Captain Joe was standing in the doorway, with one hand on the frame, an ugly, determined expression filling his eyes.
“They want ye down ter the dock, young feller, jes’ ’s quick ’s ye kin get there.”
Lacey’s face was scarlet. He looked at Captain Joe, picked up his hat, and walked down the garden path without a word.
Betty ran in to Aunty Bell.
When the two men reached the swinging-gate, Captain Joe laid his hand on Lacey’s shoulder, whirled him round suddenly, and said in a calm, decided voice that carried conviction in every tone, “I don’t say nothin’, an’ maybe ye don’t mean nothin’, but I’ve been a-watchin’ ye lately, an’ I don’t like yer ways. One thing, howsomever, I’ll tell ye, an’ I don’t want ye ter forgit it: if I ever ketch ye a-foolin’ round Caleb West’s lobster-pots, I’ll break yer damned head. Do ye hear?”
CHAPTER VI—A LITTLE DINNER FOR FIVE
Sanford’s apartments were in gala-dress. Everywhere there was a suggestion of spring in all its brightness and promise. The divans of the salon were gay with new cushions of corn-yellow and pale green. The big table was resplendent in a new cloth,—a piece of richly colored Oriental stuff that had been packed away and forgotten in the Venetian wedding-chest that stood near the window. All the pipes, tobacco pouches, smoking-jackets, slippers, canes, Indian clubs, dumb-bells, and other bachelor belongings scattered about the rooms had been tucked out of sight, while books and magazines that had lain for weeks heaped up on chairs and low shelves, and unframed prints and photographs that had rested on the floor propped up against the wall and furniture, had been hidden in dark corners or hived in their several portfolios.
On the table stood a brown majolica jar taller than the lamp, holding a great mass of dogwood and apple blossoms, their perfume filling the room. Every vase, umbrella jar, jug, and bit of pottery that could be pressed into service, was doing duty as flower-holder, while over the mantel and along the tops of the bookcases, and even over the doors themselves, streamed festoons of blossoms intertwined with smilax and trailing vines.
Against the tapestries covering the walls of the dining-room hung big wreaths of laurel tied with ribbons. One of these was studded with violets, forming the initials H. S. The mantel was a bank of flowers. From the four antique silver church lamps suspended in the four corners of the room swung connecting festoons of smilax and blossoms. The dinner-table itself was set with the best silver, glass, and appointments that Sanford possessed. Some painted shades he had never seen before topped the tall wax candles.
Sanford smiled when he saw that covers had been laid for but five. That clever fellow Jack Hardy had carried his point,—all those delicate questions relating to the number and the selection of the guests had been left to Mrs. Leroy. She had proved her exquisite tact: Bock had been omitted, there were no superfluous women, and Jack could have his tête-à-tête with Helen undisturbed. It was just as well, Sanford thought. With these two young persons happy, the dinner was sure to be a success.