“There wa’n’t no lie to it,” said Mr. Crymble, doggedly.  “I did die.  I died three times—­all by violent means.  First time I froze to death, second—­”

“Let up on that!” growled the Cap’n, vigorously shaking Mr. Crymble.  “This ain’t no dime-novel rehearsal.  It’s time to talk business!”

“You bet it’s time to talk business!” affirmed the “widow.”  “I’ve paid off the mortgidge on this place by hard, bone labor, and it’s willed to me and the will’s executed, and now that you’ve been proved dead by law, by swanny I’ll make you prove you’re alive by law before you can set foot into this house.”

“And I’ll go and buy the law for you!” cried Batson Reeves, stripping the blanket off his horse.  “I’ll drive straight to my brother Alcander’s law office, and he’ll find law so that a hard-workin’ woman can’t be robbed of her own.”

“Oh, he’ll find it, all right!” agreed the Cap’n, sarcastically.  “And if he don’t find it ready-made he’ll gum together a hunk to fit the case.  But in the mean time, here’s a man—­” he checked himself and swung Mr. Crymble’s hatchet face close to his own.  “How much money have you got?” he demanded.  “Have you come back here strapped?”

“I ain’t got any money,” admitted Mr. Crymble, “but I own a secret how to cure stutterin’ in ten lessons, and with that school-house that—­”

“You don’t dock in any school-house nor you don’t marine railway into our poorhouse, not to be a bill of expense whilst I’m first selectman,” broke in Cap’n Sproul with decision.  “That’s official, and I’ve got a license to say it.”

“You think you’ve got a license to stick your nose into the business of every one in this town because you’re first selectman,” roared Reeves, whipping out of the yard; “but I’ll get a pair of nippers onto that old nose this time.”

“Here’s your home till further orders,” said the Cap’n, disregarding the threat, “and into it you’re goin’.”

He started Mr. Crymble toward the steps.

Mrs. Crymble was pretty quick with the door, but Cap’n Sproul was at the threshold just in time to shove the broad toe of his boot between door and jamb.  His elbows and shoulders did the rest, and he backed in, dragging Mr. Crymble, and paid no attention whatever to a half-dozen vigorous cuffs that Mrs. Crymble dealt him from behind.  He doubled Mr. Crymble unceremoniously into a calico-covered rocking-chair, whipped off the hard hat and hung it up, and took from Mr. Crymble’s resisting hands the little valise that he had clung to with grim resolution.

“Now, said Cap’n Sproul, you are back once more in your happy home after wanderin’s in strange lands.  As first selectman of this town I congratulate you on gettin’ home, and extend the compliments of the season.”  He briskly shook Mr. Crymble’s limp hand—­a palm as unresponsive as the tail of a dead fish.  “Now,” continued the Cap’n, dropping his assumed geniality, “you stay here where I’ve put you.