“Oh, I see.  Yes, so they will.  With that understanding I’ll take them along.  Thanks again and good afternoon.”

He hastened across the street.  The two in the shop watched from the window until the car started and moved out of sight.  The group by the telegraph office seemed excited about something; they laughed no longer and there was considerable noisy argument.

Jed’s lip twitched. “‘The best laid plans of mice—­and skunks,’” he quoted, solemnly.  “Hm! . . .  That Major Grover seems like a good sort of chap.”

“I think he’s awful nice,” declared Babbie.

Ruth said nothing.

CHAPTER XIII

October passed and November came.  The very last of the summer cottages were closed.  Orham settled down for its regular winter hibernation.  This year it was a bit less of a nap than usual because of the activity at the aviation camp at East Harniss.  The swarm of carpenters, plumbers and mechanics was larger than ever there now and the buildings were hastening toward completion, for the first allotment of aviators, soldiers and recruits was due to arrive in March.  Major Grover was a busy and a worried man, but he usually found time to drop in at the windmill shop for a moment or two on each of his brief motor trips to Orham.  Sometimes he found Jed alone, more often Barbara was there also, and, semi-occasionally, Ruth.  The major and Charles Phillips met and appeared to like each other.  Charles was still on the rising tide of local popularity.  Even Gabe Bearse had a good word to say for him among the many which he said concerning him.  Phineas Babbitt, however, continued to express dislike, or, at the most, indifference.

“I’m too old a bird,” declared the vindictive little hardware dealer, “to bow down afore a slick tongue and a good-lookin’ figgerhead.  He’s one of Sam Hunniwell’s pets and that’s enough for me.  Anybody that ties up to Sam Hunniwell must have a rotten plank in ’em somewheres; give it time and ’twill come out.”

Charles and Jed Winslow were by this time good friends.  The young man usually spent at least a few minutes of each day chatting with his eccentric neighbor.  They were becoming more intimate, at times almost confidential, although Phillips, like every other friend or acquaintance of “Shavings” Winslow, was inclined to patronize or condescend a bit in his relations with the latter.  No one took the windmill maker altogether seriously, not even Ruth Armstrong, although she perhaps came nearest to doing so.  Charles would drop in at the shop of a morning, in the interval between breakfast and bank opening, and, perching on a pile of stock, or the workbench, would discuss various things.  He and Jed were alike in one characteristic—­each had the habit of absent-mindedness and lapsing into silence in the middle of a conversation.  Jed’s lapses, of course, were likely to occur in the middle of a sentence, even in the middle of a word; with the younger man the symptoms were not so acute.