I reached into my pocket for my keys, unlocked the box and took out the letter.The envelope was square, of an expensive quality, and eminently aristocratic.It was postmarked Denboro, dated that morning, and addressed in a sharp, clear masculine hand unfamiliar to me, to "Roscoe Paine, Esq." The "Esq." would have settled it, if the handwriting had not.No fellow-townsman of my acquaintance would address me, or any one else, as Esquire.Misters and Captains were common enough, but Esquires--no.
It was a Denboro custom, when one received a mysterious letter, to get the fullest enjoyment out of the mystery before solving it.Ihad known Dorinda Rogers to guess, surmise and speculate for ten minutes before opening a patent medicine circular.But, though mysteries were uncommon enough in my life, I think I should have reached the solution of this one in the next second--in fact, I had torn the end from the envelope--when I was interrupted.
It was Captain Dean who interrupted me.He had evidently concluded his conversation with the postmaster and now was bearing down majestically upon me, like a ten thousand ton steamer on a porgie schooner.
"Hey, you--Ros!" he roared.He was at my elbow, but he roared just the same.Skipper of a coaster in his early days, he had never outgrown the habit of pitching his voice to carry above a fifty-mile gale."Hey, Ros.See here; I want to talk to you."I did not want to talk with any one, particularly with him.He was the individual who, according to Lute, had bracketed Mr.Rogers and myself as birds of a feather, the remark which was primarily responsible for my ill humor of the morning.If he had not said that, and if Lute had not quoted the saying to me, I might have behaved less like a fool when that automobile overtook me, I might not have given that young idiot, whose Christian name it seemed was Victor, the opportunity to be smart at my expense.That girl with the dark eyes might not have looked at me as if I were a worm or a June bug.Confound her! what right had she to look at me like that? Victor, or whatever his name was, was a cub and a cad and as fresh as the new paint on Ben Small's lighthouse, but he had deigned to speak.Whereas that girl--!
No, I did not want to talk with Jedediah Dean.However, he wanted to talk to me, and what he wanted he usually got.
Captain Dean was one of Denboro's leading citizens.His parents had been as poor as Job's turkey, but Jedediah had determined to get money and now he had it.He was reputed to be worth "upwards of thirty thousand," owned acres and acres of cranberry swamps, and the new house he had just built was almost as big as it was ugly, which is saying considerable.He had wanted to be a deacon in the church and, though the church was by no means so eager, deacon he became.He was an uncompromising Democrat, but he had forced himself into the Board of Selectmen, every other member a Republican.He was director in the Denboro bank, and it was town talk that his most ardent desire at the present time was to see his daughter Helen--Nellie, we all called her--married to George Taylor, cashier of that bank.As George and Nellie were "keeping company" it seemed likely that Captain Jed would be gratified in this, as in all other desires.He was a born boss, and did his best to run the town according to his ideas.Captain Elisha Warren, who lived over in South Denboro and was also a director in the bank, covered the situation when he said: "Jed Dean is one of those fellers who ought to have a big family to order around.The Almighty gave him only one child and so he adopted Denboro and is bossin' that.""I want to talk to you, Ros," repeated Captain Jed."Come here."He led the way to the settee by the calico and dress goods counter.
I put the unread letter in my pocket and followed him.
"Set down," he ordered."Come to anchor alongside."I came to anchor.
"How's your mother?" he asked."Matilda was cal'latin' to go down and set with her a spell this afternoon, if she didn't have anything else to do--if Matilda didn't, I mean."Matilda was his wife.In her husband's company she was as dumb as a broken phonograph; when he was not with her she talked continuously, as if to get even.A call from Matilda Dean was one of the additional trials which made Mother's invalid state harder to bear.
"Course she may not come," Jedediah hastened to say."She's pretty busy these days.But if she don't have anything else to do she will.I told her she'd better.""Mother will be charmed," I said.Captain Jed was no fool and he looked at me sharply.
"Um; yes," he grunted."I presume likely.You're charmed, too, ain't you?"I was not expecting this.I murmured something to the effect that I was delighted, of course.
"Sartin.Well, that's all right.I didn't get you on this settee to charm you.I want to talk business with you a minute.""Business! With me?"
"Yup.Or it may be business later on.I've been thinkin' about that Shore Lane, the one that runs through your land.Us town folks use that a whole lot.I cal'late most everybody's come to look at it as a reg'lar public road to the beach.""Why, yes, I suppose they have," I said, puzzled to know what he was driving at."It is a public road, practically.""No, 'tain't, neither.It's a private way, and if you wanted to you could shut it off any day.A good many folks would have shut it off afore this.""Oh, I guess not."
"I guess yes.I'd shut it off myself.I wouldn't have Tom, Dick and Harry drivin' fish wagons and tip carts full of seaweed through my premises free gratis for nothin'.""Why?" I asked."What harm does it do?"
"I don't know as it does any.But because a tramp sleepin' on my front piazza might not harm the piazza, that's no reason why I'd let him sleep there."I laughed."The two cases aren't exactly alike, are they?" I said.
"The land is of no value to us at present.Mother and I are glad to have the Lane used, if it is a convenience, as I suppose it is."1
you or your mother?"
"It is in my name," I said.
"Um-hm.Well, would you sell it?"
