“Who told you?” demanded the captain.
“Oh, they’re all talkin’. An’ I see Mac, myself, goin’ inta the squire’s house on a crutch an’ with one arm in a sling, early this mornin’. This here letter must of been wrote right away after that. Course I hope it ain’t nuthin’, but looks to me like ’tis. Well—”
He eyed the captain expectantly, hoping the old man might open the letter and give the news which he could bear to all and sundry. But, no; the captain merely nodded, thrust the letters into the capacious breast-pocket of his square-rigged coat and with a non-committal “Thank you,” made his way back to the piazza.
His shoulders drooped not, neither did his step betray any weakness. The disgruntled postman muttered something surly, clucked to his horse, and in disappointment pursued his business—the leisurely handling of Uncle Sam’s mail and everybody’s private affairs.
The same robin—or perhaps, after all, it was a different one—was singing in the elm, as Alpheus Briggs returned to the house. Down the shaded street the metallic rhythm of the anvil was breaking through the contrabass of the surf. But now this melody fell on deaf ears, for Captain Briggs. Heavily he came up the steps, and with weariness sank down in the big rocker. Sadly he shook his head.
“It’s come, I’m afraid,” said he dejectedly. “I was hoping it wouldn’t. Hoping McLaughlin would let it go. But that was hoping too much. He’s no man to swallow a beating. See here now, will you?”
The captain pulled out his letter from Squire Bean, and extended it to Filhiol.
“Local attorney?” asked the doctor, with a look of anxiety.
“Yes,” answered the captain. “This letter means only one thing. Barometer’s falling again. We’ll have to take in more canvas, sir.”
He tore the envelope with fingers now trembling. The letter revealed a crabbed hand-writing, thus: