Chapter 9

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_ CHAPTER IX

In an incredibly short time the church was emptied. Each one in the crowd was shouting wild conjectures as to whose place was on fire as they ran in the direction of the blaze. It was a strange sight that met the gaze of the excited people as they came in full view of Dan Trelaw's place. He was busily engaged pouring oil on unburned sections of his hen-coops! Dan's hen-houses were located at the rear of his property, and had been built from a collection of dry-goods boxes. They had been the pride of his life, and as the crowd watched him pour on more oil, some one declared that Dan must have gone out of his senses. Nor would he permit the fire company to play their chemical hose.

"It's come to a purty pass," Dan stated to the onlookers, "when a man can't burn down his own coops to get rid of the mites without the whole blame town turning out to interfere. If the very last one of you don't clear out, I'll use my office as constable of this town to run the lot of you in!"

Hank Simpson was the chief of the volunteer corps, and Dan was chief of the Little River police system. The two chiefs argued as to the rights of the respective offices. Hank declared it was his official duty to put the fire out. Dan as emphatically declared it was his official duty to disperse the crowd. Finally, Hank admitted that Dan had a right to burn his own property so long as the property of others was not endangered. Some say that the chief of police answered the chief of the fire corps with a slow and deliberate wink.

"Now, all of you clear out and leave me to my fire," demanded Dan, as he poured on more oil.

Mr. McGowan had gone directly home after the preaching service. But he did not sleep that night. It was very early on Monday morning when he entered the kitchen. Miss Pipkin was already busy with the preparations for breakfast.

"Good morning, Mr. McGowan," greeted Miss Pipkin, cheerily. "Are you all right this morning?"

"Yes, thank you, Miss Pipkin."

"I was afraid you'd be sick after last night. I didn't sleep none, I was that excited when I got home. I've always been used to quiet meetings, and that last night after you left was a disgrace. But you wasn't to blame, no siree!" she finished with a vigorous shake of her head.

"I am not so sure that you would find very many to agree with you."

"Lan' sakes! How you do talk, Mr. McGowan! Don't you think I know what it's all about? I ain't blind, and what I couldn't see through, Josiah helped me with last night. You've got him to thank that they didn't vote you out of your position."

"Miss Pipkin, do you mean that the Captain spoke up in meeting?"

"Well, he didn't exactly talk, but he stopped others from talking, and that's about the same thing."

"How?" asked the minister eagerly.

"He kind of made me promise not to tell a soul, but I don't think he meant you. Anyhow, you should know. You see, he was setting by a window, and some of the boys from your club was on the outside, waiting. He h'isted the window a little so's to get his hand through. Hank Simpson and some others was at the fire-house, and when Josiah give them beneath the window some sort of signal, they all shouted 'Fire.' That was the sign for others scattered round town, and they begun to shout, too. Then, those at the fire-house got the cart out and rung the bells. It was real funny, but don't tell Josiah I said so, because he was all puffed up last night. He gave his signal just as Mr. Beaver got up to make a motion to have you put out. Things was pretty strong against you after Reverend Mr. Means spoke."

"Mr. Means!"

"Um-hm. He was there as big as life and sad as Job. He talked so tearful-like that everybody was upset, but they didn't get to take a vote, and that was a good thing, for there were some there that would have voted against you, being so worked up, who wouldn't think of it in their right senses. Mr. McGowan, them boys down to the Inn ain't going to let you go from the town if they can keep you here. Them boys with Josiah got up that fire scare last night."

"But it was more than a scare, I saw the fire."

"Course you did. 'Twas old Dan Trelaw's hen-house that was burned down. The mites was bothering him, and he wanted the insurance to build a better one."

"He burned his hen-house to collect insurance?"

"That's what Josiah said."

"That's absurd. There isn't an insurance company in Suffolk County that would write a policy on such junk, and if they did he could never collect a cent if it is known he burned it on purpose."

"Josiah said it wasn't a regular company, just local. I guess he'll get his money, all right. Are you ready for your breakfast?"

A boyish grin slowly lighted the minister's face as the truth of what had happened dawned on him.

"Do you mean----"

"I ain't saying right out just what I mean," she broke in as she paused on the kitchen threshold. "If you're real bright on guessing, you'll be able to figure that out for yourself. The thing that's most interesting to me is that the Lord is wonderful in the performing of all His works, and we ain't to question how He brings 'em to pass. I wasn't much in favor of the way Josiah done last night when he first told me, but the more I think about it, the more it seems all right to me. It didn't seem dignified and nice to break up even a bad meeting that way, but what else was he to do? You've got to stay here, that's plain, and if He ain't got saints enough to keep you He'll use the heathen.... Go right in and set down."

"I'm not sure that it will bring Providence or any one else much glory if I stay here," said the minister, with a faint smile.

Miss Pipkin returned with a steaming pot of coffee. She took her place at the table and for some time eyed the minister in silence. She was a thoroughgoing mystic in her religious faith, but her mysticism was tempered with such a practical turn of mind that it was wholesome and inspiring.

"Mr. McGowan, it is the will of God that you stay right here in this town. If we do His will we ain't to worry about the glory part," she emphatically affirmed. She placed the cups and saucers beside the coffee-pot and filled them. "You hit 'em hard last night, and that is exactly what's ailing them. You've been hitting 'em too hard for comfort. The shoe's pinching and they're not able to keep from showing how it hurts. You hit me, too," she observed, looking earnestly into the minister's eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"You needn't be, 'cause it wasn't you speaking. It was God speaking through you. Them words you used for your text rung in my ears all night long. I could hear 'em plainer than when you spoke 'em from the pulpit: 'Launch out into the deep.' Mr. McGowan, do you believe there is any forgiveness for the unpardonable sin?"

Evidently knowing that a minister of the Presbyterian faith could entertain but one answer and remain a moral man, she did not wait for a reply.

"It was years ago when I first heard them words. They were just as plain to me then as they was last night, but I refused to obey 'em. I didn't think I could stand the ocean. You know the way I was coming over from Riverhead. Well, I'm always sick on the water, and so I said right out that I wouldn't set sail as a seaman's wife. I was young and strong-headed then, and didn't understand. The man I said 'No' to went off, and I never heard from him but three times since. Some said he was drowned at sea, but I know he wasn't. I've been true to him all these years, trying to atone for my sin of disobedience. If he'd come back now, I'd go with him though he'd slay me."

Mr. McGowan wanted to smile at the mixed figure, but the serious face before him prevented him. "Did you say you never heard from him?" he asked, sympathetically.

"No. I didn't say that." She spoke sharply, but immediately her face and tone softened. "I didn't mean to speak cross, but I ain't spoke of this for years, and it upsets me when I think of what I done."

"We'll not speak of it, then."

"It won't disturb me the least bit. It sort of helps to talk about it. I'm thinking all the time about him, how brave he was. He was so manly, too, was my Adoniah."

"Adoniah?" questioned the minister, sitting up with a suddenness that astonished Miss Pipkin.

"Adoniah was his first name. I ain't spoke it out loud for years. It does sound sort of queer, doesn't it? I didn't think so then." She sighed deeply. "The spirit of the Lord seemed to go away from me when Adoniah did. If only he'd come back."

"He has not left you. God is not a hard master, leaving people alone for their shortcomings."

"Do you think He'll send him back to me?"

"He is here now. He has never left you."

Miss Pipkin looked dazed, then puzzled, and finally provoked. "I didn't think you'd trifle, or I'd never told you."

"Indeed, I'm not trifling."

"Then, what happened last night has gone to your head, poor thing! I'd ought to have known better than to have troubled you with my sorrows. You've got all you ought to carry. Poor thing!"

She slowly pushed her chair from the table, eyeing the minister as though expecting signs of an outbreak. But he motioned her back into her chair with a calmness that reassured her.

"I don't quite understand your meaning, I guess," she said.

"And it is quite apparent that I didn't understand yours. You were speaking of the Spirit of God leaving you, and I said He was right here with you----"

"Now, ain't I a caution to saints!" broke in Miss Pipkin. "I did mix you up awful, didn't I? What I was asking you about was if you thought God would send back my Adoniah Phillips. He----Why, Mr. McGowan, what's the matter now?"

The minister had risen and was looking oddly at the housekeeper.

"What on earth have I said this time?" she implored.

"You say your lover's name was Phillips, Adoniah Phillips?"

Miss Pipkin did not reply, but looked at him fixedly.

"Please, don't look at me like that, it makes me feel like I've been guilty of something," he said, trying hard to smile.

"You sure you ain't sick?"

"Of course, I'm not ill. I'm slightly interested in that peculiar name. I've heard it just once before, and I'm wondering if there is a chance of its being the same man."

"You've heard of him?"

"Well, I have heard his name."

"There ain't likely to be another name like his."

"Have you any idea where he is at present? You said a bit ago that you did not think he had been drowned at sea."

"No," she answered curtly.

"Can you so much as guess?"

"I don't know if he's living at all, so of course I ain't got no idea where he is," was her snappy reply. "Has he been telling you about me and him?" she asked, nodding toward the up-stairs where the Captain was presumably asleep.

"He hasn't said anything to me, but----"

"You'll promise not to repeat one word to him of what I just told you?" she begged, again jerking her head toward the stair.

"I promise to say nothing about what you have told me. But I have my reasons for wanting to know something about this man Phillips."

"What are your reasons?"

"I should not have said reasons, for I guess it is nothing but my curiosity that prompts me to ask. If you could tell me more of the facts I might be able to help you locate him."

"You mean you have an idea that he is still living?"

"I can't say as to that, but if you'll only help me I am certain that we shall find out something interesting."

Miss Pipkin drew the corner of her apron across the corner of her eyes, disappointment written deeply in every line and wrinkle of her face.

"There ain't much more to tell. Adoniah went to sea. I got a letter from him once from Australia. I wrote back saying I'd take back what I'd said. He answered it, but didn't say nothing about what I said to him. He spoke of meeting up with some one he knew, saying they was going in business together. I ain't never told anybody about that, not even Josiah, and I ain't going to tell you, for I don't think he was square with Adoniah, but I can't prove it."

The thud of heavy boots on the rear stair checked further comment she seemed inclined to make, and she dried out the tears that stood in her eyes with short quick dabs as she hurried to the kitchen.

"Lan' of mercy!" she exclaimed, returning with a smoking waffle-iron. "I clean forgot these, and they're burned to ashes. Here, don't you drink that cold coffee, I'll heat it up again," she said, taking the cup. Leaning closely to his ear, she whispered, "Mind, you ain't to tell a living soul about what I said, and him above all others."

The minister nodded.

Miss Pipkin entered the kitchen just as the Captain opened the stair-door. He sniffed the air as he greeted the two with a hearty "Good morning."

"Purty nigh never woke up. You'd otter have come up and tumbled me out, Mack."

"Rest well, did you?"

"Just tolerable. Clemmie," he called, "I seem to smell something burning. There ain't nothing, be there?"

"We was busy talking, and them irons got too hot."

"Talking, be you? Don't 'pear to have agreed with neither of you more than it did with those irons."

"You didn't pass a mirror on the way down this morning, or you'd not be crowing so loud, Josiah."

"No, that's a fact I didn't. You see, Eadie busted mine during that cleaning raid, and I can't afford a new one."

"You must have hit your funny-bone, or something," hinted Miss Pipkin as she poured a cup of the reheated coffee.

"Now, don't get mad, Clemmie. I was just fooling. Mack understands me purty well, and he'll tell you that I didn't mean nothing by what I said."

"Josiah Pott! You're that disrespectful that I've a good mind to scold you."

"What's up now, Clemmie?"

"The very idea! You calling the minister by his first name."

"I've done it ever since I knowed him, and he wouldn't like me to change now. Hey, Mr. McGowan?"

"Call me by my first name, Cap'n. Too much dignity doesn't sit well on your shoulders. You needn't mind, Miss Pipkin, for that is a habit that was formed before I became a minister, and there is no disrespect, I assure you."

"You mean you two knowed each other before you come here?"

"You see, Mack come to me one summer when I was starting on a cruise, and he was such a good sailor that we spent four seasons together after that."

"You never told me that," said Miss Pipkin.

"I didn't think to, Clemmie. Mack, have some more of these waffles. They're mighty tasty. It takes Clemmie to cook 'em to a turn."

"Just listen to that!" rejoined the housekeeper. "He ain't had none yet."

The minister did the unheard-of thing: he refused the offer of waffles!

"Mack, you ain't going to let them hypocrites and wolves in sheep's clothing come right up and steal your appetite out of your mouth, be you?"

Mr. McGowan assured him that he had no such intention.

"You don't know what you're missing," declared the Captain, smacking his lips to make the waffles appear more appetizing. "Have just one. Maybe your appetite is one of them coming kind, and I'll swan if 'tis that one taste of these would bring it with a gallop."

"Don't urge him if he don't want 'em, Josiah."

"Cal'late your talking must have gone to his stomach, hey, Clemmie?"

"Josiah!" she exclaimed, coloring. "He'll soon forget all I said to him."

"You sartin give it to 'em good last night, Mack. It was the best I ever heard. Got most of 'em where they lived, and you took 'em out into the deep beyond their wading-line, too. How about you, Clemmie?"

Miss Pipkin had important business in the kitchen.

"Yes, Mack, that sure was a ringer," continued the Captain as he helped himself to another layer of waffles. "Wonder if Clemmie took what you said about launching out as literal?"

Miss Pipkin returned with a plate of smoking waffles and placed them at the Captain's side.

"Thanks, Clemmie. I was 'feared you'd be setting out to sea in my dory after hearing that sermon last night," he said banteringly, with a twinkle in his eyes. "You'd best explain that your meaning was figur'tive, Mack. I looked up that word once and it means----"

"Josiah Pott! How can you be so cruel!"

With a sob that rose from the depths, Miss Pipkin fled, slamming the kitchen door after her.

"I'll swear, if she ain't crying!" exclaimed the surprised seaman. "What in tarnation do you suppose is up, Mack? You don't cal'late she thought I was relating to her for earnest, do you?"

He rose and started toward the door. Mr. McGowan laid a hand on his friend's sleeve.

"You'd better leave her alone."

"But I never meant nothing. She'd otter know that. I'm going to tell her," he said, pulling away from the minister, and trying the closed door. "Clemmie, be sensible, and come out of there. I didn't mean nothing, honest, I didn't."

But Miss Pipkin did not come out. She did not so much as answer his importunings. When the men were out of the dining-room she went up-stairs, not to appear again that day.

It was afternoon when Mr. McGowan hobbled out of his study, ate a light lunch, put a few sandwiches in his pocket, and started in the direction of the peninsula road that led to the beach. _

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