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“Well, Sammy,” said the mother, as she bent over her tub, “I cannot decide for you; but something must be done.”

“And I will do it, mother,” he shouted loudly–so loudly that neither heard the opening of the front door, nor the sound of heavy footsteps coming toward the kitchen.

Then a big, dark-faced man, with hair as gray as her own, seized her around the waist, lifted her into his arms, and rained kisses on her face and lips while she screamed, then, as she recognized him, fainted away. Still holding her, he lifted his foot, exerted a slight effort of strength, and pushed the tubful of suds and clothes off its base, upsetting it squarely over the head of the Reverend Samuel Simpson, who nearly choked before getting himself clear.

“I’ve been hearing things about you down at the store,” said Quinbey, “and I’ll ‘tend to your case directly.”

Then he carried the limp little woman into the bedroom, stripped off her wet garments, and covered her warmly, while he kissed her back to consciousness.

“Oh, John,” she said, when she could speak, “I knew you’d come back, but, oh, the long waiting! I’ve been punished, John, punished bitterly.”

“There’ll be no more of it, Minnie,” he said. “I’ve come home rich–that is, rich for this town. Your work is ended. They told me at the store about your son loafing on you all these years while you took in washing. But how about the money in the bank? Couldn’t you get it?”

“Oh, yes, John,” she answered simply. “But Sammy took it to Boston to deposit, and was robbed of it.”

“Um-hum-m-m,” grunted Quinbey. “The savings of twenty years at sea!” Briefly she recounted Sammy’s story of the wrong done him; but he made no comment beyond saying that he would look into it.

“He’s got to go to work,” he added grimly. “I don’t know what he can do except preach, and perhaps he can’t do that. I’ll write to Andover and get his record. But how about the house? It’s cold. Out of coal?”

“We’ve got very little, John. We couldn’t afford two fires.”

Quinbey left her, and found his stepson in his room, changing his wet clothing for dry.

“Take this money,” he said, handing him a bill, “and go down to the coal dock. Order a ton up here at once.”

“I will, sir,” answered Sammy, with dignity, “when I’ve recovered somewhat from your extremely brutal treatment of me. I must be dry before I go out on this cold day.”

But he went out, shirtless and coatless, at the end of Quinbey’s arm; and, as it really was cold, he hurried on his errand, and returned. Before long the base-burner was roaring, and Quinbey was recounting his adventures to his happy-faced wife; while Sammy, in the kitchen, finished up the wash. Later on he delivered it; but no more washing of other folks’ clothing was ever done in that house.

Quinbey wrote to Andover, and in a few days received a reply, which he read to his wife. It was a true account of Sammy’s mishap in Boston; and, while Quinbey grinned–he could not smile–the mother wept silently, but asked no forgiveness for her wayward son. And when he rummaged a bureau, and brought forth an old jeweler’s catalogue, asking her to choose a watch for Sammy, she felt that it was granted; but she did not yet know Quinbey.

Sammy wore the watch proudly; and for the rest of the cold weather the three sat about the base-burner, while the color came back to the little woman’s face, and self-confidence to the shaken mind of Sammy. He actually began to like his rough stepfather; and only an outsider might have guessed, by the somber light in Quinbey’s dark eyes when they rested upon him, that he did not like his stepson.

In the spring, as soon as the frost and snow were gone, Quinbey employed laborers to flatten the ground near his house to the extent of a hundred feet by ten; then, with stakes, he laid out the plan of a ship’s deck. Next he contracted with spar makers, ship carpenters, and ship chandlers for material and labor; and before June three masts were erected, each with topmast, top-gallant, and royal mast, the standing rigging of which was set up to strong posts driven into the ground; then followed yards, canvas, and running gear, and soon a complete ship of small dimensions, but without a hull, adorned the crest of the hill.

As Quinbey explained to the questioning villagers, he would go to sea no more, but, having spent his life at sea, wanted a reminder–something to look at–a plaything.

Sammy was an interested spectator of the work, and Quinbey was kind to him, answering his questions, and even betraying some solicitude that he should understand the rig of a ship, the names of the ropes and sails, and the manner of handling them. He even went so far as to hire a couple of sailors to climb aloft, to loose and furl canvas, again and again, until Sammy understood.

Then the cold weather came on, and the base-burner was lit; and with the cold weather came the snow, and the icy sleet, and the hurricane gales from Greenland, striking the crest of that hill with a force that threatened to tear the dummy ship from the ground. And on particularly stormy nights, the villagers, snug in their warm beds, would waken for a moment at a sound louder than the gale–the sound of Quinbey’s voice, which, in a calm, would carry a mile. And the voice would cry:

“All hands on deck to make sail. Out wi’ you, you blasted lubber, and lay aloft. Up wi’ you, and loose that mainsail, and, when you’ve got it loose, furl it. I’ll show you how I earned that money. Up wi’ you, ‘fore I give you a rope’s end.”

And sometimes, in the lulls, they could hear Sammy’s shrieks of pain, and the thwack of the rope’s end.