Issy trotted.  The depot master seated himself by the door of the ticket office and fell into a reverie.  It was interrupted by the entrance of Hiram Baker.  Captain Hiram was an ex-fishing skipper, fifty-five years of age, who, with his wife, Sophronia, and their infant son, Hiram Joash Baker, lived in a small, old-fashioned house at the other end of the village, near the shore.  Captain Hiram, having retired from the sea, got his living, such as it was, from his string of fish traps, or “weirs.”

The depot master hailed the new arrival heartily.

“Hello, there, Hiram!” he cried, rising from his chair.  “Glad to see you once in a while.  Ain’t goin’ to leave us, are you?  Not goin’ abroad for your health, or anything of that kind, hey?”

Captain Baker laughed.

“No,” he answered.  “No further abroad than Hyannis.  And I’ll be back from there tonight, if the Lord’s willin’ and the cars don’t get off the track.  Give me a round trip ticket, will you, Sol?”

The depot master retired to the office, returning with the desired ticket.  Captain Hiram counted out the price from a confused mass of coppers and silver, emptied into his hand from a blackened leather purse, tied with a string.

“How’s Sophrony?” asked the depot master.  “Pretty smart, I hope.”

“Yup, she’s smart.  Has to be to keep up with the rest of the family—­’specially the youngest.”

He chuckled.  His friend laughed in sympathy.

“The youngest is the most important of all, I s’pose,” he observed.  “How is the junior partner of H. Baker and Son?”

“He ain’t a silent partner, I’ll swear to that.  Honest, Sol, I b’lieve my ‘Dusenberry’ is the cutest young one outside of a show.  I said so only yesterday to Mr. Hilton, the minister.  I did, and I meant it.”

“Well, we’re all gettin’ ready to celebrate his birthday.  Ho, ho!”

This was a standard joke and was so recognized and honored.  A baby born on the Fourth of July is sure of a national celebration of his birthday.  And to Captain Baker and his wife, no celebration, however widespread, could do justice to the importance of the occasion.  When, to answer the heart longings of the child-loving couple married many years, the baby came, he was accepted as a special dispensation of Providence and valued accordingly.

“He’s got a real nice voice, Hiram,” said Sophronia, gazing proudly at the prodigy, who, clutched gingerly in his father’s big hands, was screaming his little red face black.  “I shouldn’t wonder if he grew up to sing in the choir.”

“That’s the kind of voice to make a fo’mast hand step lively!” declared Hiram.  “You’ll see this boy on the quarter deck of a clipper one of these days.”

Naming him was a portentous proceeding and one not to be lightly gone about.  Sophronia, who was a Methodist by descent and early confirmation, was of the opinion that the child should have a Bible name.