"Humph!" says I. "Your hope's blasted. I've got the meanest pain I've had yet."
"Where?" says he, anxious.
"All over," I says. "Tabitha Nickerson's responsible for it. She's been here for the last hour and a half, tellin' about how her second cousin, by her uncle's marriage, stuck a nail in his hand and was amputated twice and finally died of lingerin' lockjaw. She never missed a groan. Consarn her! She gives me a pain just to look at."
He laughed. "That's the trouble with you old bachelors," he says. "You're too popular with the fair sex."
"Fair!" I sung out. "Doc, if you mean to say Tabby Nickerson's fair, then I'm goin' to switch to the homeopaths. Your judgment ain't dependable."
He laughed again and then he went on. Seems he'd been thinkin' for quite a spell that the Poquit House wasn't the place for me.
"What you need, Cap'n," he says, "is a nice quiet spot where nobody can get at you—that is, nobody but the disagreeable necessities, like me. I've found the place for you to board durin' your convalescence. Do you know the Deacon house over at South Ostable on the lower road?"
"If you mean Lot Deacon's, I do—yes," says I.
"That's it," says he. "Lot's all alone there, and he'd be mighty glad of a boarder. The house is as neat as wax, and Lot used to go as cook on a Banks' boat, so you'll be fed well. It's right on the shore, with the woods back of it. There's a splendid view, the air's fine, and—and—"
"Don't strain yourself, Doc," I put in. "You couldn't think of anything else if you thought for a week. Air and view is all there is in that neighborhood. What on earth have I done to be sentenced to serve a term at Lot Deacon's?"