Gabriel Bearse was not a summer visitor, but a “native,” that is, an all-the-year-round resident of Orham, and, as his fellow natives would have cheerfully testified, it took much more than windmills to arouse his energy.  He had not halted to look at the mills.  He had stopped because the sight of them recalled to his mind the fact that the maker of these mills was a friend of one of the men most concerned in his brand new news item.  It was possible, barely possible, that here was an opportunity to learn just a little more, to obtain an additional clip of cartridges before opening fire on the crowd at the post office.  Certainly it might be worth trying, particularly as the afternoon mail would not be ready for another hour, even if the train was on time.

At the rear of the little yard, and situated perhaps fifty feet from the edge of the high sand bluff leading down precipitously to the beach, was a shingled building, whitewashed, and with a door, painted green, and four windows on the side toward the road.  A clamshell walk led from the gate to the doors.  Over the door was a sign, very neatly lettered, as follows:  “J.  Edgar W. Winslow.  Mills for sale.”  In the lot next to that, where the little shop stood, was a small, old-fashioned story-and-a-half Cape Cod house, painted a speckless white, with vivid green blinds.  The blinds were shut now, for the house was unoccupied.  House and shop and both yards were neat and clean as a New England kitchen.

Gabriel Bearse, after a moment’s reflection, opened the gate in the picket fence and walked along the clamshell walk to the shop door.  Opening the door, he entered, a bell attached to the top of the door jingling as he did so.  The room which Mr. Bearse entered was crowded from floor to ceiling, save for a narrow passage, with hit-or-miss stacks of the wooden toys evidently finished and ready for shipment.  Threading his way between the heaps of sailors, mills, vanes and boats, Gabriel came to a door evidently leading to another room.  There was a sign tacked to this door, which read, “Private,” but Mr. Bearse did not let that trouble him.  He pushed the door open.

The second room was evidently the work-shop.  There were a circular saw and a turning lathe, with the needful belts, and a small electric motor to furnish power.  Also there were piles of lumber, shelves of paint pots and brushes, many shavings and much sawdust.  And, standing beside a dilapidated chair from which he had evidently risen at the sound of the door bell, with a dripping paint brush in one hand and a wooden sailor in the other, there was a man.  When he saw who his visitor was he sat down again.

He was a tall man and, as the chair he sat in was a low one and the heels of his large shoes were hooked over its lower rounds, his knees and shoulders were close together when he bent over his work.  He was a thin man and his trousers hung about his ankles like a loose sail on a yard.  His hair was thick and plentiful, a brown sprinkled with gray at the temples.  His face was smooth-shaven, with wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and mouth.  He wore spectacles perched at the very end of his nose, and looked down over rather than through them as he dipped the brush in the can of paint beside him on the floor.