The tenth of the month!  The tenth!  Why, it was on the tenth that that Omaha cousin of Olive Edwards was to—­Mr. Phinney began to see—­to see and to grin, slow but expansive.

“Hm-m-m!” he mused.

“Yes,” observed Captain Sol.  “That white horse of yours looks sort of ailin’ to me, Sim.  I think he needs a rest.”

And, sure enough, next day the white horse was pronounced unfit and taken back to the stable.  The depot master’s dwelling moved, but that is all one could say truthfully concerning its progress.

At the depot the Captain was quieter than usual.  He joked with his assistant less than had been his custom, and for the omission Issy was duly grateful.  Sometimes Captain Sol would sit for minutes without speaking.  He seemed to be thinking and to be pondering some grave problem.  When his friends, Mr. Wingate, Captain Stitt, Hiram Baker, and the rest, dropped in on him he cheered up and was as conversational as ever.  After they had gone he relapsed into his former quiet mood.

“He acts sort of blue, to me,” declared Issy, speaking from the depths of sensational-novel knowledge.  “If he was a younger man I’d say he was most likely in love.  Ah, hum!  I s’pose bein’ in love does get a feller mournful, don’t it?”

Issy made this declaration to his mother only.  He knew better than to mention sentiment to male acquaintances.  The latter were altogether too likely to ask embarrassing questions.

Mr. Wingate and Captain Stitt were still in town, although their stay was drawing to a close.  One afternoon they entered the station together.  Captain Sol seemed glad to see them.

“Set down, fellers,” he ordered.  “I swan I’m glad to see you.  I ain’t fit company for myself these days.”

“Ain’t Betsy Higgins feedin’ you up to the mark?” asked Stitt.  “Or is house movin’ gettin’ on your vitals?”

“No,” growled the depot master, “grub’s all right and so’s movin’, I cal’late.  I’m glad you fellers come in.  What’s the news to Orham, Barzilla?  How’s the Old Home House boarders standin’ it?  Hear from Jonadab regular, do you?”

Mr. Wingate laughed.  “Nothin’ much,” he said.  “Jonadab’s too busy to write these days.  Bein’ a sport interferes with letter writing consider’ble.”

“Sport!” exclaimed Captain Bailey.  “Land of Goshen!  Cap’n Jonadab is the last one I’d call a sport.”

“That’s ’cause you ain’t a good judge of human nature, Bailey,” chuckled Barzilla.  “When ancient plants like Jonadab Wixon do bloom, they’re gay old blossoms, I tell you!”

“What do you mean?” asked the depot master.

“I mean that Jonadab’s been givin’ me heart disease, that’s what; givin’ it to me in a good many diff’rent ways, too.  We opened the Old Home House the middle of April this year, because Peter T. Brown thought we might catch some spring trade.  We did catch a little, though whether it paid to open up so early’s a question.  But ’twas June ’fore Jonadab got his disease so awful bad.  However, most any time in the last part of May the reg’lar programme of the male boarders was stirrin’ him up.