Everyone looked at Captain Cy then. No one observed Mr. Atkins for the moment. When they did turn their gaze upon the great man he had sunk back in his chair, the glass of lemonade was upset upon the cloth before him, and he, with a very white face, was staring at Emily Richards Thomas.
“What's the matter, Heman?” asked the captain anxiously. “Ain't sick, are you?”
The congressman started.
“Oh, no!” he said hurriedly. “Oh, no! but I'm afraid I've soiled your cloth. It was awkward of me. I—I really, I apologize—I—”
He wiped his face with his handkerchief. Captain Cy laughed.
“Oh, never mind the tablecloth,” he said. “I cal'late it's too soiled already to be hurt by a bath, even a lemon one. Well, you've all heard the toast. Full glasses, now. Here's TO you, Bos'n! Drink hearty, all hands, and give the ship a good name.”
If the heartiness with which they drank is a criterion, the good name of the ship was established. Then the assembly adjourned to the sitting room and—yes, even the front parlor. Not since the days when that sacred apartment had been desecrated by the irreverent city boarders, during the Howes regime, had its walls echoed to such whoops and shouts of laughter. The children played “Post Office” and “Copenhagen” and “Clap in, Clap out,” while the grown folks looked on.
“Ain't they havin' a fine time, Cap?” gushed Miss Phinney. “Don't it make you wish you was young again?”
“Angie,” replied Captain Cy solemnly, “don't tempt me; don't! If they keep on playin' that Copenhagen and you stand right alongside of me, there's no tellin' what 'll happen.”
Angeline declared that he was “turrible,” but she faced the threatened danger nevertheless, and bravely remained where she was.