"So, so," he muttered, helplessly wringing his big hands. "Darned if I--hum, ladies present--dinged if I know what to do."

Suddenly Jeanne sat up and looked at him. Next she had flown at him and had kissed both of his broad red cheeks.

"Well!" she exclaimed. "It's _time_ you were coming home. Where is my father? Where's _everybody_?"

"Well, you see," said Old Captain, patting her gently, "they ain't--well, they ain't exactly _here_."

"I can _see_ that," returned Jeanne, exasperated by the Captain's remarkable slowness, "but where _are_ they?"

"Well, now, Jeannie girl, maybe your father wrote you about Mis'

Shannon's son John takin' her away to St. Louis last spring? Well, he done it."

"Yes?"

"After--well, after a while--Mollie was took sick. You see there was some sort o' reason for that there laziness of hern. There was something wrong with her inside. Her brother John come--I telegraphed him--and had her took to a hospital. Up at St. Mary's--t'other side of town.

She's there yet. She ain't a-goin' to come out, they say."

"Oh!" breathed Jeanne, her eyes very big. "Oh, _poor_ Mollie!"

"She's just as contented as ever," a.s.sured the Captain, whose consoling pats had grown stronger and stronger until now they were so nearly _blows_, that Jeanne winced under them. "I'll take you to see her first chance I git; she'll be thar for some time yet!"

"But the children," pleaded Jeanne. "Where are they?"

"Well, they're in St. Louis."

"Oh, _no_."

"I'm afeared they _be_. You see, Mis' Shannon was no good at housekeepin' with that there rheumatism of hern; so, John up and married a real strong young woman to do the work. When he come here to look after Mollie, he took Sammy and Annie and the little 'un back to St.

Louis with him."

"And Michael?"

"I'll tell you the rest tomorry," promised the Captain, who had stopped patting Jeanne, to wipe large beads of perspiration from his brow. "I'm a hungry man and I got a heap o' work to do after supper. You got to sleep some'eres, you know. My idee is to knock open the doors and windys of the two best rooms in your old shack out there. This here fish car ain't no real proper place for a lady. It was me nailed them doors up after--hum--me nailed 'em _up_."

"After _what_?" demanded Jeanne.

"After--after breakfast, I think it was," dissembled Old Captain, lamely. "I wisht that mean skunk of a Barney--hum, ladies present--that there _Barney_, I mean, was here to help. Now, girl, I'm goin' up town to get somethin' fitten for a lady's supper--"

"I ate all your crackers and all your cheese," confessed Jeanne.

"Glad you did. You can put a chip in the fire now and again to keep her going. I'll start it for you and put the kettle on. Anythin' I can do for you up town?"

"Yes," said Jeanne, "I checked my suitcase at the station. Don't _you_ carry it. Here's a quarter--get some boy to do it."

"Huh!" grunted Old Captain, "thar ain't no boy goin' to carry _your_ suitcase. No, siree, not while I'm here to do it. Just let these here potatoes bile while I'm gone."

Jeanne, finding no cloth, spread clean newspapers over the greasy table, scoured two knives and a pair of three-tined forks with clean white sand from the beach, and set out two very thick plates, one cup and a saucer.

After that, she washed the teapot and found Old Captain's caddy of strong green tea. Then she picked up a basket of bits of snowy driftwood from the beach--such clean, smooth pieces that it seemed a pity to burn them, yet nothing made a more pleasing fire.

Presently Old Captain returned with Jeanne's suitcase. With him was a breathless boy who had found it difficult to keep up with the Captain's long stride. The boy's basket contained bread, b.u.t.ter, eggs, and a piece of round steak. Also there was a bundle containing a brand-new sheet and pillow-case.

"Them thar's a present for _you_," explained Old Captain. "They was somethin' the matter with the towels--had _glue_ in 'em, I guess. Stiff as a board, anyhow. But your paw left some in his room--"

"Where _is_ my--"

"Now, I'm _cookin'_," returned Old Captain, hastily. "_When_ I'm cookin', I ain't answerin' no questions. I'm _askin'_ 'em. You can tell me how you got here and what started ye--I'm dyin' to hear all about it.

But you can't ask no questions. And just remember this. I'm darn glad--hum--_real_ glad you come. This here's a lonesome place with no children runnin' 'round; and I'm mighty glad to hear somethin'

twitterin' besides them swallows, so just twitter away. First of all, who brung you?"

In spite of her dismay at Mollie's illness, in spite of her keen disappointment regarding the missing children, in spite of her bewilderment and her growing fear concerning her strangely absent father, Jeanne was conscious of a warm glow of happiness. Even if _everybody_ had been gone, the Cinder Pond, more beautiful than ever, would still have been _home_.

But Old Captain's hearty welcome, and, more than all, the kindliness that seemed to radiate from his broad, ruddy face, seemed to enfold her like a warm, woolly bathrobe. The Captain was rough and uncultured; but you couldn't look at him without knowing that he was _good_.

Supper was a bit late that night. Jeanne, very neat in her brown poplin dress, Old Captain, very comfortable in his faded shirt-sleeves, ate it by lamplight at the Captain's small, square table. Truly an oddly contrasted pair. But in spite of the fact that the Captain's heart was much better than his table manners, Jeanne was able to eat enough for _two_ small girls.

After supper, the Captain lighted a big lantern, collected his tools, and trudged down the cindery road to the Duval corner of the old wharf.

Presently Jeanne, who was clearing away after the meal, heard the sound of hammering and the "squawk" of nails being pulled from wood--noises travel far, over water that is quiet. When she had washed and dried the dishes, she followed Old Captain.

"Thought ye'd come, too, did ye! Well, she's all opened up. You'd best take your father's room--for tonight, anyway. It ain't been disturbed since--hum! The blankets is all right, I guess. There's a bolt on the door--better lock yourself in. Few boats ever touches here, but one _might_ come. I'd hate like thunder to have ye kidnapped--wouldn't want to lose ye so soon. Did you bring along that sheet? Good. I'll leave you the lamp while I fixes up a bunk in Mollie's part of the house for my old bones."

The little room seemed full of her father's presence. An old coat hung behind the door. The little old trunk stood against the wall. On the big box that served for a table, with a mark to keep the place, was a library book. Happily, sleepy Jeanne did not think of looking at the card. If she _had_ looked, she would have learned that the book was long overdue. Thanks to the big clean lake and the wind-swept wharf, there was no dust to show how long the place had been untenanted.

The music of the water rippling under the old dock, how sweet it was.

The air that blew in at her open window, how good and how soothing. The bright stars peeping in through the little square seemed such _friendly_ stars. Even the cold stiffness of the brand-new sheet was not sufficiently disturbing to keep the tired little girl awake.

She found her breakfast on the Captain's stove. Just in time, for the fire was out and a bright-eyed chipmunk, perched on the edge of the frying-pan, was nibbling a bit of fried potato. The Captain had disappeared. Jeanne didn't guess that he had purposely fled.

"There's so much to do," said Jeanne, eying the Captain's grimy teakettle, after she had finished her breakfast, "that I don't know where to begin. If I could find my old pink dress--I know what I'll do, I'll _buy_ something and make me a great big ap.r.o.n. Even my everyday clothes are too good for a working lady. But first, I guess I'll clean the room Old Captain slept in. Mollie kept a lot of old stuff that ought to be thrown away. I hope there aren't any rats. And I _must_ remember to mail the letter that I wrote to my grandfather just before I got to Chicago. It's still in my work-box. I think some fresh hay would be nice for the Captain's bunk. There's a lot of long gra.s.s on top of the bank--perhaps I can cut some of that and dry it. I used to love to do that. I could make fresh pillows, too. But I _must_ have something to work in."

A very ragged blue cotton shirt of Old Captain's was finally pressed into service. Of course it was much too big, but Jeanne tied up the flopping sleeves with bits of twine; found the Captain's broom, and marched down the dock.

The morning was gone by the time Old Captain's new room was cleared of rubbish. Jeanne, clad mostly in the old blue shirt, dumped it into the lake. Once her work had been interrupted by an old man who wanted to buy a fish. Jeanne, giggling at a sudden amusing thought, trotted down the dock to sell it to him from the end of the Captain's car. The business now was mostly a wholesale one; but neither Jeanne nor the customer knew that, so the fish were ungrudgingly displayed.

"Be you the fishman's little girl?" he asked, as Jeanne weighed the trout he had selected.

"I _be_," she returned, gravely. But as soon as the customer was out of earshot, Jeanne's amusing thought became too much for her.

"If Aunt Agatha could see me now," she giggled, "she'd drop into the Cinder Pond. And what a splendid splash she'd make! Think of Aunt Agatha's niece selling a fish! I hope I charged him enough for it. He looked as if he thought it a good deal."

It _was_ a good deal. The Captain chuckled when she told him about it.

"You'd make money at the business," said he, "but I ain't going to have _you_ sellin' fish. Besides, we ships most of 'em wholesale, out of town. They'd been none in that there box if Barney'd been tendin' to business."

CHAPTER XXI

OLD CAPTAIN'S NEWS