“Well,” he queried, after another interval, “about that crank?  Have you one I might borrow?  It may not fit, probably won’t, but I should like to try it.”

Jed sighed.  “There’s a crank here,” he drawled, “but it wouldn’t be much use around automobiles, I’m afraid.  I’m it.”

“What?  I don’t understand.”

“I say I’m it.  My pet name around Orham is town crank.  That’s why Phineas sent you to my shop.  He said you ought to find a crank here.  He was right, I’m ’most generally in.”

This statement was made quietly, deliberately and with no trace of resentment.  Having made it, the speaker began picking up the vanes and sailors he had spilled when he proffered his visitor the chair.  Major Grover colored, and frowned.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he demanded, “that that fellow sent me over here because—­because—­”

“Because I’m town crank?  Ye-es, that’s what I mean.”

“Indeed!  That is his idea of a joke, is it?”

“Seems to be.  He’s an awful comical critter, Phin Babbitt is—­in his own way.”

“Well, it’s not my way.  He sends me over here to make an ass of myself and insult you—­”

“Now, now, Major, excuse me.  Phin didn’t have any idea that you’d insult me.  You see,” with the fleeting smile, “he wouldn’t believe anybody could do that.”

Grover turned sharply to the door.  Mr. Winslow spoke his name.

“Er—­Major Grover,” he said, gently, “I wouldn’t.”

The major paused.  “Wouldn’t what?” he demanded.

“Go over there and tell Phin and the rest what you think of ’em.  If ’twould do ’em any good I’d say, ‘For mercy sakes, go!’ But ’twouldn’t; they wouldn’t believe it.”

Grover’s lips tightened.

“Telling it might do me some good,” he observed, significantly.

“Yes, I know.  But maybe we might get the same good or more in a different way. . . .  Hum! . . .  What—­er—­brand of automobile is yours?”

The major told him.  Jed nodded.

“Hum . . . yes,” he drawled.  “I see. . . .  I see.”

Grover laughed.  “I’ll be hanged if I do!” he observed.

“Eh! . . .  Well, I tell you; you sit down and let Babbie talk Petunia to you a minute or two.  I’ll be right back.”

He hurried into the back shop, closing the door after him.  A moment later Grover caught a glimpse of him crossing the back yard and disappearing over the edge of the bluff.

“Where in the world has the fellow gone?” he soliloquized aloud, amused although impatient.  Barbara took it upon herself to answer.  Uncle Jed had left the caller in her charge and she felt her responsibilities.

“He’s gone down the shore path,” she said.  “I don’t know where else he’s gone, but it’s all right, anyway.”

“Oh, is it?  You seem quite sure of it, young lady.”

“I am.  Everything Uncle Jed does is right.  Sometimes you don’t think so at first, but it turns out that way.  Mamma says he is petunia—­no, I mean peculiar but—­but very—­re-li-a-ble,” the last word conquered after a visible struggle.  “She says if you do what he tells you to you will be ’most always glad.  I think ‘always’ without any ‘most,’” she added.