"Judas priest!" he exclaimed; "why don't you scare a feller to death, comin' and yankin' him out of bed by the back hair?" Then, being more wide awake, he added: "What's the row? Worse, is he? He ain't--"

"No. But I've got to talk with you. You used to be a whaler, I know.

Were you acquainted in New Bedford?"

"Sartin. Was a time when I could have located every stick in it, pretty nigh, by the smell, if you'd set me down side of 'em blindfold."

"Did you ever know anyone named--" He finished the sentence.

"Sure and sartin, I did. Why?"

"Did you know him well?"

"Well's I wanted to. Pretty decent feller one time, but a fast goer, and went downhill like a young one's sled, when he got started. His folks had money, that was the trouble with him. Why, 'course I knew him! He married--"

"I know. Now, listen."

Ellery went on talking rapidly and with great earnestness. Ebenezer listened, at first silently, then breaking in with e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns and grunts of astonishment. He sat up on the edge of the bed.

"Rubbish!" he cried at last, "why, 'tain't possible! The feller's dead as Methusalem's grandmarm. I remember how it happened and--"

"It wasn't true. That much I know. I KNOW, I tell you."

He went on to explain why he knew. Capen's astonishment grew.

"Judas priest!" he exclaimed again. "That would explain why I thought I'd seen--There! heave ahead. I've got to see. But it's a mistake. I don't believe it."

The pair entered the sick room. The sailor lay in a stupor. His breathing was rapid, but faint. Capen bent over him and gently moved the bandage on his face. For a full minute he gazed steadily. Then he stood erect, drew a big red hand across his forehead, and moved slowly back to the living room.

"Well?" asked Ellery eagerly.

Ebenezer sat down in the rocker. "Judas priest!" he said for the third time. "Don't talk to ME! When it comes my time they'll have to prove I'm dead. I won't believe it till they do. Ju-das PRIEST!"

"Then you recognize him?"

The old man nodded solemnly.

"Yup," he said, "it's him. Mr. Ellery, what are you goin' to do about it?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I must go somewhere by myself and think. I don't know WHAT to do."

The minister declined to wait for breakfast. He said he was not hungry.

Leaving Ebenezer to put on the coffeepot and take up his duties as day nurse, Ellery walked off along the beach. The "dead line" prevented his going very far, but he sat down in the lee of a high dune and thought until his head ached. What should he do? What was best for him to do?

He heard the rattle of the doctor's chaise and the voices of Ebenezer and Parker in conversation. He did not move, but remained where he was, thinking, thinking. By and by he heard Capen calling his name.

"Mr. Ellery!" shouted Ebenezer. "Mr. Ellery, where be you?"

"Here!" replied the minister.

The old man came scrambling over the sand. He was panting and much excited.

"Mr. Ellery!" he cried, "Mr. Ellery! it's settled for us--one part of it, anyhow. He's slipped his cable."

"What?" The minister sprang up.

"Yup. He must have died just a little while after you left and after I gave him his medicine. I thought he looked kind of queer then. And when the doctor came we went in together and he was dead. Yes, sir, dead."

"Dead!"

"Um--hm. No doubt of it; it's for good this time. Mr. Ellery, what shall we do? Shall I tell Dr. Parker?"

Ellery considered for a moment. "No," he said slowly. "No, Capen, don't tell anyone. I can't see why they need ever know that he hasn't been dead for years, as they supposed. Promise me to keep it a secret. I'll tell--her--myself, later on. Now promise me; I trust you."

"Land sakes, yes! I'll promise, if you want me to. I'm a widower man, so there'll be n.o.body to coax it out of me. I guess you're right, cal'late you be. What folks don't know they can't lie about, can they? and that's good for your business--meanin' nothin' disreverent. I'll promise, Mr.

Ellery; I'll swear to it. Now come on back to the shanty. The doctor wants you."

The next day the body of "Murphy," foremast hand on the San Jose, was buried in the corner of the Regular graveyard, near those who were drowned in the wreck of that winter. There was no funeral, of course.

The minister said a prayer at the shanty, and that was all. Ebenezer drove the wagon which was used as hea.r.s.e for the occasion, and filled in the grave himself. So great was the fear of the terrible smallpox that the s.e.xton would not perform even that service for its victim.

Capen remained at the shanty another week. Then, as the minister showed no symptoms of having contracted the disease and insisted that he needed no companion, Ebenezer departed to take up his fishing once more. The old man was provided with a new suit of clothes, those he had worn being burned, and having been, to his huge disgust, fumigated until, as he said, he couldn't smell himself without thinking of a match box, went away. The room which the dead sailor had occupied was emptied and sealed tight. The San Jose was to stay at her anchorage a while longer. Then, when all danger was past, she was to be towed to Boston and sold at auction for the benefit of the heirs of her dead skipper and owner.

Ellery himself was most urgent in the decision that he should not go back to the parsonage and his church just yet. Better to wait until he was sure, he said, and Dr. Parker agreed. "I'd be willing to bet that you are all right," declared the latter, "but I know Trumet, and if I SHOULD let you go and you did develop even the tail end of a case of varioloid--well, 'twould be the everlasting climax for you and me in this county."

Staying alone was not unpleasant, in a way. The "dead line" still remained, of course, and callers did not attempt to pa.s.s it, but they came more frequently and held lengthy conversations at a respectful distance. Ellery did his own cooking, what little there was to do, but so many good things were pushed under the ropes that he was in a fair way to develop weight and indigestion. Captain Zeb Mayo drove down at least twice a week and usually brought Mrs. Coffin with him. From them and from the doctor the prisoner learned the village news. Once Captain Elkanah and Annabel came, and the young lady's gushing praise of the minister's "heroism" made its recipient almost sorry he had ever heard of the San Jose.

Dr. Parker told him of Grace Van Horne's return to the village. She had come back, so the doctor said, the day before, and was to live at the tavern for a while, at least. Yes, he guessed even she had given up hope of Captain Nat now.

"And say," went on Parker, "how are you feeling?"

"Pretty well, thank you," replied the minister. "I seem to be rather tired and good for nothing. More so than I was during the worst of it."

"No wonder. A chap can't go through what you did and not feel some reaction. I expected that. Don't get cold, that's all. But what I want to know is whether you think I could leave you for a couple of days?

The Ostable County Medical Society meets at Hyannis to-morrow and I had promised myself to take it in this year. But I don't want to leave you, if you need me."

Ellery insisted that he did not need anyone, was getting along finely, and would not hear of his friend's missing the medical society's meeting. So the physician went.

"Good-by," he called as he drove off. "I guess your term is pretty nearly over. I shall let you out of jail inside of four or five days, if you behave yourself."

This should have been cheering news, but, somehow, John Ellery did not feel cheerful that afternoon. The tired feeling he had spoken of so lightly was worse than he had described it, and he was despondent, for no particular reason. That night he slept miserably and awoke with a chill to find a cold, pouring rain beating against the windows of the shanty.

He could not eat and he could not keep warm, even with the cook-stove top red hot and a blanket over his shoulders. By noon the chill had gone and he was blazing with fever. Still the rain and the wind, and no visitors at the ropes, not even the light-keeper.

He lay down on his bed and tried to sleep, but though he dozed a bit, woke always with a start and either a chill or fever fit. His head began to ache violently. And then, in the lonesomeness and misery, fear began to take hold of him.

He remembered the symptoms the doctor had warned him against, headache, fever, and all the rest. He felt his wrists and arms and began to imagine that beneath the skin were the little bunches, like small shot, that were the certain indications. Then he remembered how that other man had looked, how he had died. Was he to look that way and die like that?

And he was all alone, they had left him alone.

Night came. The rain had ceased and stars were shining clear. Inside the shanty the minister tossed on the bed, or staggered back and forth about the two rooms. He wondered what the time might be; then he did not care.