“‘I can see two geese right now,’ he snaps; ’but they’re so old and leather-headed you couldn’t shoot an idea into their brains with a cannon.  Gunnin’ ain’t the whole thing.  My makin’ a noise like a duck is only to get the would-be Teddy Roosevelts headed for this neck of the woods.  After they get here, it’s up to us to keep ’em.  And I can think of as many ways to do that as the Cap’n can of savin’ a quarter.  Our baseball team’s been a success, ain’t it?  Sure thing!  Then why not a football team?  Parker says he’ll get it together, and coach and cap’n it, too.  And Robinson and his daughter have agreed to stay till October fifteenth.  So there’s a start, anyhow.’

“’Twas a start, and a pretty good one.  The Robinsons had come to the Old Home about the fust of August, and they was our star boarders.  ’G.  W. Robinson’ was the old man’s name as entered on the hotel log, and his daughter answered to the hail of ’Grace’—­that is, when she took a notion to answer at all.  The Robinsons was what Peter T. called ‘exclusive.’  They didn’t mix much with the rest of the bunch, but kept to themselves in their rooms, partic’lar when a fresh net full of boarders was hauled aboard.  Then they seemed to take an observation of every arrival afore they mingled; questioned the pedigree and statistics of all hands, and acted mighty suspicious.

“The only thing that really stirred Papa Robinson up and got him excited and friendly was baseball and boat racin’.  He was an old sport, that was plain, the only real plain thing about him; the rest was mystery.  As for Grace, she wa’n’t plain by a good sight, bein’ what Brown called a ‘peach.’  She could have had every single male in tow if she’d wanted ‘em.  Apparently she didn’t want em, preferrin’ to be lonesome and sad and interestin’.  Yes, sir, there was a mystery about them Robinsons, and even Peter T. give in to that.

“’If ‘twas anybody else,’ says he, ’I’d say the old man was a crook, down here hidin’ from the police.  But he’s too rich for that, and always has been.  He ain’t any fly-by-night.  I can tell the real article without lookin’ for the “sterlin’” mark on the handle.  But I’ll bet all the cold-storage eggs in the hotel against the henyard—­and that’s big odds—­that he wa’n’t christened Robinson.  And his face is familiar to me.  I’ve seen it somewhere, either in print or in person.  I wish I knew where.’

“So if the Robinsons had agreed to stay—­them and their two servants—­that was a big help, as Brown said.  And Parker would help, too, though we agreed there wa’n’t no mystery about him.  He was a big, broad-shouldered young feller just out of college somewheres, who had drifted our way the fortni’t after the Robinsons came, with a reputation for athletics and a leanin’ toward cigarettes and Miss Grace.  She leaned a little, too, but hers wa’n’t so much of a bend as his was.  He was dead gone on her, and if she’d have decided to stay under water, he’d have ducked likewise.  ’Twas easy enough to see why he believed in a ‘supplementary season.’