“Oh, I ain’t so blind!” giggled the young man, peering in through the kitchen door, where Sheila was stepping briskly from tubs to sink and back again.

“That’s a fortunate thing,” agreed the old man.  “But you’ve got a long v’y’ge before you, if you cal’late to go to all the houses on the Head to pick up eggs.  Good luck to you, Joshua!”

Josh found himself passed along like a country politician in line at a presidential reception.  His legs got to working without volition, it seemed, and he was several rods away before he realized that he had not spoken to the girl at all.

Zebedee Pauling, whose ancestor had been an admiral and was never forgotten by the Pauling family—­Paulmouth was said to have been named in their honor—­arrived at the Ball back door just as the family was finishing the usual “picked-up” washday dinner.  Zebedee took off his cap with a flourish, and his grin advertised to all beholders the fact that he felt shy but pleased at his own courage in appearing thus on the Head.

“Why, Zeb!” exclaimed Prudence.  “We haven’t seen you up here for a dog’s age.  Won’t you set?”

“Oh, no’m, no’m!  I was just stopping by and thought I’d ask how are you all, Aunt Prue.”

He bobbed and smiled, but kept his gaze fixed upon Sheila to the exclusion of the two old people.  But Cap’n Ira was never to be overlooked.

“You’re going to be mighty neighborly, now, Zeb,” he said.  “We shall see you often.”

“Er—­I don’t know, Cap’n Ira,” stammered Zebedee, rather taken aback.

The old man rose and hobbled toward the door with the aid of his cane, fumbling in his pocket meanwhile.

“Here, Zeb,” he said, producing a dime.  “You’re a willin’ friend, I know.  I’m running low on snuff.  Get me a packet, will ye?  American Affection is my brand.  Just slip it in your pocket and bring it along with you when you come by to-morrow.”

“But—­but I don’t know as I shall be up this way to-morrow, Cap’n Ira.  Though maybe I shall.”  And he glanced again at the smiling girl.

“Course you will, or next day at the latest,” said the old man stoutly.  “I can see plainly that you ain’t going to neglect Prue and me no more.  And I shall want that snuff.”

“Well—­er—­Cap’n—­”

“If you don’t come,” pursued the perfectly sober captain, “you can hand the snuff to Andy Roby, or to Josh Jones, or to ’most any of the boys.  They’ll be up this way pretty near every day, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Zebedee took the hint and the dime.

He was no “slow coach” if he was longshore bred.  He got the chance of carrying another heavy basket of clothes out to the lines for Sheila, who rewarded him with a smile, and then he nodded to the old man as he left.

“I’ll bring that snuff myself, Cap’n Ira,” he assured him.

“Don’t it beat all?” queried the captain, shaking his head reflectively, as he resumed his seat.  “Don’t it beat all?  For old folks, Prue, we do certainly seem to be popular.”