figger up the payroll? You can
put what you made from play-actin' on a separate sheet. It's about as
much as the average person makes at that job," he added.

Albert's face flushed. There were times when he hated his grandfather.
Mr. Keeler, a moment later, put a hand on his shoulder.

"You mustn't mind the old man, Al," he whispered. "I expect that seein'
you last night brought your dad's job back to him strong. He can't bear
play-actin', you know, on your dad's account. Yes--yes. That was it.
Yes--yes--yes."

It may have been a truthful explanation, but as an apology it was a
limited success.

"My father was a gentleman, at any rate," snapped Albert. Laban opened
his mouth to reply, but closed it again and walked back to his books.

In May, which was an unusually balmy month, the Congregational Sunday
School gave an automobile excursion and box-luncheon party at High Point
Light down at Trumet. As Rachel Ellis said, it was pretty early for
picnickin', but if the Almighty's season was ahead of time there didn't
seem to be any real good reason why one of his Sunday schools shouldn't
be. And, which was the principal excuse for the hurry, the hot