The Postmaster Part 27

Mary Blaisdell, with a big ap.r.o.n tied over her Sunday gown, was washin'

dishes. Her sleeves was rolled up, her hair was rumpled, and she looked pretty enough to eat-at least, I shouldn't have minded tryin'.

"How was it?" she asked. "Are they satisfied?"

"If they ain't they ought to be," says I. "And to-morrer the dyspepsy doctors'll do business enough to give us a commission. But where's our old college chum, the chef, and the waiters and all?"

"They're in the barn," says she. "They tried to come in here and make trouble, but Mr. Perkins wouldn't let 'em. He drove 'em back to the barn again. But they're dreadfully cross."

"I shouldn't wonder," I says. "Well, goodness knows what'll come of this, Mary, but-"

Bill Bangs interrupted me. He come tearin' out of the dinin'-room, white as a new tops'l, and his eyes pretty close to poppin' out of his head.

"My soul!" he panted. "Oh, my soul, Cap'n Zeb! They're comin'! they're comin'!"

"Who's comin'?" I wanted to know.

"Why, Mr. Frank, and that stewardess! And John Bean, the constable, is with 'em. What shall I do? I'll have to go to jail!"

He was all but cryin', like a young one. I left him to his wife, who, judgin' by her actions, was cal'latin' to soothe him with a pan of hot water, and headed for the front porch. However, I was too late. I hadn't any more than reached the dinin'-room, where all the comp'ny was still settin' at the tables, than in through the front door marches Mr. Edwin Frank of Pittsburg, and the stewardess, and John Bean, the constable.

The band had begun to play and 'twas time to face the music.

Frank looked around at the crowd at the tables, at Mrs. Cahoon, and Alpheus, and the rest who'd done the waitin'; and then at me. His face was fire red and he was ugly as a shark in a weir net.

"Humph!" says he. "What does this mean? Snow, what high-handed outrage have you committed on these premises?"

I held up my hand. "Shh!" says I, tryin' to think quick and save a scene; "Shh, Mr. Frank!" I says. "If you'll come into your private cabin I'll explain best I can. Somebody had to get dinner for this crowd. Your Frenchmen wouldn't work, so we did. All we've used is our grub, that which ain't been paid for, and-"

His teeth snapped together and he was so mad he couldn't speak for a second. The stewardess was as mad as he was, but it took more'n that to keep her quiet.

"Fred," says she-and even then, upset as I was, I noticed she didn't call him by the name he give Jacobs and me-"Fred, have him arrested.

He's the one that's responsible for it all. Officer, you do your duty.

Arrest that Snow there! Do you hear?"

She was pointin' to me. Poor old Bean hadn't arrested anybody for so long that he'd forgot how, I cal'late. All he did was stammer and look silly.

"Cap'n Zeb," he says, "I-I'm dreadful sorry, but-but-"

Then _he_ was interrupted. A big, tall, gray-haired chap, who was settin' about amidships of the table got to his feet.

"Just a minute, Officer," says he, quiet, and never lettin' go of his cigar, "just a minute, please. The-er-lady and gentleman you have with you are old acquaintances of mine. h.e.l.lo, Francis! I'm very glad to see you. We've missed you at the Conquilquit Club. This meetin' is unexpected, but not the less pleasant."

He was talkin' to the Frank man. And the Frank man-well, you should have seen him! The red went out of his face and he almost flopped over onto the floor. The stewardess went white, too, and she grabbed his arm with both hands.

"My Lord!" she says, in a whisper like, "it's Mr. Washburn!"

"Correct, Hortense," says the gray-haired man. "You haven't forgotten me, I see. Flattered, I'm sure."

For just about ten seconds the three of 'em looked at each other. Then Frank made a jump for the door and the woman with him. They was out and down the steps afore poor old Bean could get his brains to workin'.

"Stop 'em!" shouts Washburn. "Officer, don't let 'em get away!"

But they'd got away already. By the time we'd reached the porch they was in the buggy they'd come in and flyin' down the road in a cloud of dust.

I wiped my forehead.

"Well!" says I, "_well!_"

Johnson pushed through the excited bunch and took the gray-haired feller by the arm.

"Say, Wash," he says, "you're havin' too good a time all by yourself.

Let us in on it, won't you? Your friends are goin' some; no use to run after them. Who are they?"

Washburn knocked the ashes from his cigar and smiled. He'd been cool as a no'thwest breeze right along.

"Well," he says, "the masculine member used to be called Fred Francis.

He was steward of the Conquilquit Country Club on Long Island for some time. He cleared out a year ago with a thousand or so of the Club funds, and we haven't been able to trace him since. He was a first-cla.s.s steward and sharp as a steel trap-but he was a crook. The woman-oh, she went with him. She is his wife."

CHAPTER XII-JIM HENRY STARTS SCREENIN'

A whole month more went by afore Jim Henry Jacobs was well enough to come home. When he got off the train at the Ostable depot, thin and white and lookin' as if he'd been hauled through a knothole, I was waitin' for him. Maybe we wa'n't glad to see each other! We shook hands for pretty nigh five minutes, I cal'late. I loaded him into my buggy and drove him down to the Poquit House and took him upstairs to his room, which had been made as comf'table and cozy as it's possible to make a room in that kind of a boardin'-house.

He set down in a big chair and looked around him.

"By George, Skipper!" he says, fetchin' a long breath, "this is home, and I'm mighty glad to be here. Where'd all the flowers come from?"

"Mary is responsible for them," I told him. "She thought they'd sort of brighten up things."

"They do, all right," says he, grateful. "And now tell me about business. How is everything?"

I told him that everything was fine; trade was tip-top, and so on. He listened and was pleased, but I could see there was somethin' else on his mind.

"There's just one thing more," he said, soon's he got the chance. "I knew the store must be O. K.; your letters told me that. But-er-but-"

tryin' hard to be casual and not too interested, "how is Frank doin'

with his restaurant? How's the 'Sign of the Windmill' gettin' on?"

Then I told him the whole yarn, almost as I've told it here. He listened, breakin' out with exclamations and such every little while.

When I got to where the Washburn man told who Frank and the stewardess was, he couldn't hold in any longer.

"A crook!" he sung out. "A crook! And she was his wife!"

"So it seems," says I. "And that ain't all of it, neither. You remember the doctor said he'd drawn his account out of the Ostable bank. Yes.

Well, that account didn't amount to much; he'd used it about all, anyway. But there was another account in his wife's name at the Sandwich bank, and _that_ was fairly good size."

"Did you get hold of that?" he asked, excited.