



Produced by Donald Lainson and D. A. Alexander





 CAP'N WARREN'S WARDS

 By Joseph C. Lincoln

 Author of "The Depot Master," "The Woman Haters,"
 "The Postmaster," "Cap'n Erie,"
 "Mr. Pratt," etc.

 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
 BY EDMUND FREDERICK

 A. L. BURT COMPANY
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK




 COPYRIGHT 1911, BY
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

 _Published October, 1911_

 Printed in the United States of America




[Illustration: "Captain Warren had risen from his chair and was facing
her." [Page 48]]




CAP'N WARREN'S WARDS




CHAPTER I


"Ostable!" screamed the brakeman, opening the car door and yelling his
loudest, so as to be heard above the rattle of the train and the shriek
of the wind; "Ostable!"

The brakeman's cap was soaked through, his hair was plastered down on
his forehead, and, in the yellow light from the car lamps, his wet nose
glistened as if varnished. Over his shoulders the shiny ropes of rain
whipped and lashed across the space between the cars. The windows
streamed as each succeeding gust flung its miniature freshet against
them.

The passengers in the car--there were but four of them--did not seem
greatly interested in the brakeman's announcement. The red-faced person
in the seat nearest the rear slept soundly, as he had done for the
last hour and a half. He had boarded the train at Brockton, and, after
requesting the conductor not to "lemme me git by Bayport, Bill," at
first favored his fellow travelers with a song and then sank into
slumber.

The two elderly men sitting together on the right-hand side of the car
droned on in their apparently endless Jeremiad concerning the low price
of cranberries, the scarcity of scallops on the flats, the reasons why
the fish weirs were a failure nowadays, and similar cheerful topics. And
in his seat on the left, Mr. Atwood Graves, junior partner in the New
York firm of Sylvester, Kuhn and Graves, lawyers, stirred uneasily on
the lumpy plush cushion, looked at his watch, then at the time-table in
his hand, noted that the train was now seventy-two minutes late, and
for at least the fifteenth time mentally cursed the railway company, the
whole of Cape Cod from Sandwich to Provincetown, and the fates which had
brought him there.

The train slowed down, in a jerky, hiccoughy sort of way, and crept
on till the car in which Mr. Graves was seated was abreast the lighted
windows of a small station, where it stopped. Peering through the
water-streaked pane at the end of his seat, the lawyer saw dim
silhouettes of uncertain outline moving about. They moved with provoking
slowness. He felt that it would be joy unspeakable to rush out there and
thump them into animation. The fact that the stately Atwood Graves even
thought of such an undignified proceeding is sufficient indication of
his frame of mind.

Then, behind the door which the brakeman, after announcing the station,
had closed again, sounded a big laugh. The heartiness of it grated on
Mr. Graves's nerves. What idiot could laugh on such a night as this
aboard a train over an hour late?

The laugh was repeated. Then the door was flung briskly open, and a
man entered the car. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, inclined to
stoutness, wearing a cloth cap with a visor, and a heavy ulster, the
collar of which was turned up. Through the gap between the open ends of
the collar bristled a short, grayish beard. The face above the beard and
below the visor was sunburned, with little wrinkles about the eyes and
curving lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth. The upper
lip was shaved, and the eyebrows were heavy and grayish black. Cap,
face, and ulster were dripping with water.

The newcomer paused in the doorway for an instant, evidently to add the
finishing touch to a conversation previously begun.

"Well, I tell you, Ezra," he called, over his shoulder, "if it's too
deep to wade, maybe I can swim. Fat floats, they tell me, and Abbie says
I'm gettin' fleshier every day. So long."

He closed the door and, smiling broadly, swung down the aisle. The pair
of calamity prophets broke off their lament over the declining fisheries
and greeted him almost jovially.

"Hello, Cap'n!" cried one. "What's the south shore doin' over here in
this flood?"

"What's the matter, Cap'n?" demanded the other. "Broke loose from your
moorin's, have you? Did you ever see such a night in your life?"

The man in the ulster shook hands with each of his questioners, removing
a pair of wet, heavy leather gloves as he did so.

"Don't know's I ever did, Dan," he answered. "Couldn't see much of this
one but its color--and that's black. I come over this mornin' to
attend to some business at the court-house--deeds to some cranberry bog
property I just bought--and Judge Baxter made me go home with him to
dinner. Stayed at his house all the afternoon, and then his man, Ezra
Hallett, undertook to drive me up here to the depot. Talk about blind
pilotin'! Whew! The Judge's horse was a new one, not used to the roads,
Ezra's near-sighted, and I couldn't use my glasses 'count of the rain.
Let alone that, 'twas darker'n the fore-hold of Noah's ark. Ho, ho!
Sometimes we was in the ruts and sometimes we was in the bushes. I told
Ez we'd ought to have fetched along a dipsy lead, then maybe we could
get our bearin's by soundin's. 'Couldn't see 'em if we did get 'em,'
says he. 'No,' says I, 'but we could taste 'em. Man that's driven
through as much Ostable mud as you have ought to know the taste of every
road in town.'"

"Well, you caught the train, anyhow," observed Dan.

"Yup. If we'd been crippled as _well_ as blind we could have done that."
He seated himself just in front of the pair and glanced across the aisle
at Mr. Graves, to find the latter looking intently at him.

"Pretty tough night," he remarked, nodding.

"Yes," replied the lawyer briefly. He did not encourage conversation
with casual acquaintances. The latest arrival had caught his attention
because there was something familiar about him. It seemed to Graves that
he must have seen him before; and yet that was very improbable. This
was the attorney's first visit to Cape Cod, and he had already vowed
devoutly that it should be his last. He turned a chilling shoulder to
the trio opposite and again consulted the time-table. Denboro was the
next station; then--thank the Lord--South Denboro, his destination.

Conversation across the aisle was brisk, and its subjects were many and
varied. Mr. Graves became aware, more or less against his will, that
the person called "Cap'n" was, if not a leader in politics and local
affairs, still one whose opinions counted. Some of those opinions, as
given, were pointed and dryly descriptive; as, for instance, when a
certain town-meeting candidate was compared to a sculpin--"with a big
head that sort of impresses you, till you get close enough to realize it
_has_ to be big to make room for so much mouth." Graves, who was fond
of salt water fishing, knew what a sculpin was, and appreciated the
comparison.

The conductor entered the car and stopped to collect a ticket from his
new passenger. It was evident that he, too, was acquainted with the
latter.

"Evening, Cap'n," he said, politely. "Train's a little late to-night."

"It is--for to-night's train," was the prompt response, "but if it keeps
on at the rate it's travelin' now, it'll be a little early for to-morrow
mornin's, won't it?"

The conductor laughed. "Guess you're right," he said. "This is about as
wet a storm as I've run through since I've been on the road. If we get
to Provincetown without a washout we'll be lucky.... Well, we've made
another hitch. So far, so good."

The brakeman swung open the door to shout, "Denboro! Denboro!" the
conductor picked up his lantern and hurried away, the locomotive
whistled hoarsely, and the train hiccoughed alongside another little
station. Mr. Graves, peering through his window, imagined that here
the silhouettes on the platform moved more briskly. They seemed almost
excited. He inferred that Denboro was a bigger and more wide-awake
village than Ostable.

But he was mistaken. The reason for the excitement was made plain by the
conductor a moment afterwards. That official entered the car, removed
his uniform cap, and rubbed a wet forehead with a wetter hand.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I've been expecting it, and here it is.
Mark me down as a good prophet, will you? There's a washout a mile
further on, and a telegraph pole across the track. It's blowing great
guns and raining pitchforks. It'll be out of the question for us to go
forward before daylight, if then. Darn a railroad man's job anyhow!"

Five minutes later Mr. Graves descended the steps of the car, his
traveling bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. As soon as
both feet were securely planted on the platform, he put down the bag
to wrestle with the umbrella and the hurricane, which was apparently
blowing from four directions at once. Feeling his hat leaving his head,
he became aware that the umbrella had turned inside out. He threw the
wreck violently under the train and stooped to pick up the bag. The bag
was no longer there.

"It's all right," said a calm voice behind him. "I've got your satchel,
neighbor. Better beat for harbor, hadn't we? Here! this way."

The bewildered New Yorker felt his arm seized in a firm grip, and he was
rushed across the platform, through a deluge of wind-driven water, and
into a small, hot, close-smelling waiting room. When he pushed his hat
clear of his eyes he saw that his rescuer was the big man who boarded
the train at Ostable. He was holding the missing bag and smiling.

"Dirty weather, hey?" he observed, pleasantly. "Sorry your umbrella had
to go by the board. I see you was carryin' too much canvas and tried to
run alongside in time to give you a tow; but you was dismasted just as I
got there. Here's your dunnage, all safe and sound."

He extended the traveling bag at arm's length. Mr. Graves accepted his
property and murmured thanks, not too cordially. His dignity and temper
had gone overboard with the umbrella, and he had not yet recovered them.

"Well," went on his companion, "here we are! And I, for one, wanted to
be somewheres else. Caleb," turning to the station master, who came in
at that moment, "any way of my gettin' home to-night?"

"'Fraid not, Cap'n," was the answer. "I don't know of any. Guess you'll
have to put up at the hotel and wait till mornin'."

"That's right," agreed the passenger called "Dan," who was standing
near. "That's what Jerry and I are goin' to do."

"Yes, but you and Jerry are bound for Orham. I'm booked for South
Denboro, and that's only seven miles off. I'd _swim_ the whole seven