"Waal, come along abaout four ter-morrer mornin', an' I'll take ye 'long o' me."

"But I haven't any gun, Uncle Adam."

"Don't need none! I'm a-goin' to show ye what guns Is _fer_. When you've got that idee bagged, it'll be time enough fer the weepon. I ain't no patience," he went on, putting his hands on his knees and bending forward impressively, "with these fellers what mangles their game. I s'pose it's plain that the A'mighty made wild fowl to be shot, but the man what breaks their wings and leaves 'em to crawl off an' die in misery ain't human, he ain't! Make clean work o' it, or let 'em alone, _I_ say," and he began gathering up his traps in a manner that convinced Morton the conference was over.

So he said good-morning, and went whistling down the village street, the wind from off the sea tempering the downpour of the sun on white cliff and sand, and lifting the wide rim of his torn straw hat to caress his ruddy cheek.

Away out on the bay was a schooner tacking against the wind, while just rounding Rocky Point was a trim little yacht with all sail set, flying straight in for Killamet beach.

"How pretty she rides!" he thought, and wondered, boy-like, if when he was a big man he would sail his own craft,--the end and aim of every fisher-boy along the Atlantic coast.

As he dreamed, he turned and walked down over the satiny sand of the beach to the water's edge, and now could see that there were three people in the yacht,--a little round man with big spectacles at the rudder, a taller one, young and trim-looking in his tourist costume, who stood boldly out on the bowsprit, while a beautiful woman with blond hair leaned gracefully back in a steamer-chair.

With native courtesy Morton hastened to a.s.sist in securing the boat, and was rewarded by a hearty "Thank you, my boy!" from the younger man, and a brilliant smile from the lady, which covered him with blushes and confusion. The older man seemed in a brown study, and only glared at him absent-mindedly through his large gla.s.ses.

"Ah, Robare!" said the lady with an odd little accent, "I have now a thought; it may be this boy could to us tell of some public-house near by, to which we could go for this night."

All turned to Morton, who said hesitantly,--

"Yes, there is one, or at least there's Miss Zeba Osterhaus; she keeps store in her front window, and has rooms up-stairs that she doesn't use.

Sometimes she takes in a painter fellow, or the goose-men."

"The what?" laughed the young man, advancing with a large portfolio, which he had taken from the yacht as soon as she was made fast.

"Why, the men that come for the wild geese--gunning, you know."

"Ho, yes indeed! I'd like to be a 'goose-man' myself, for once in a way.

What do you say, uncle and aunt; can you make yourselves contented with your geological and artistic prowls to-morrow, and let me off for a bit of a shoot?" Both gave a ready a.s.sent, and the speaker turned to Morton.

"And now, my boy, can you add to your favors by showing us the way to this--What's her name?--you mentioned, and telling me, as we go along, where I can get hold of a good guide and sportsman about here?"

As he spoke he attempted to slip a half-dollar into the boy's hand, but it was sharply withdrawn.

"I'll tell you all I can, sir, without pay," flushing as he spoke; for a sudden memory of the cruel needs at home made him almost regret yielding to his first impulse of pride and self-respect.

The young man flushed a little also, and slid he silver piece back into his own pocket rather quickly.

"Pardon me," he said in a graver tone than he had yet used. "I shall be very grateful for your information."

"Well, sir, there's old Uncle Adam Standish, he's the best I know," said Morton, as they led the way towards the village, followed by the others.

"He can hit his bird on the wing every time, and he can 'honk' so's to fool any goose alive, and find the best blinds of anybody 'longsh.o.r.e."

"Really? He must be a genius!"

"Yes,"--wondering what a genius might be,--"if he'll only let you go with him you'll have a good shoot."

"If he'll let me! Why shouldn't he? I expect to pay him for his trouble."

Morton laughed.

"_That_ wouldn't make any difference. He doesn't seem to care much for money; all he notices is how a man handles his gun. If you hold it just to suit him, he'll go, and if you don't, he won't."

"How ridiculous! Well, do for goodness' sake tell me in what manner I must handle the gun that I may please this Criticus."

Morton bridled with indignation.

"He ain't a cuss, Uncle Adam ain't. He's a nice man, and he knows what he's about too. If you'd see some o' the fools that come down here to shoot you'd be particular too, I guess. They're a good deal more apt to hit their guide than the birds, I can tell you."

The young man laughed heartily.

"My boy, I hadn't the slightest intention of calling your relative names; that was simply a t.i.tle many men would be proud to bear."

"That's all right." in a mollified tone; "but he isn't any relation to me. Everybody calls him uncle."

"Ah, I see. You make me feel wonderfully interested in this wise Adam, and only in a fright for fear I won't hold my weapon to suit him; couldn't you give me a lesson or two, now?"

Morton looked at the stranger askance; was he making fun of him? then straightening his boyish shoulders, he said proudly, "I can tell you something better than that. _I'm_ going gunning with Adam to-morrow morning at four o'clock, and perhaps I can get him to take you along too, if he likes your looks."

"Let us hope he may!" observed the other fervently. "What! is this the place we're bound for?" looking dubiously at the weather-worn cottage opposite, in whose gable end was a primitive bay-window, through which could be seen half a dozen jars of barber-pole candy hobn.o.bbing sociably with boxes of tobacco, bags of beans, kits of salted mackerel, slabs of codfish, spools of thread, hairpins, knives and forks, and last, but by no means least, a green lobster swimming about in a large dishpan.

Morton wondered what this stranger could have expected better than this, and remarked encouragingly,--

"She's got carpets on most all her rooms, and she hooks the nicest rugs in Killamet,--all big flowers, or cats lying down,--the prettiest you ever saw!"

"Aunt Felicie, do you hear that?" flinging the question over his shoulder. "We are about to meet your rival! You paint flowers, and she,--just hear the alarming word,--she 'hooks' them! Cats, too, and dogs, did you say? Does the verb have a dishonest meaning here in Killamet, my boy?"

Morton stared back wonderingly, not understanding much except that in some way either he or Miss Zeba, or perhaps Killamet in general, was being held up to ridicule, and that it was his business to resent it.

"I don't know, sir," he answered stoutly, "what you mean: but if you want to know whether Miss Zeba is a nice woman, I can tell you that; she's just as good as gold, sir! and I suppose if folks don't like our ways in Killamet they needn't come here, there's plenty of room outside, I guess."

The young man turned and gave him a critical look, which soon grew approving, then held out his hand. "This is the second time I've had to ask your pardon; will you make up, and be friends? I like you, and if they've got any more of your sort here, I shall like Killamet!"

Morton extended his hand readily enough, and felt it seized in a close, strong pressure which pleased him, though he could not have told why, and the young man turned again to his aunt.

"Here we are at--now, what is that name, my lad?"

"Miss Zeba Osterhaus, sir."

"Oh, yes! I believe I could remember it if I could once see it spelled, however"--

The rest of his sentence was broken off by the sharp jangle of the bell above the door, as Morton opened it; and the warning note brought Miss Zeba herself from an inner room.

Whatever of fun had been dancing in the young man's eyes suddenly died out at the sight of her. She was small, like a little child, but had the wan, drawn, yet sweet-looking face of a middle-aged woman, while between her shoulders she bore that fleshy symbol of Christian's burden, that painful affliction, that almost intolerable deformity for a woman to endure, a hump back.

Instantly the young man's hat was off, and the young man's voice grew almost tender, as he said,--

"We beg pardon for disturbing you, but is this Miss Osterhaus?"