friendly about him! From the day he began to try to pick off those old stained tags of his childhood, hands had been held out to help him; first Laddoun, and now all Manasquan, down to little Tim. What did it matter for this man Ledwith?
He and his mysterious hinted threats began to seem unreal as a nightmare to Dallas, as he looked out into the pleasant dusky shadows of the woods and the starry blue overhead. It was all clear enough! The world was just what a man chose to make it. There was nothing stronger than himself to drag him down. Nothing!
He drew long breaths of the delicious cold into his strong lungs, threw back his broad chest, feeling every muscle in his body stiffen. The boy's heart was big and tender just then. If they would suffer him, he would live among them in Manasquan until he died an old, white-headed man. They were all so dear to him!—so friendly! He wished suddenly for some one to tell all this to—this rush of strength and happiness that made his eyes wet and his cheek burn like fire. Tim was out of sight, but poor Dallas sent out suddenly into the night a stirring, boyish cheer. It came back loud and ringing from the woods, and again and again in low, cheerful echoes farther off. He looked up to the bright, smiling sky, wondering if God, of whom he had a dim notion, was there, and had heard him; wondering whether He was behind all this good luck that had come to him. He stood silent a moment, thinking.
He went in and closed the door, and after he had undressed, pulled the fire-logs carefully apart, so as to leave the room in shadow; then he stood hesitating by the bed, his face red and then pale, and kneeled down at last, hiding his head in his hands. But in a moment he got up, all trace of color gone from his face.
"I am afraid," he muttered. "I'm afraid," and stretching himself in bed, lay wakeful, staring out into the flickering shadows, saying nothing. But the prayer in the boy's dumb heart was audible to God as if it had been trumpet-tongued. To help him with his chance, to bring good luck to him—good luck. To make a man of him.
CHAPTER III.
A yellow Jersey wagon rolled up the road to the squat little porch of the tavern, where half a dozen leading Manasquan men sat smoking in the hazy, mellow warmth of the October afternoon. The leathern flap was put back, and old Father Kimball, who preached on this beach once a month, thrust out his lean, sagacious face, nodding to them:
"How is it with you, brethren?"
There was quite a stir and tumult; here was the first actual beginning of the wedding programme. Joe Nixon, the tavern-keeper, knocked on the wall to give the news to the women inside, and then went up to the wagon as spokesman for the party. "You'd better come in, sir, and take something hot. No? Brother Noanes' folks be expectin' you, I know; still—"
"You are going to have a lively week of it, heh, Nixon?"
"Jest so, Mr. Kimball. Van Zeldt's schooner is to be run in this afternoon. A heavy cargo, I hear. Jim's venturin' in pretty deep, lately. A matter of fifty dollars in silk goods, they tell me, alone. Considerin' his capital, that's risky. When them New York dealers get a man to speculatin', it's all up with him. They soon smelled out Jim's capital."
Kimball shook his head. "I'll talk to Van Zeldt. Is that all your news?"
Nixon came closer. "There's the weddin' to-morrow evenin'; you've hardly forgot that? Your pocket'll know the difference when it be over, or I'm mistaken," winking back at the men.
"That's so," said Graah, taking out his pipe. "There be nothing close-fisted about George Laddoun. He's got the pick of the village girls, too."
"You're right there, William;" and the other men nodded, and pushed down the tobacco reflectively in their pipes "You're right."
