forty
and slim. Captain Jerry, who was in a frame of mind where agreement
with anyone was out of the question, gave it as his opinion that she
was thirty odd and rather plump. Captain Eri didn't hazard a guess, but
suggested that they wait and see.

But even Captain Eri's calmness was more or less assumed, for he did not
go fishing the next morning, but stayed about the house, whittling at
the model of a clipper ship and tormenting Captain Jerry. The model was
one that he had been at work upon at odd times ever since he gave up
sea-going. It had never been completed for the very good reason that
when one part was finished the Captain tore another part to pieces, and
began over again. It was a sort of barometer of his feelings, and when
his companions saw him take down the clipper and go to work, they knew
he was either thinking deeply upon a perplexing problem or was troubled
in his mind.

Captain Perez sang a good deal, principally confining his musical
efforts to a ballad with a chorus of,

| "Storm along, John;
| John, storm along;
| Ain't I glad my day's work's done!"

Also, he glanced at his watch every few minutes and then went to consult
the chronometer to make sure of the time.

Captain Jerry went up to the schoolhouse and gave its vacant rooms a
thorough sweeping for no particular reason except to be doing something.
His appetite was poor, and he actually forgot to feed Lorenzo, a
hitherto unheard-of slight, and one that brought down upon him a long
lecture from Captain Eri, who vowed that loss of memory was a sure sign
of lovesickness.

They started for the railway station immediately after supper. As they
passed John Baxter's house they noticed a light in an upper chamber, and
wondered if the old man was ill. Captain Eri would have stopped to find
out, but Captain Perez insisted that it could be done just as well when
they came back, and expressed a fear that they might miss the train.
Captain Jerry hadn't spoken since they left home, and walked gloomily
ahead with his hands in his pockets.

Mr. "Web" Saunders, fat and in his pink-striped shirtsleeves, sat upon
the steps of his saloon as they went by. He wished them an unctuous
good-evening. The oily smoothness of Mr. Saunders' voice cannot be
described with plain pen and ink; it gurgled with sweetness, like
molasses poured from a jug. This was not a special tone put on for the
occasion; no one except his wife e