lly gave the word, the old Captain drew his lame-legged
chair squarely under the fan, sat himself down in it, and stretching out
luxuriously, leaned his beautiful old head a little back. I saw the
Grand Army button on his coat.

"Whir!" went the fan. The Captain's white hair began to flutter. He sat
a moment in ecstatic silence, closing and opening his eyes, and taking a
deep breath or two. Then he said:

"Cool as a cucumber, Anthy, cool as a cucumber."

Fergus barked away down inside somewhere, his excuse for a laugh.

"Now, Anthy," said the Captain, "this was to be your surprise."

So he had Anthy sit down in the chair.

"Fine, isn't it?" said he, "regular breeze from Labrador. Greenland's
icy mountains."

"Fine!" responded Anthy.

As Anthy sat there, the fan stirring her light hair, a smile on her
lips, I saw Nort looking at her in a curious, amused, puzzled way, as
though he had just seen her for the first time and couldn't quite
account for her. I myself thought she looked a little sad around the
eyes: it came to me, indeed, suddenly, what a fine, strong face she had.
She sat with her chin slightly lifted, her hands in her lap, an odd,
still way she sometimes had. Since I first met Anthy, that day in the
office of the _Star_, I had come to like her better and better. And
somehow, deep down inside, I didn't quite like Nort's look.

"We can show 'em a thing or two, eh, Nort?" the Captain was saying.

"We can, Cap'n."

After that, no matter what happened, the Captain swore by Nort. He was a
loyal old fellow, and whatever your views might be, whatever you may
have done, even though you had sunk to the depths of being a Democrat,
if he once came to love you, nothing else mattered. I have sometimes
thought that the old Captain really had a deeper influence upon Nort
during the weeks that followed than any of us imagined.

This incident of the fan marked the apogee of the first stage of Nort's
career in the office of the _Star_. It was the era of Nort the subdued;
and preceded the era of Nort the obstreperous.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII

PHAETON DRIVES THE CHARIOT OF THE "STAR"

I find myself loitering unaccountably over every memory of those days in
the office of the _Star_. Not a week passed that I did not make two or
three or more trips from my farm to Hempfield, sometimes tramping by the
short cut across the fields and through the lanes, sometimes driving my
old mare in the town road, and