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“But,” says Cap’n Jonadab and me together, jest as if we was “reading in concert” same as the youngsters do in school, “but,” we says, “will it work? Will anybody pay for it?”

“Work?” says Peter T., with his fingers in the arm-holes of the double-breasted danger-signal that he called a vest, and with his cigar tilted up till you’d think ‘twould set his hat-brim afire. “Work?” says he. “Well, maybe ‘twouldn’t work if the ordinary brand of canned lobster was running it, but with ME to jerk the lever and sound the loud timbrel–why, say! it’s like stealing money from a blind cripple that’s hard of hearing.”

“Yes, I know,” says Cap’n Jonadab. “But this ain’t like starting the Old Home House. That was opening up a brand-new kind of hotel that nobody ever heard of before. This is peddling weather prophecies when there’s the Gov’ment Weather Bureau running opposition–not to mention the Old Farmer’s Almanac, and I don’t know how many more,” he says.

Brown took his patent leathers down off the rail of the piazza, give the ashes of his cigar a flip–he knocked ’em into my hat that was on the floor side of his chair, but he was too excited to mind– and he says:

“Confound it, man!” he says. “You can throw more cold water than a fire-engine. Old Farmer’s Almanac! This isn’t any ‘About this time look out for snow’ business. And it ain’t any Washington cold slaw like ‘Weather for New England and Rocky Mountains, Tuesday to Friday; cold to warm; well done on the edges with a rare streak in the middle, preceded or followed by rain, snow, or clearing. Wind, north to south, varying east and west.’ No siree! this is TO-DAY’S weather for Cape Cod, served right off the griddle on a hot plate, and cooked by the chef at that. You don’t realize what a regular dime-museum wonder that feller is,” he says.

Well, I suppose we didn’t. You see, Jonadab and me, like the rest of the folks around Wellmouth, had come to take Beriah Crocker and his weather notions as the regular thing, like baked beans on a Saturday night. Beriah, he–

But there! I’ve been sailing stern first. Let’s get her headed right, if we ever expect to turn the first mark. You see, ’twas this way:

‘Twas in the early part of May follering the year that the “Old Home House” was opened. We’d had the place all painted up, decks holy-stoned, bunks overhauled, and one thing or ‘nother, and the “Old Home” was all taut and shipshape, ready for the crew– boarders, I mean. Passages was booked all through the summer and it looked as if our second season would be better’n our first.

Then the Dillaway girl–she was christened Lobelia, like her mother, but she’d painted it out and cruised under the name of Belle since the family got rich–she thought ‘twould be nice to have what she called a “spring house-party” for her particular friends ‘fore the regular season opened. So Peter–he being engaged at the time and consequent in that condition where he’d have put on horns and “mooed” if she’d give the order–he thought ‘twould be nice, too, and for a week it was “all hands on deck!” getting ready for the “house-party.”

Two days afore the thing was to go off the ways Brown gets a letter from Belle, and in it says she’s invited a whole lot of folks from Chicago and New York and Boston and the land knows where, and that they’ve never been to the Cape and she wants to show ’em what a “quaint” place it is. “Can’t you get,” says she, “two or three delightful, queer, old ‘longshore characters to be at work ’round the hotel? It’ll give such a touch of local color,” she says.