"Sure?" Then, with a smile, he added: "Al needn't eat with us, you know, if his bein' there makes either of you feel nervous."

Fosd.i.c.k laughed again. "I think I should be willing to risk the nervousness," he replied. "But I must go, really. I've hired a chap at the garage here to drive me to Boston in his car and I'll take the midnight train over."

"Humph! Well, if you must, you must. Hope you have a comf'table trip, Mr. Fosd.i.c.k. Better wrap up warm; it's pretty nigh a five-hour run to Boston and there's some cool wind over the Ostable marshes this time of year. Good-by, sir. Glad to have had this talk with you."

His visitor held out his hand. "So am I, Snow," he said heartily.

"Mighty glad."

"I hope I wasn't too short and brisk at the beginnin'. You see, I'd just read your wife's letter, and--er--well, of course, I didn't know--just--you see, you and I had never met, and so--"

"Certainly, certainly. I quite understand. And, fool's errand or not, I'm very glad I came here. If you'll pardon my saying so, it was worth the trip to get acquainted with you. I hope, whatever comes of the other thing, that our acquaintanceship will continue."

"Same here, same here. Go right out the side door, Mr. Fosd.i.c.k, saves goin' through the office. Good day, sir."

He watched the bulky figure of the New York banker tramping across the yard between the piles of lumber. A moment later he entered the outer office. Albert and Keeler were at their desks. Captain Zelotes approached the little bookkeeper.

"Labe," he queried, "there isn't anything particular you want me to talk about just now, is there?"

Lahan looked up in surprise from his figuring.

"Why--why, no, Cap'n Lote, don't know's there is," he said. "Don't know's there is, not now, no, no, no."

His employer nodded. "Good!" he exclaimed. "Then I'm goin' back inside there and sit down and rest my chin for an hour, anyhow. I've talked so much to-day that my jaws squeak. Don't disturb me for anything short of a fire or a mutiny."

CHAPTER XII

He was not disturbed and that evening, after supper was over, he was ready to talk again. He and Albert sat together in the sitting room--Mrs. Snow and Rachel were in the kitchen washing dishes--and Captain Zelotes told his grandson as much as he thought advisable to tell of his conversation with the Honorable Fletcher Fosd.i.c.k. At first Albert was inclined to rebel at the idea of permitting his letters to Madeline to be read by the latter's parents, but at length he agreed.

"I'll do it because it may make it easier for her," he said. "She'll have a dreadful time, I suppose, with that unreasonable mother of hers. But, by George, Grandfather," he exclaimed, "isn't she splendid, though!"

"Who? Mrs. Fosd.i.c.k?"

"No, of course not," indignantly. "Madeline. Isn't she splendid and fine and loyal! I want you to know her, Grandfather, you and Grandmother."

"Um-hm. Well, we'll hope to, some day. Now, son, I'm goin' to ask for another promise. It may seem a hard one to make, but I'm askin' you to make it. I want you to give me your word that, no matter what happens or how long you have to wait, you and Madeline won't get married without tellin' her folks and yours beforehand. You won't run away and marry.

Will you promise me that?"

Albert looked at him. This WAS a hard promise to make. In their talks beneath the rainbows, whenever he and Madeline had referred to the future and its doubts, they had always pushed those doubts aside with vague hints of an elopement. If the unreasonableness of parents and grandparents should crowd them too far, they had always as a last resort, the solution of their problem by way of a runaway marriage. And now Captain Zelotes was asking him to give up this last resort.

The captain, watching him keenly, divined what was in his grandson's mind.

"Think it over, Al," he said kindly. "Don't answer me now, but think it over, and to-morrow mornin' tell me how you feel about it." He hesitated a moment and then added: "You know your grandmother and I, we--well, we have maybe cause to be a little mite prejudiced against this elopin'

business."

So Albert thought, and the next morning, as the pair were walking together to the office, he spoke his thought. Captain Zelotes had not mentioned the subject.

"Grandfather," said Albert, with some embarra.s.sment, "I'm going to give you that promise."

His grandfather, who had been striding along, his heavy brows drawn together and his glance fixed upon the frozen ground beneath his feet, looked up.

"Eh?" he queried, uncomprehendingly.

"You asked me last night to promise you something, you know... .

You asked me to think it over. I have, and I'm going to promise you that--Madeline and I won't marry without first telling you."

Captain Zelotes stopped in his stride; then he walked on again.

"Thank you, Al," he said quietly. "I hoped you'd see it that way."

"Yes--yes, I--I do. I don't want to bring any more--trouble of that kind to you and Grandmother... . It seems to me that you--that you have had too much already."

"Thank you, son... . Much obliged."

The captain's tone was almost gruff and that was his only reference to the subject of the promise; but somehow Albert felt that at that moment he and his grandfather were closer together, were nearer to a mutual understanding and mutual appreciation than they had ever been before.

To promise, however, is one thing, to fulfill the obligation another. As the days pa.s.sed Albert found his promise concerning letter-writing very, very hard to keep. When, each evening he sat down at the table in his room to pour out his soul upon paper it was a most unsatisfactory outpouring. The constantly enforced recollection that whatever he wrote would be subject to the chilling glance of the eye of Fosd.i.c.k mater was of itself a check upon the flow. To write a love letter to Madeline had hitherto been a joy, a rapture, to fill pages and pages a delight. Now, somehow, these pages were hard to fill. Omitting the very things you were dying to say, the precious, the intimate things--what was there left? He and she had, at their meetings and in their former correspondence, invented many delightful little pet names for each other. Now those names were taboo; or, at any rate, they might as well be. The thought of Mrs. Fosd.i.c.k's sniff of indignant disgust at finding her daughter referred to as some one's ownest little rosebud withered that bud before it reached the paper.

And Madeline's letters to him were quite as unsatisfactory. They were lengthy, but oh, so matter of fact! Saharas of fact without one oasis of sentiment. She was well and she had done this and that and had been to see such and such plays and operas. Father was well and very busy.

Mother, too, was well, so was Googoo--but these last two bits of news failed to comfort him as they perhaps should. He could only try to glean between the lines, and as Mrs. Fosd.i.c.k had raked between those lines before him, the gleaning was scant picking indeed.

He found himself growing disconsolate and despondent. Summer seemed ages away. And when at last it should come--what would happen then? He could see her only when properly chaperoned, only when Mother, and probably Googoo, were present. He flew for consolation to the Muse and the Muse refused to console. The poems he wrote were "blue" and despairing likewise. Consequently they did not sell. He was growing desperate, ready for anything. And something came. Germany delivered to our Government its arrogant mandate concerning unlimited submarine warfare.

A long-suffering President threw patience overboard and answered that mandate in unmistakable terms. Congress stood at his back and behind them a united and indignant people. The United States declared war upon the Hun.

South Harniss, like every other community, became wildly excited.

Captain Zelotes Snow's gray eyes flashed fiery satisfaction. The flags at the Snow place and at the lumber yard flew high night and day. He bought newspapers galore and read from them aloud at meals, in the evenings, and before breakfast. Issachar, as usual, talked much and said little. Laban Keeler's comments were pithy and dryly pointed. Albert was very quiet.

But one forenoon he spoke. Captain Lote was in the inner office, the morning newspaper in his hand, when his grandson entered and closed the door behind him. The captain looked up.

"Well, Al, what is it?" he asked.

Albert came over and stood beside the desk. The captain, after a moment's scrutiny of the young man's face, put down his newspaper.

"Well, Al?" he said, again.

Albert seemed to find it hard to speak.

"Grandfather," he began, "I--I--Grandfather, I have come to ask a favor of you."

The captain nodded, slowly, his gaze fixed upon his grandson's face.

"All right; heave ahead," he said quietly.

"Grandfather, you and I have had a four years' agreement to work together in this office. It isn't up yet, but--but I want to break it. I want you to let me off."

"Humph! ... Let you off, eh? ... What for?"