The Depot Master. Joseph Crosby Lincoln
fair play, if you can call the turn. But it's against my principles to allow anybody to beat me on a business deal. Do you suppose,' he says, 'that I'd have paid your robber's prices without a word if I hadn't had somethin' up my sleeve? Why, man,' says he, 'I gave you my CHECKS, not cash. And I've just telephoned to the Wellmouth Bank to stop payment on those checks. They're no earthly use to you; see? There's one or two things about high finance that you don't know even yet. Ho, ho!'
“And he rocked back and forth on his heels and laughed.
“I held up my hand. 'Wait a jiffy, Mr. Williams,' says I. 'I guess these checks are all right. When we fust landed on Woodchuck, I judged by the looks of the shanty that Baker hadn't left it for good. I cal'lated he'd be back. And sure enough he come back, in his catboat, on Thursday evenin', after you'd turned in. Them checks was payable to “Bearer,” you remember, so I give 'em to him. He was to cash 'em in the fust thing Friday mornin', and I guess you'll find he's done it.'”
“Well, I swan to MAN!” interrupted the astonished and delighted Phinney. “So you had him after all! And I was scart you'd lost every cent.”
Captain Sol chuckled. “Yes,” he went on, “I had him, and his eyes and mouth opened together.
“'WHAT?' he bellers. 'Do you mean to say that a boat stopped at that dummed island and DIDN'T TAKE US OFF?'
“'Oh,' says I, 'Darius didn't feel called on to take you off, not after I told him who you was. You see, Mr. Williams,' I says, 'Darius Baker was my partner in that wheat speculation I was tellin' you about.'”
The Captain drew a long breath and re-lit his cigar, which had gone out. His friend pounded the settee ecstatically.
“There!” he cried. “I knew the name 'Darius Baker' wa'n't so strange to me. When was you and him in partners, Sol?”
“Oh, 'way back in the old days, afore I went to sea at all, and afore mother died. You wouldn't remember much about it. Mother and I was livin' in Trumet then and our house here was shut up. I was only a kid, or not much more, and Williams was young, too.”
“And that's the way he made his money! HIM! Why, he's the most respected man in this neighborhood, and goes to church, and—”
“Yes. Well, if you make money ENOUGH you can always be respected—by some kinds of people—and find some church that'll take you in. Ain't that so, Bailey?”
Captain Stitt and his cousin, Obed Gott, the paint dealer, were standing in the doorway of the station. They now entered.
“I guess it's so,” replied Stitt, pulling up a chair, “though I don't know what you was talkin' about. However, it's a pretty average safe bet that what you say is so, Sol, 'most any time. What's the special 'so,' this time?”
“We was talkin' about Mr. Williams,” began Phinney.
“The Grand Panjandrum of East Harniss,” broke in the depot master. “East Harniss is blessed with a great man, Bailey, and, like consider'ble many blessin's he ain't entirely unmixed.”
Obed and Simeon looked puzzled, but Captain Stitt bounced in his chair like a good-natured rubber ball. “Ho! ho!” he chuckled, “you don't surprise me, Sol. We had a great man over to South Orham three years ago and he begun by blessin's and ended with—with t'other thing. Ho! ho!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Sim.
“Why, I mean Stingy Gabe. You've heard of Stingy Gabe, ain't you?”
“I guess we've all heard somethin' about him,” laughed Captain Sol; “but we're willin' to hear more. He was a reformer, wa'n't he?”
“He sartin was! Ho! ho!”
“For the land sakes, tell it, Bailey,” demanded Mr. Gott impatiently. “Don't sit there bouncin' and gurglin' and gettin' purple in the face. Tell it, or you'll bust tryin' to keep it in.”
“Oh, it's a great, long—” began Captain Bailey protestingly.
“Go on,” urged Phinney. “We've got more time than anything else, the most of us. Who was this Stingy Gabe?”
“Yes,” urged Gott, “and what did he reform?”
Captain Stitt held up a compelling hand. “It's all of a piece,” he interrupted. “It takes in everything, like an eatin'-house stew. And, as usual in them cases, the feller that ordered it didn't know what was comin' to him.
“Stingy Gabe was that feller. His Sunday name was Gabriel Atkinson Holway, and his dad used to peddle fish from Orham to Denboro and back. The old man was christened Gabriel, likewise. He owed 'most everybody, and, besides, was so mean that he kept the scales and trimmin's of the fish he sold to make chowder for himself and family. All hands called him 'Stingy Gabe,' and the boy inherited the name along with the fifteen hundred dollars that the old man left when he died. He cleared out—young Gabe did—soon as the will was settled and afore the outstandin' debts was, and nobody in this latitude see hide nor hair of him till three years ago this comin' spring.
“Then, lo and behold you! he drops off the parlor car at the Orham station and cruises down to South Orham, bald-headed and bay-windowed, sufferin' from pomp and prosperity. Seems he'd been spendin' his life cornerin' copper out West and then copperin' the corners in Wall Street. The folks in his State couldn't put him in jail, so they sent him to Congress. Now, as the Honorable Atkinson Holway, he'd come back to the Cape to rest his wrist, which had writer's cramp from signin' stock certificates, and to ease his eyes with a sight of the dear old home of his boyhood.
“Bill Nickerson comes postin' down to me with the news.
“'Bailey,' says he, 'what do you think's happened? Stingy Gabe's struck the town.'
“'For how much?' I asks, anxious. 'Don't let him have it, whatever 'tis.'
“Then he went on to explain. Gabe was rich as all get out, and 'twas his intention to buy back his old man's house and fix it up for a summer home. He was delighted to find how little change there was in South Orham.
“'No matter if 'tain't but fifteen cents he'll get it, if the s'lectmen don't watch him,' I says; and the bills, too. I know HIS tribe.'
“'You don't understand,' says Nickerson. 'He ain't no thief. He's rich, I tell you, and he's cal'latin' to do the town good.'
“'Course he is,' I says. 'It runs in the family. His dad done it good, too—good as 'twas ever done, I guess.'
“But next day Gabe himself happens along, and I see right off that I'd made a mistake in my reckonin'. The Honorable Atkinson Holway wa'n't figgerin' to borrow nothin'. When a chap has been skinnin' halibut, minnows are too small for him to bother with. Gabe was full of fried clams and philanthropy.
“'By Jove! Stitt,' he says, 'livin' here has been the dream of my life.'
“'You'll be glad to wake up, won't you?' says I. 'I wish I could.'
“'I tell you,' he says, 'this little old village is all right! All it needs is a public-spirited resident to help it along. I propose to be the P.S. R.'
“And on that program he started right in. Fust off he bought his dad's old place, built it over into the eight-sided palace that's there now, fetched down a small army of servants skippered by an old housekeeper, and commenced to live simple but complicated. Then, havin' provided the needful charity for himself, he's ready to scatter manna for the starvin' native.
“He had a dozen schemes laid out. One was to build a free but expensive library; another was to pave the main road with brick; third was to give stained-glass windows and velvet cushions to the meetin' house, so's the congregation could sleep comfortable in a subdued light. The stained-glass idee put him in close touch with the minister, Reverend Edwin Fisher, and the minister suggested the men's club. And he took to that men's club scheme like an old maid to strong tea; the rest of the improvements went into dry dock to refit while Admiral Gabe got his