wa'n't so much of a bend as his was. He was dead
gone on her, and if she'd have decided to stay under water, he'd
have ducked likewise. 'Twas easy enough to see why HE believed in a
'supplementary season.'

"Me and Jonadab argued it out with Peter, and finally we met halfway,
so's to speak. We wouldn't keep the whole shebang open, but we'd shut
up everything but one Annex cottage, and advertise that as a Gunner's
Retreat. So we done it.

"And it worked. Heavens to Betsy--yes! It worked so well that by the
second week in September we had to open t'other Annex. The gunnin' was
bad, but Peter's ads fetched the would-be's, and his 'excursions' and
picnics and the football team held 'em. The football team especial.
Parker cap'ned that, and, from the gunnin' crew and the waiters and some
fishermen in the village, he dug up an eleven that showed symptoms of
playin' the game. We played the Trumet High School, and beat it, thanks
to Parker, and that tickled Pa Robinson so that he bought a two-handled
silver soup tureen--'lovin' cup,' he called it--and agreed to give it to
the team round about that won the most of the series. So the series was
arranged, the Old Home House crowd and the Wapatomac House eleven and
three high-school gangs bein' in it. And 'twas practice, practice,
practice, from then on.

"When we opened the second Annex, the question of help got serious. Most
of our college waiters had gone back to school, and we was pretty shy
of servants. So we put some extry advertisin' in the Cape weeklies, and
trusted in Providence.

"The evenin' followin' the ad in the weeklies, I was settin' smokin' on
the back piazza of the shut-up main hotel, when I heard the gate click
and somebody crunchin' along the clam-shell path. I sung out: 'Ahoy,
there!' and the cruncher, whoever he was, come my way. Then I made out
that he was a tall young chap, with his hands in his pockets.

"'Good evenin',' says he. 'Is this Mr. Brown?'

"'Thankin' you for the compliment, it ain't,' I says. 'My name's
Wingate.'

"'Oh!' says he. 'Is that so? I've heard father speak of you, Mr.
Wingate. He is Solomon Bearse, of West Ostable. I think you know him
slightly.'

"Know him? Everybody on the Cape knows Sol Bearse; by reputation,
anyhow. He's the richest, meanest old cranberry grower and
coastin'-fleet owner in these parts.

"'Is Sol Bearse your dad?' I asks, astonished. 'Why, then, you must be
Gus?'

"'No,' he says. 'I'm the other one--Fre