“Squeakin’ and squealin’?  Gracious king!  What are you talkin’ about?”

“Why—­the—­the mills, you know.  The mills and vanes outside on—­on the posts and the fence.  They squeaked and—­and sometimes they squealed awful.  And he didn’t like it.”

“Who didn’t?”

“Colonel Davidson.  He said they’d got to stop makin’ that noise and I said I’d oil ’em every day.  And—­and I forgot it.”

“Yes—­well, I ain’t surprised to death, exactly.  What then?”

“Well—­well, you see, they were squealin’ worse than usual one mornin’ and Colonel Davidson he came in here and—­and I remembered I hadn’t oiled ’em for three days.  And I—­I said how horrible the squealin’ was and that I’d oil ’em right away and—­and—­”

“Well, go on! go on!”

“And when I went out to do it there wasn’t any wind and the mills wasn’t goin’ at all.  You see, ‘twas his oldest daughter takin’ her singin’ lessons in the house with the window open.”

Captain Sam put back his head and shouted.  Jed looked sadly at the floor.  When the captain could speak he asked: 

“And you mean to tell me that was the reason you wouldn’t let the house again?”

“Er—­why, yes.”

“I know better.  You didn’t have any row with the Davidsons.  You couldn’t row with anybody, anyhow; and besides the Colonel himself told me they would have taken the house the very next summer but you wouldn’t rent it to ’em.  And you mean to say that yarn you’ve just spun was the reason?”

“Why—­yes.”

“Rubbish!  You’ve told me a dozen reasons afore, but I’m bound to say this is the most foolish yet.  All right, keep the real reason to yourself, then.  But I tell you what I’m goin’ to do to get even with you:  I’m goin’ to send these folks down to look at your house and I shan’t tell you who they are or when they’re comin’.”

The knee slipped down from Mr. Winslow’s grasp and his foot struck the floor with a crash.  He made a frantic clutch at his friend’s arm.

“Oh, now, Sam,” he cried, in horror, “don’t do that!  Don’t talk so!  You don’t mean it!  Come here! . . .  Sam!”

But the captain was at the door.  “You bet I mean it!” he declared.  “Keep your weather eye peeled, Jed.  They’ll be comin’ ’most any time now.  And if you have any sense you’ll let ’em the house.  So long!”

He drove away in his little car.  Jed Winslow, left standing in the shop doorway, staring after him, groaned in anxious foreboding.

He groaned a good many times during the next few hours.  Each time the bell rang announcing the arrival of a visitor he rose to answer it perfectly sure that here were the would-be tenants whom his friend, in the mistaken kindness of his heart, was sending to him.  Not that he had the slightest idea of renting his old home, but he dreaded the ordeal of refusing.  In fact he was not sure that he could refuse, not sure that he could invent a believable excuse for doing so.  Another person would not have sought excuses, would have declared simply that the property was not for rent, but Jed Winslow was not that other person; he was himself, and ordinary methods of procedure were not his.