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“It’s no joke,” says I, trying to put my arm together again. “Van Wedderburn is his name. ‘Course you’ve heard of him. Why! there he is now.”

Sure enough, there was Van, standing like a statue of misery on the front porch of the main hotel, the light from the winder shining full on him. Jonesy stared and stared.

“Is that the man?” he says, choking up. “Was HE sweet on Mabel?”

“Sweeter’n a molasses stopper,” says I. “But he’s going away in a day or so. You don’t need to worry.”

He commenced to laugh, and I thought he’d never stop.

“What’s the joke?” I asks, after a year or so of this foolishness. “Let me in, won’t you? Thought you wa’n’t funny to-night.”

He stopped long enough to ask one more question. “Tell me, for the Lord’s sake!” says he. “Did she know who he was?”

“Sartin,” says I. “So did every other woman round the place. You’d think so if–“

He walked off then, laughing himself into a fit. “Good night, old man,” he says, between spasms. “See you later. No, I don’t think I shall worry much.”

If he hadn’t been so big I cal’lated I’d have risked a kick. A man hates to be made a fool of and not know why.

A whole lot of the boarders had gone on the evening train, and at our house Van Wedderburn was the only one left. He and Mabel and me was the full crew at the breakfast-table the follering morning. The fruit season was a quiet one. I done all the talking there was; every time the broker and the housekeeper looked at each other they turned red.

Finally ’twas “chopped-hay” time, and in comes the waiter with the tray. And again we had a surprise, just like the one back in July. Percy wa’n’t on hand, and Jonesy was.

But the other surprise wa’n’t nothing to this one. The Seabury girl was mightily set back, but old Van was paralyzed. His eyes and mouth opened and kept on opening.

“Cereal, sir?” asks Jones, polite as ever.

“Why! why, you–you rascal!” hollers Van Wedderburn. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a few days’ vacation from my position at Providence, sir,” answers Jones. “I’m a waiter at present.”

“Why, ROBERT!” exclaims Mabel Seabury.

Van swung around like he was on a pivot. “Do you know HIM?” he pants, wild as a coot, and pointing.

‘Twas the waiter himself that answered.

“She knows me, father,” he says. “In fact she is the young lady I told you about last spring; the one I intend to marry.”

Did you ever see the tide go out over the flats? Well, that’s the way the red slid down off old Van’s bald head and across his cheeks. But it came back again like an earthquake wave. He turned to Mabel once more, and if ever there was a pleading “Don’t tell” in a man’s eyes, ’twas in his.

“Cereal, sir?” asks Robert Van Wedderburn, alias “Jonesy.”

Well, I guess that’s about all. Van Senior took it enough sight more graceful than you’d expect, under the circumstances. He went straight up to his room and never showed up till suppertime. Then he marches to where Mabel and his son was, on the porch, and says he:

“Bob,” he says, “if you don’t marry this young lady within a month I’ll disown you, for good this time. You’ve got more sense than I thought. Blessed if I see who you inherit it from!” says he, kind of to himself.

Jonadab ain’t paid me the quarter yet. He says the bet was that she’d land a millionaire, and a Van Wedderburn, afore the season ended, and she did; so he figgers that he won the bet. Him and me got wedding cards a week ago, so I suppose “Jonesy” and Mabel are on their honeymoon now. I wonder if she’s ever told her husband about what I heard in the bayberry bushes. Being the gamest sport, for a woman, that ever I see, I’ll gamble she ain’t said a word about it.