The Opened Shutters Part 56

He had already found that moments spent in the island grocery yielded rich returns in diversion. It was, in the first place, cause for rejoicing that the amiable but chronically weary proprietor of the island emporium, and his too substantial spouse, should be named Frisk.

While John stood there a girl came in and stumbled toward the post office window. "Have ye shet up the mail bag yet, Mis' Frisk? I want to git this package in if I possibly can. How much goes on it?"

"I'll have to see," returned the portly one, waddling out to where the grocery scales stood on the counter. By the light of the kerosene lamp she leaned over and examined the figures.

"'M. Weighs jest two pounds," she announced.

The girl looked bewildered. "Why, they ain't but two handkerchiefs in there, Mis' Frisk. I don't see how it could"--

"Hey?" deliberately. "Two handkerchiefs? Let's see." Another examination. "Oh, ye-us," wearily. "My stomach was on the scales."

Dunham had scarcely recovered from this when another girl, a smart summer boarder who favored him with a stare of interest as she entered, approached the proprietor.

Mr. Frisk in his shirt sleeves was viewing a too precipitate world from behind his counter. "I'd like some marshmallows, please," said the girl.

"Ain't got any," was the response, given with entire amiability.

"Why," disappointedly, "you did have them last week."

"Ye-us, I know. I tried carryin' ma'shmallers quite a spell: but't wan't no use. Seems if everybody wanted 'em. I couldn't keep 'em in stock any time at all, so I give it up."

"Well, I do declare!" exclaimed the young woman. "And, Mr. Frisk, my mother is distressed because that cable message doesn't come from father. If it comes to-night"--

"Oh, that's so, there wus a telegram this noon. Ye-us, that's so. I remember now. 'Twus from yer pa."

"Where is it? Why didn't you send it up, then?" John could hear the vexation fairly crackling in the speaker's voice.

"Why, I see he got thar all right, so I didn't know as thar wus any drive."

Some supporting sense of humor seemed to come to the girl, for John could hear her desperate chuckle as she went out with the cablegram.

"Handsome evenin', Mr. Dunham," remarked the unmoved postmaster.

"Bo't's late, ain't it?"

John a.s.sented, and a wizened old man pa.s.sed him and approached the counter.

"Howdy, Frisk," he mumbled. "Got to have some more terbacca. Gimme a package o' Peace and Good Will, will ye?"

The proprietor beamed sympathetically. "Ye'll have to try somethin'

else this time, Uncle Ben," he drawled pleasantly. "I'm sorry, but the fact is my Peace and Good Will's mouldy."

Dunham smiled, and looked over his shoulder at Benny. He was still cracking his heels gently against the flour barrel. The evening boat must be in soon, and then the boy would be out on the dock, lost in the excitement of its arrival. Dunham strolled up to him. "Good-evening, Benny."

He was surprised at the unresponsive air with which the boy nodded.

John was aware of having recently completed the capture of Benny's heart by replying to questions concerning the gold football on his fob; but to-night there was no lighting of the young sailor's face.

"Come outside, will you, Benny? I want to speak to you."

To John's further amazement, Benny, instead of bounding off the barrel, complied with reluctance; but they were finally out of doors in the velvet darkness that preceded the moonrise.

"I want to know where you left Miss Sylvia," said John Dunham imperiously.

The boy hesitated a minute, then spoke grudgingly. "At the Tide Mill."

"How was she?"

"Able to walk up to the house," responded the boy irritatingly.

"Look here,"--Dunham laid a heavy hand on the other's shoulder, and Benny struggled vainly to shake it off. "What's the matter with you?

Was Miss Sylvia ill? I didn't see her before she went."

Benny ceased his futile writhing. "Oh, you kin hold on to me, I s'pose," he said sullenly; "but I don't care if you have got a muscle, and kin stay under water, and play football. Gosh durn you fer makin'

her cry, I say."

The vim with which Benny exploded his accusation silenced Dunham for a moment, but he did not relax his grasp. "I didn't make her cry," he answered then. "Give you my word, Benny. Can't you have any sympathy for a fellow? I didn't know she was going, and I'm all broken up."

Benny lifted his eyes, half relenting.

"What did she cry for? What did she say? Tell me, and I'll give you the best fishing outfit you can buy in Portland."

"Didn't say nothin' much. She come to me all white around the gills, and asked if I'd sail her home right away quick. She had her bag, and I see she didn't cal'late to come back. She kep' a-hurryin' me up, and after we got out o' the cove she give me a smile and thanked me for bein' so quick, and then she said, 'If you don't mind, Benny, I'm goin'

to sleep. I'm jest as tired as I can be.'"

"Well, where does my making her cry come in?" In his impatience John gave an unconscious shake to his captive.

"You leggo my collar," said Benny, with a threatened return of the sulks.

"Certainly. Excuse me." Dunham instantly dropped his hand. "You said she went to sleep?"

"Yes, went to sleep!" repeated the boy contemptuously. "Do folks go to sleep with their eyes wide open? I see she didn't want me to talk to her, but I watched her mighty close, 'cause I knew right off you was at the bottom of it."

"I? What possible idea"--

"Git out. Ain't I seen you not noticin' Miss Edna any? Ain't I seen you not sail the boat when you had the chance? Ain't I seen her eyin' you when she thought you wan't lookin'?"

Dunham groaned. "Benny, you're horribly precocious."

The boy glowered suspiciously.

"I don't know whether I be or not. I know I've got eyes."

"And what did you see to-day?"

"Tears. Hundreds of 'em. That's what I see. If she'd a-busted out cryin' 't wouldn't 'a' ben so bad. I could 'a' said, 'Oh, you're young yet, you don't know how many wuss things is goin' to happen to you, and I've known fellers could stay under longer'n he kin;' but I couldn't say a thing to comfort her when she kep' a-wip-in' away one tear at a time from her cheek, secret like. I knew she'd ben sc.r.a.ppin' with you, or else that you'd turned around and ben sweet on Miss Edna."

"Nothing of the sort, Benny. You're all off in both guesses. Miss Sylvia just went home a little sooner than she expected, and Miss Derwent is going over to-morrow to spend the day with her. You're going to take her over yourself."

"See anythin' green in my eyes?" drawled Benny. "I'll bet you ain't goin' over, then," he added cynically.