"Fellers," he went on, slowly, "I--I hardly know how to tell you what that little girl's come to be to me. When I first struck Bayport, after forty years away from it, all I thought of was makin' over the old place and livin' in it. I cal'lated it would be a sort of Paradise, and HOW I was goin' to live or whether or not I'd be lonesome with everyone of my folks dead and gone, never crossed my mind. But the longer I lived there alone the less like Paradise it got to be; I realized more and more that it ain't furniture and fixin's that make a home; it's them you love that's in it. And just as I'd about reached the conclusion that 'twas a failure, the whole business, why, then, Bos'n--Emily, that is--dropped in, and inside of a week I knew I'd got what was missin' in my life.
"I never married and children never meant much to me till I got her. She's the best little--little . . . There! I mustn't talk this way. I bluffed a lot about not keepin' her permanent, bein' kind of ashamed, I guess, but down inside me I'd made up my mind to bring her up like a daughter. She and me was to live together till she grew up and got married and I . . . Well, what's the use? Afew days ago come a letter from the Oliver woman in Concord sayin' that this Henry Thomas, Bos'n's father, wan't dead at all, but had turned up there, havin' learned somehow or 'nother that his wife was gone and that his child had been willed a little bit of land which belonged to her mother. He had found out that Emmie was with me, and the letter said he would likely come after her--and the land.
"That letter was like a flash of lightnin' to me. I was dismasted and on my beam ends. I didn't know what to do. I'd learned enough about this Henry Thomas to know that he was no use, a drunken, good-for-nothin' scamp who had cruelized his wife and then run off and left her and the baby. But when he come, the very night I got the letter, I gave him a chance. I took him in; I was willin' to give him a job on the place; I was willin' to pay for his keep, and more. I DID ask him to keep his mouth shut and even to use another name. 'Twas weak of me, maybe, but you want to remember this had come on me sudden. And last night--the very second night, mind you--he went out somewhere, perhaps we can guess where, bought liquor with the money I gave him, got drunk, and then insulted one of the best women in this town. Yes, sir! I say it right here, one of the best, pluckiest little women anywhere, although she and I ain't always agreed on certain matters. I DID tell him to clear out, and I DID knock him down. Yes, and by the big dipper, I'd do it again under the same circumstances!
"As for the property," he added fiercely, "why, darn the property, I say! It ain't wuth much, anyhow, and, if 'twas anybody's else, he should have it and welcome. But it's Bos'n's, and, bein' what he is, he SHAN'T have it. And he shan't have HER to cruelize, neither! By the Almighty! he shan't, so long as I've got a dollar to fight him with. I say that to you, Tad Simpson, and to the man--to whoever put you up to this. There! I've said my say. Now, gentlemen, you can choose your side."He strode back to his seat. There was silence for a moment. Then Josiah Dimick sprang up and waved his hat.
"That's the way to talk!" he shouted. "That's a MAN! Three cheers for Cap'n Whittaker! Come on, everybody!"But everybody did not "come on." The cheers were feeble. It was evident that the majority of those present did not know how to meet this unexpected contingency. It had taken them by surprise and they were undecided. The uproar of argument and question began again, louder than ever. The bewildered moderator thumped his desk and shouted feebly for order. Tad Simpson took the floor and, in a few words and at the top of his lungs, nominated Alonzo Snow. Abel Leonard seconded the nomination. There were yells of "Question!
Question!" and "Vote! Vote!"
Eben Salters was recognized by the chair. Captain Salters made few speeches, and when he did make one it was because he had something to say.
