They wandered back to the store on the Shell Road.  There was a chill in the fall air and Cap’n Abe had built a small fire in the rusty stove.  About it were gathered the usual idlers.  A huge fishfly droned on the window pane.

“It’s been breedin’ a change of weather for a week,” said Cap’n Joab.

“Right ye air, sir,” agreed Washy Gallup, wagging his head.

“I ‘member hearin’ Cap’n Am’zon tell ’bout a dry spell like this,” began Cap’n Abe, leaning his hairy fists upon the counter.  “Twas when he was ashore once at Teneriffe——­”

“Don’t I hear Mandy a-callin’ me?” Milt Baker suddenly demanded, making for the door.

“I gotter git over home myself,” said Cap’n Joab apologetically.

“Me, too,” said Washy, rising. “’Tis chore time.”

Cap’n Abe clamped his jaws shut for a minute and his eyes blazed.  Only the mild and inoffensive Amiel was left of his audience.

“Huh!” he growled.  “Ain’t goin’ to waste my breath on you, Amiel Perdue.  Go git me a scuttle of coal.”

Then, when the young fellow had departed, the storekeeper grinned ruefully and whispered in his niece’s ear: 

“Hi-mighty!  Cap’n Amazon’s cut the sand out from under my feet.  They think he told them yarns so much better’n I do that they won’t even stay to hear me.  Hard lines.  Niece Louise, hard lines.  But mebbe I deserve it!”