Chapter 8. In Which The Parson And Mr. Pepper Declare Their Independence

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_ CHAPTER VIII. IN WHICH THE PARSON AND MR. PEPPER DECLARE THEIR INDEPENDENCE

That afternoon, when dinner was over, the Reverend John decided to make a few duty calls. The first of these he determined should be on the Peppers. Lavinia and her brother had called at the Parsonage several times, but as yet he had not paid them a visit. It was not a ceremony to which he looked forward with delight, but it must be performed. Miss Pepper had hinted several times, at sewing circle and after prayer meeting, of "partiality" and "only stoppin' in where they had fancy curtains up to the windows." So, as it could not be put off longer, without causing trouble, he determined to go through with it.

The Pepper house was situated just off the main road on the lane leading over the dunes to the ocean and the light. It was a small building, its white paint dingy and storm beaten, and its little fenced-in front yard dotted thickly with clumps of silver-leaf saplings. A sign, nailed crookedly on a post, informed those seeking such information that within was to be found "Abishai G. W. Pepper, Tax Collector, Assessor, Boots and Shoes Repaired." And beneath this was fastened a shingle with the chalked notice, "Salt Hay for sale."

The boot and shoe portion of the first sign was a relic of other days. Kyan had been a cobbler once, but it is discouraging to wait three or four weeks while the pair of boots one has left to be resoled are forgotten in a corner. Captain Zeb Mayo's pointed comment, "I want my shoe leather to wear while I'm alive, not to be laid out in after I die of old age," expressed the general feeling of the village and explained why custom had left Mr. Pepper and flown to the more enterprising shoemaker at "The Corners." The tax collectorship might have followed it, but here Lavinia kept her brother up to the mark. She went with him on his rounds and it gave her opportunity to visit, and afterwards comment upon, every family in town.

The minister walked up the dusty lane, lifted the Pepper gate and swung it back on its one hinge, shooed away the three or four languid and discouraged-looking fowls that were taking a sun bath on the clam-shell walk, and knocked at the front door. No one coming in answer to the knock, he tried again. Then he discovered a rusty bell pull and gave it a sharp tug. The knob came off in his hand and he hurriedly thrust it back again into its place. Evidently, that bell was solely for ornament.

He came to the conclusion that no one was at home and felt a guilty sense of relief in consequence. But his conscience would not let him depart without another try, so he clenched his fist and gave the cracked door panel a series of tremendous thumps. A thin black cat, which had evidently been asleep beneath the step, burst from its concealment and fled in frantic terror. Then from somewhere in the rear of the house came the sound of a human voice.

"Hi!" it called faintly. "Whoever you be, don't bust that door down. Come round here."

Ellery walked around the corner of the building. The voice came again.

"Say!" it wailed, "why don't you answer? Be you comin'? If you're a peddler, you needn't."

"I'm not a peddler," was the minister's amused reply.

"Oh, ain't ye? All right. Come along, then."

Ellery "came along" as far as the angle where the ell joined the main body of the house. So far as he could see every door and window was closed and there were no signs of life. However, he stepped to the door, a green-painted affair of boards, and ventured another knock.

"Don't start that poundin' again!" protested the voice. "Come round to t'other side where I be."

So around went the Reverend John, smiling broadly. But even on "t'other side" there was no one to be seen. And no door, for that matter.

"Why!" exclaimed the voice, "if 'tain't Mr. Ellery! How d'ye do? Glad to see you, Mr. Ellery. Fine day, ain't it? Here I be at this window."

Sure enough; one of the windows on this side of the house was raised about six inches at the bottom, the shade was up, and peering beneath the sash the minister discerned the expressive features of Abishai Pepper--or as much of those features as the size of the opening permitted to be seen.

"Oh!" exclaimed the visitor, "is that you, Mr. Pepper? Well, I'm glad to see you, at last. You are rather hard to see, even now."

Kyan was plainly embarrassed. He stammered as he answered.

"Yes," he agreed, "I--I shouldn't wonder if I be. How be you? Pretty smart?"

"Yes, thank you. I'm well."

"Er--er--come to call, did you?"

"Why, yes, that was my intention."

"Hum! Er--er--Laviny, she's gone over to Thankful Payne's. She heard that Thankful's cousin up to Middleboro had died--passed away, I mean--and she thought she'd run over and find out if Thankful was willed anything. She said she'd be back pretty soon."

"Very well. Then, as she won't be gone long, perhaps I'll come in and wait."

He was moving away toward the corner when a shout from beneath the window sash brought him to a halt.

"Hi!" called Abishai. "Hi, Mr. Ellery! don't go to that door. 'Tain't no use; it's locked."

"Locked? Well, you can unlock it, can't you?"

"No, not very well. That is, I--Mr. Ellery, come back here, won't ye? I don't want anybody to hear."

The house of the nearest neighbor being several hundred yards away, the likelihood of being overheard was improbable; but the minister came back, nevertheless.

"You see, Mr. Ellery," stammered Kyan, "I--I'd like to have you come in fust rate, but--er--Laviny she's got the key."

Ellery was surprised.

"She has!" he exclaimed.

"Um--hm, she's got it. She took it with her."

"But there are other doors. She didn't take them all, did she?"

"No--o, but--Well, the fact is, Mr. Ellery, I--I--I'm locked in."

"Locked in?"

"Yes, locked in this room. She--she--Oh, consarn it all, Mr. Ellery, she's locked me in this room a-purpose, so's I won't get out and go somewheres without her knowin' it."

"What?"

"Um--h'm; that's what she's done. Did you ever hear of anything like that in your born days?"

This surprising disclosure was funny enough, but the tone of grieved indignation in which Mr. Pepper told of his imprisonment was funnier still. The minister coughed violently and looked the other way.

"She done it a-purpose," continued Kyan, in a burst of confidence. "She had me put one of them new-fangled spring locks on the door of this room t'other day, 'cause she said she was afraid of tramps and wanted some place to shut herself up in if one of em come. And--and after dinner to-day she sent me in here for somethin' and then slammed the door on me. Said she cal'lated I'd stay put till she got back from Thankful's. She knew mighty well I couldn't get out of the window, 'cause it won't open no further'n 'tis now. I wa'n't never so provoked in my life. 'Tain't no way to treat your own brother, lockin' him up like a young one; now, is it?"

Ellery's reply was not made immediately. He had heard numerous stories concerning this odd household, some of which seemed too absurd for belief. But this performance was more ridiculous than anything he had heard.

"'Tain't right, is it, Mr. Ellery?" demanded Kyan.

"Why," answered the caller chokingly, "I--I--it is rather unusual, that's a fact. May I ask what you've done to--"

"Done? I ain't done nothin'. She's so darned scared some other woman'll get my money that--you see, a month or so ago I--I--well, she thought I done somethin', or was plannin' to do somethin' that--Keziah Coffin never told you anything about me, did she?"

"No, indeed. What could Mrs. Coffin tell me about you?"

"All right. Nothin', nothin'. Only if she did, tain't so. But I ain't goin' to stand it no more, Mr. Ellery. Bein' shut up in a darned old--excuse my swearin', I didn't mean to, though I got reason enough, land knows--bein' shut up in a room full of trunks and odds and ends is goin' too fur. I never want to smell old clothes ag'in long's I live. Would you stand it if you was me, Mr. Ellery?"

"Why, of course I mustn't interfere in your family matters, Mr. Pepper. Perhaps I'd better call some other time. Good afternoon."

"Hold on! hold on! you ain't answered me yet. You're a minister and I go to your meetin' house. Tell me what you'd do if you was me. Would you stand it?"

Ellery laughed aloud.

"No," he said, "I suppose I shouldn't."

"I bet you wouldn't! What would you do?"

"I don't know. You're of age, Mr. Pepper, and you must decide for yourself. I think I should declare my independence. Really, I must go. I--"

"Don't be in such a hurry. I want advice. I need it. And, so fur's DECLARIN' goes, that don't do me no good. She can declare more things in a minute than I can think of in a week. Tongue! I never heard--No, no! Never mind the declarin'. What would you DO? S'posin' you wanted to go outdoor without havin' her tagged to your coat tails, how'd you stop the taggin'?"

The absurdity of the affair was too much for the visitor. He roared a "Ha, ha!" that caused Abishai to wave a warning hand beneath the sash.

"Ss-h-h! sshh!" he hissed. "Folks'll hear ye, and I'd be so ashamed if they did that I wouldn't dast to show my head. Can't show much of it, anyhow, just now. By gum! I'll do somethin' desperate. I--I dunno as I won't pizen her. I--"

"Hush! hush! you mustn't talk that way. I'm afraid you must be very fascinating, Mr. Pepper. If your sister is so very fearful of your meeting other women, it must be because she has good reason to fear."

"Stop your foolishness! Oh!--I--I ask your pardon, Mr. Ellery. That ain't no way to talk to a minister. But I'm goin' to go out when I want to if I bust a hole through the clapboards. I AIN'T fascinatin'. You ask any woman--except her--if I be, and see what they say. What'll I DO?"

"Ha, ha! I don't know, I'm sure. You might lock HER up, I suppose, just for a change."

"Hey!" There was a sound from behind the pane as if the imprisoned one had slapped his knee. "By gum! I never thought of that. Would you now, Mr. Ellery? Would you? Sshh! sshh! somebody's comin'. Maybe it's her. Run around to the door, Mr. Ellery, quick. And don't tell her I've seen you, for mercy sakes! Don't now, will ye? Please! Run!"

The minister did not run, but he walked briskly around the corner. Sure enough, Lavinia was there, just unlocking the door. She expressed herself as very glad to see the caller, ushered him into the sitting room and disappeared, returning in another moment with her brother, whom she unblushingly said had been taking a nap. Abishai did not contradict her; instead, he merely looked apprehensively at the minister.

The call was a short one. Lavinia did seven eighths of the talking and Ellery the rest. Kyan was silent. When the visit was over, Miss Pepper escorted her guest to the door and bade him a voluble good-by. Over her shoulder the minister saw Kyan making frantic signs to him; he interpreted the signals as a request for secrecy concerning the interview by the window.

Several times during the remainder of that week he surprised his housekeeper by suddenly laughing aloud when there was, apparently, nothing to laugh at. He explained these outbursts by saying that he had thought of something funny. Keziah suggested that it must be mighty funny to make him laugh in the middle of sermon writing.

"I've heard sermons that were funny," she said, "though they wasn't intended to be; but what I've heard of yours ain't that kind. I wish you'd let me in on the joke. I haven't been feelin' like laughin' for the last fortni't."

She had been rather grave and preoccupied, for her, of late. Bustling and busy she always was, never sitting down to "rest," as she called it, without a lap full of sewing. The minister's clothes were mended and his socks darned as they had not been since his mother's day. And with him, at meal times, or after supper in the sitting room, she was always cheerful and good-humored. But he had heard her sigh at her work, and once, when she thought herself unobserved, he saw her wipe her eyes with her apron.

"No, no," she protested, when he asked if anything had gone wrong. "I'm all right. Got a little cold or somethin', I guess, that's all."

She would not give any other explanation and absolutely refused to see the doctor. Ellery did not press the matter. He believed the "cold" to be but an excuse and wondered what the real trouble might be. It seemed to him to date from the evening of his chapel experience.

He told no one, not even her, of Kyan's confidential disclosure, and, after some speculation as to whether or not there might be a sequel, put the whole ludicrous affair out of his mind. He worked hard in his study and at his pastoral duties, and was conscious of a pleasant feeling that he was gaining his people's confidence and esteem.

A week from the following Sunday he dined in state at the Daniels's table. Captain Elkanah was gracious and condescending. Annabel was more than that. She was dressed in her newest gown and was so very gushing and affable that the minister felt rather embarrassed. When, after the meal was over, Captain Elkanah excused himself and went upstairs for his Sabbath nap, the embarrassment redoubled. Miss Annabel spoke very confidentially of her loneliness, without "congenial society," of how VERY much she did enjoy Mr. Ellery's intellectual sermons, and especially what a treat it had been to have him as a guest.

"You must dine here every Sunday," she said. "It will be no trouble at all, and if you say no, I shall feel that it is because you don't want to see me--FATHER and me, of course, I mean."

The minister didn't accept this pressing invitation; on the other hand, he could not refuse it absolutely. He did not like Miss Daniels overmuch, but she was the daughter of his leading parishioner and she and her parent did seem to like him. So he dodged the issue and said she was very kind.

He left the big house as soon as he could without giving offense, and started back toward the parsonage. But the afternoon was so fine and the early summer air so delightful that he changed his mind and, jumping the fence at the foot of Cannon Hill, set off across the fields toward the bluffs and the bay shore.

The sun was low in the west as he entered the grove of pines on the bluff. The red light between the boughs made brilliant carpet patterns on the thick pine needles and the smell was balsamy and sweet. Between the tree trunks he caught glimpses of the flats, now partially covered, and they reminded him of his narrow escape and of Nat Hammond, his rescuer. He had met the captain twice since then, once at the store and again on the main road, and had chatted with him. He liked him immensely and wished he might count him as an intimate friend. But intimacy between a Regular clergyman and the son of the leader of the Come-Outers was out of the question. Partisans on both sides would shriek at the idea.

Thinking of the Hammond family reminded him of another member of it. Not that he needed to be reminded; he had thought of her often enough since she ran away from him in the rain that night. And the picture in the doorway was not one that he could forget--or wanted to. If she were not a Come-Outer, he could meet her occasionally and they might become friends. She was a disconcerting young person, who lacked proper respect for one of his profession and laughed when she shouldn't--but she was interesting, he admitted that.

And then he saw her. She was standing just at the outer edge of the grove, leaning against a tree and looking toward the sunset. She wore a simple white dress and her hat hung upon her shoulders by its ribbons. The rosy light edged the white gown with pink and the fringes of her dark hair were crinkly lines of fire. Her face was grave, almost sad.

John Ellery stood still, with one foot uplifted for a step. The girl looked out over the water and he looked at her. Then a crow, one of several whirling above the pines, spied the intruder and screamed a warning. The minister was startled and stepped back. A dead limb beneath his foot cracked sharply. Grace turned and saw him.

"Oh!" she cried. "Who is it?"

Ellery emerged from the shadow.

"Don't be frightened, Miss Van Horne," he said. "It is--er--I."

This statement was neither brilliant nor original; even as an identification it lacked considerable.

"I?" repeated the girl. "Who? Oh! Why--"

The minister came forward.

"Good afternoon, Miss Van Horne," he stammered. "I'm afraid I frightened you."

She was looking at him with a queer expression, almost as if she scarcely believed him real.

"I hope--" he began again. She interrupted him.

"No," she said confusedly, "you didn't frighten me. I was a little startled when I saw you there behind me. It seemed so odd, because I was just thinking--No, I wasn't frightened. What is there to be frightened of--in Trumet?"

He had extended his hand, but partially withdrew it, not sure how even such a perfunctory act of friendliness might be received. She saved him embarrassment by frankly offering her own.

"Not much, that's a fact," he said, in answer to her question. He would have liked to ask what she had been thinking that made his sudden appearance seem so odd.

"You came to see the sunset, I suppose?" she said hurriedly, as if to head off a question. "So did I. It is a beautiful evening for a walk, isn't it?"

She had said precisely the same thing on that other evening, when they stood in the middle of "Hammond's Turn-off" in the driving rain. He remembered it, and so, evidently, did she, for she colored slightly and smiled.

"I mean it this time," she said. "I'm glad you didn't get cold from your wetting the other day."

"Oh! I wasn't very wet. You wouldn't let me lend you the umbrella, so I had that to protect me on the way home."

"Not then; I meant the other morning when Nat--Cap'n Hammond--met you out on the flats. He said you were wading the main channel and it was over your boots."

"Over my boots! Is that all he said? Over my head would be the plain truth. To cross it I should have had to swim and, if what I've heard since is true, I doubt if I could swim that channel. Captain Hammond helped me out of a bad scrape."

"Oh, no! I guess not. He said you were cruising without a pilot and he towed you into port; that's the way he expressed it."

"It was worse than that, a good deal worse. It might have been my last cruise. I'm pretty certain that I owe the captain my life."

She looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"Your life?" she repeated.

"I believe it. That part of the channel I proposed swimming was exactly where two men have been drowned, so people say. I'm not a very strong swimmer, and they were. So, you see."

Grace cried out in astonishment.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. Then pointing toward the bay, she asked: "Out there, by the end of that leader, was it?"

"Yes, that was it."

She drew a long breath. Then, after a moment:

"And Nat spoke as if it was all a joke," she said.

"No doubt he did. From what I hear of your brother, he generally refers to his own plucky, capable actions as jokes. Other people call them something else."

She did not answer, but continued to gaze at the half-submerged "leader," with the pine bough tied at its landward end to mark the edge of deep water, and the tide foaming through its lath gratings.

"Your brother--" went on the minister.

"He isn't my brother," she interrupted absently. "I wish he was."

She sighed as she uttered the last sentence.

"No, of course he isn't your real brother; I forgot. But he must seem like one."

"Yes," rather doubtfully.

"You must be proud of him."

"I am." There was nothing doubtful this time.

"Well, he saved me from drowning. I'm almost certain of that."

"I'm so glad."

She seemed to mean it. He looked at her.

"Thank you," he said drily. "I'm rather glad myself."

"Oh! I didn't mean it exactly that way. Of course I'm glad you weren't drowned, but I'm especially glad that--that one of our family saved you. Now you won't believe that Come-Outers are all bad."

"I never believed it."

She shook her head.

"Oh, yes, you did," she affirmed stubbornly. "You've heard nothing good of us since you came here. Don't tell fibs, Mr. Ellery."

"But I assure you--"

"Nonsense! Does--well, does Cap'n Daniels, or his daughter, say anything good of us? Be honest, do they?"

"I hardly think--that is, I shouldn't call their opinions unprejudiced. And, Miss Van Horne, perhaps the prejudice isn't all on one side. What did your uncle say about Cap'n Nat's meeting me the other day?"

"Uncle Eben doesn't know. Nat didn't tell anyone but me. He doesn't boast. And uncle would be glad he helped you. As I told you before, Mr. Ellery, I'm not ashamed of my uncle. He has been so good to me that I never can repay him, never! When my own father was drowned he took me in, a little orphan that would probably have been sent to a home, and no father could be kinder or more indulgent than he has been. Anything I asked for I got, and at last I learned not to ask for too much. No self-denial on his part was too great, if he could please me. When he needed money most he said nothing to me, but insisted that I should be educated. I didn't know until afterwards of the self-sacrifice my four years at the Middleboro Academy meant to him."

The minister had listened eagerly to this defense of the man whom he had been led to consider his arch enemy. It was given with spirit and the girl's head was uplifted and her eyes flashed as she spoke. Ellery's next remark was uttered without premeditation. Really, he was thinking aloud.

"So you went away to school?" he mused. "That is why--"

"That is why I don't say 'never done nothin'' and 'be you' and 'hain't neither.' Yes, thank you, that's why. I don't wonder you were surprised."

The young man blushed.

"You misunderstand me," he protested. "I didn't mean--"

"Oh! yes, you did. Not precisely that, perhaps, but pretty near it. I suppose you expected me to speak like Josiah Badger or Kyan Pepper. I try not to. And I try not to say 'immejitly,' too," she added, with a mischievous twinkle.

Ellery recognized the "immejitly" quotation and laughed.

"I never heard but one person say that," he observed. "And he isn't a Come-Outer."

"No, he isn't. Well, this lesson in English can't be very interesting to you, Mr. Ellery, and I must go. But I'm very glad Nat helped you the other day and that you realize the sort of man he is. And I'm glad I have had the opportunity to tell you more about Uncle Eben. I owe him so much that I ought to be glad--yes, glad and proud and happy, too, to gratify his least wish. I must! I know I must, no matter how I--What am I talking about? Yes, Mr. Ellery, I'm glad if I have helped you to understand my uncle better and why I love and respect him. If you knew him as I do, you would respect him, too. Good-by."

She was going, but the minister had something to say. He stepped forward and walked beside her.

"Just a minute, please," he urged. "Miss Van Horne, I do understand. I do respect your uncle. We have a mutual friend, you and I, and through her I have come to understand many things."

Grace turned and looked at him.

"A mutual friend?" she repeated. "Oh! I know. Mrs. Coffin?"

"Yes; Mrs. Coffin. She's a good woman and a wise one."

"She's a dear! Do you like her, too?"

"Indeed, I do."

"Has she told you about me--about uncle, I mean?"

"Yes. Why, she told me--"

He began to enumerate some of the things Keziah had told concerning the Hammond family. They were all good things, and he couldn't help seeing that the recital pleased her. So he went on to tell how his housekeeper had helped him, of her advice, of her many acts of kindness, of what he owed to her. The girl listened eagerly, asking questions, nodding confirmation, and, in her delight at hearing Keziah praised, quite forgetting her previous eagerness to end the interview. And, as he talked, he looked at her, at the red light on her hair, the shine of her eyes, like phosphorus in the curl of a wave at night, at her long lashes, and--

--"Yes," said Miss Van Horne, "you were saying--"

The minister awoke with a guilty start. He realized that his sentence had broken off in the middle.

"Why! why--er--yes," he stammered. "I was saying that--that I don't know what I should have done without Mrs. Coffin. She's a treasure. Frankly, she is the only real friend I have found in Trumet."

"I know. I feel the same way about her. She means so much to me. I love her more than anyone else in the world, except uncle, of course--and Nat. I miss her very much since--since--"

"Since I came, you mean. I'm sorry. I wish--I hate to think I am the cause which separates you two. It isn't my fault, as you know."

"Oh! I know that."

"Yes, and I object to having others choose my friends for me, people who, because of a fanatical prejudice, stand in the way of--If it wasn't for that, you might call and see Mrs. Coffin, just as you used to do."

Grace shook her head. They had moved on to the bend of the bluff, beyond the fringe of pines, and were now standing at the very edge of the high bank.

"If it wasn't for that, you would come," asserted the minister.

"Yes, I suppose so. I should like to come. I miss my talks with Aunt Keziah more than you can imagine--now especially. But, somehow, what we want to do most seems to be what we mustn't, and what we don't like is our duty."

She said this without looking at him, and the expression on her face was the same sad, grave one he had noticed when he first saw her standing alone by the pine.

"Why don't you come?" he persisted.

"I can't, of course. You know I can't."

"Why not? If my company is objectionable I can go away when you come. If you dislike me I--"

"You know I don't dislike you personally."

"I'm awfully glad of that."

"But it's impossible. Uncle respects and is fond of Aunt Keziah, but he wouldn't hear of my visiting the parsonage."

"But don't you think your uncle might be persuaded? I'm sure he misunderstands me, just as I should him if it weren't for Mrs. Coffin--and what you've said. Don't you think if I called on him and he knew me better it might help matters? I'll do it gladly. I will!"

"No, no. He wouldn't listen. And think of your own congregation."

"Confound my congregation!"

"Why, Mr. Ellery!"

She looked at him in amazement; then her lips began to curl.

"Why, Mr. Ellery!" she repeated.

The minister turned very red and drew his hand across his forehead.

"I--I don't mean that exactly," he stammered. "But I'm not a child. I have the right to exercise a man's discretion. My parish committee must understand that. They shall! If I choose to see you--Look out!"

She was close to the overhanging edge of the bluff and the sod upon which she stood was bending beneath her feet. He sprang forward, caught her about the waist, and pulled her back. The sod broke and rattled down the sandy slope. She would have had a slight tumble, nothing worse, had she gone with it. There was no danger; and yet the minister was very white as he released her.

She, too, was pale for a moment, and then crimson.

"Thank you," she gasped. "I--I must go. It is late. I didn't realize how late it was. I--I must go."

He did not answer, though he tried to.

"I must go," she said hurriedly, speaking at random. "Good afternoon. Good-by. I hope you will enjoy your walk."

"I have enjoyed it." His answer was unstudied but emphatic. She recognized the emphasis.

"Will you come to see Mrs. Coffin?" he asked.

"No, no. You know I can't. Good-by. The sunset is beautiful, isn't it?"

"Beautiful, indeed."

"Yes. I--I think the sunsets from this point are the finest I have ever seen. I come here every Sunday afternoon to see them."

This remark was given merely to cover embarrassment, but it had an unexpected effect.

"You DO?" cried the minister. The next moment he was alone. Grace Van Horne had vanished in the gloom of the pine thickets.

It was a strange John Ellery who walked slowly back along the path, one that Keziah herself would not have recognized, to say nothing of Captain Elkanah and the parish committee. The dignified parson, with the dignified walk and calm, untroubled brow, was gone, and here was an absent-minded young fellow who stumbled blindly along, tripping over roots and dead limbs, and caring nothing, apparently, for the damage to his Sunday boots and trousers which might result from the stumbles. He saw nothing real, and heard nothing, not even the excited person who, hidden behind the bayberry bush, hailed him as he passed. It was not until this person rushed forth and seized him by the arm that he came back to the unimportant affairs of this material earth.

"Why! Why, Mr. Pepper!" he gasped. "Are you here? What do you want?"

"Am I here?" panted Kyan. "Ain't I been here for the last twenty minutes waitin' to get a chance at you? Ain't I been chasin' you from Dan to Beersheby all this dummed--excuse me--afternoon? Oh, my godfreys mighty!"

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Matter? Matter enough! It's all your fault. You got me into the mess, now you git me out of it."

Usually, when Abishai addressed his clergyman, it was in a tone of humble respect far different from his present frantic assault. The Reverend John was astounded.

"What IS the trouble, Mr. Pepper?" he demanded. "Behave yourself, man. What IS it?"

"You--you made me do it," gurgled Kyan. "Yes, sir, 'twas you put me up to it. When you was at our house t'other day, after Laviny locked me up, you told me the way to get square was to lock her up, too. And I done it! Yes, sir, I done it when she got back from meetin' this noon. I run off and left her locked in. And--and"--he wailed, wringing his hands--"I--I ain't dast to go home sence. WHAT'll I do?" _

Read next: Chapter 9. In Which Miss Daniels Determines To Find Out

Read previous: Chapter 7. In Which Captain Nat Picks Up A Derelict

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