“It is—­it is so, Sam,” he drawled.  “But maybe that makes it a little more worth while.  What do you think?”

His friend regarded him thoughtfully.  “Jed,” he said, “I never saw anybody who had the faculty of seein’ straight through to the common sense inside of things the way you have.  Maud and I were talkin’ about that last night.  ‘Go home and think and thank God,’ you said to me.  And that was what I needed to do.  ’Enlist and you’ll be independent,’ you said to Charlie and it set him on the road.  ‘Stick to your job and grin,’ you say now.  How do you do it, Jed?  Remember one time I told you I couldn’t decide whether you was a dum fool or a King Solomon?  I know now.  Of the two of us I’m nigher to bein’ the dum fool; and, by the gracious king, you are a King Solomon.”

Jed slowly shook his head.  “Sam,” he said, sadly, “if you knew what I know about me you’d . . . but there, you’re talkin’ wild.  I was cal’latin’ to have a cup of tea and you’d better have one, too.  I’m heatin’ some water on top of the stove now.  It must be about ready.”

He lifted the saucepan from the top of the “gas burner” and tested the water with his finger.

“Hum,” he mused, “it’s stone cold.  I can’t see why it hasn’t het faster.  I laid a nice fresh fire, too.”

He opened the stove door and looked in.

“Hum . . .” he said, again.  “Yes, yes . . .  I laid it but, I—­er—­ hum . . .  I forgot to light it, that’s all.  Well, that proves I’m King Solomon for sartin.  Probably he did things like that every day or so. . . .  Give me a match, will you, Sam?”

CHAPTER XXII

It had been a chill morning in early spring when Charlie Phillips went to Boston to enlist.  Now it was a balmy evening in August and Jed sat upon a bench by his kitchen door looking out to sea.  The breeze was light, barely sufficient to turn the sails of the little mills, again so thickly sprinkled about the front yard, or to cause the wooden sailors to swing their paddles.  The August moon was rising gloriously behind the silver bar of the horizon.  From the beach below the bluff came the light laughter of a group of summer young folk, strolling from the hotel to the post-office by the shore route.

Babbie, who had received permission to sit up and see the moon rise, was perched upon the other end of the bench, Petunia in her arms.  A distant drone, which had been audible for some time, was gradually becoming a steady humming roar.  A few moments later and a belated hydro-aeroplane passed across the face of the moon, a dragon-fly silhouette against the shining disk.

“That bumble-bee’s gettin’ home late,” observed Jed.  “The rest of the hive up there at East Harniss have gone to roost two or three hours ago.  Wonder what kept him out this scandalous hour.  Had tire trouble, think?”

Barbara laughed.