"After what?" demanded Jeanne.
"After—after breakfast, I think it was," dissembled Old Captain, lamely. "I wisht that mean skunk of a Barney—hum, ladies present—that there Barney, I mean, was here to help. Now, girl, I'm goin' up town to get somethin' fitten for a lady's supper—"
"I ate all your crackers and all your cheese," confessed Jeanne.
"Glad you did. You can put a chip in the fire now and again to keep her going. I'll start it for you and put the kettle on. Anythin' I can do for you up town?"
"Yes," said Jeanne, "I checked my suitcase at the station. Don't you carry it. Here's a quarter—get some boy to do it."
"Huh!" grunted Old Captain, "thar ain't no boy goin' to carry your suitcase. No, siree, not while I'm here to do it. Just let these here potatoes bile while I'm gone."
Jeanne, finding no cloth, spread clean newspapers over the greasy table, scoured two knives and a pair of three-tined forks with clean white sand from the beach, and set out two very thick plates, one cup and a saucer. After that, she washed the teapot and found Old Captain's caddy of strong green tea. Then she picked up a basket of bits of snowy driftwood from the beach—such clean, smooth pieces that it seemed a pity to burn them, yet nothing made a more pleasing fire.
Presently Old Captain returned with Jeanne's suitcase. With him was a breathless boy who had found it difficult to keep up with the Captain's long stride. The boy's basket contained bread, butter, eggs, and a piece of round steak. Also there was a bundle containing a brand-new sheet and pillow-case.
"Them thar's a present for you," explained Old Captain. "They was somethin' the matter with the towels—had glue in 'em, I guess. Stiff as a board, anyhow. But your paw left some in his room—"
"Where is my—"