“Well, by Judas!” he exclaimed.  “I—­I—­I snum if I don’t think you be crazy, same as some folks say you are!  What in the nation has—­ has your name got to do with a deef man and the Doxology?”

“Eh? . . .  Oh, nothin’.”

“Then what did you bust loose and tell me about ’em for?  They wan’t any of my business, was they?”

“No-o.  That’s why I spoke of ’em.”

“What?  You spoke of ’em ’cause they wan’t any of my business?”

“Ye-es . . .  I thought maybe—­” He paused, turned the sailor over in his hand, whistled a few more bars of the dirge and then finished his sentence.  “I thought maybe you might like to ask questions about ’em,” he concluded.

Mr. Bearse stared suspiciously at his companion, swallowed several times and, between swallows, started to speak, but each time gave it up.  Mr. Winslow appeared quite oblivious of the stare.  His brushes gave the wooden sailor black hair, eyes and brows, and an engaging crimson smile.  When Gabriel did speak it was not concerning names.

“Say, Jed,” he cried, “Have you heard about Cap’n Sam Hunniwell?  ‘Bout his bein’ put on the Exemption Board?”

His companion went on whistling, but he nodded.

“Um-hm,” grunted Gabe, grudgingly.  “I presumed likely you would hear; he told you himself, I cal’late.  Seth Baker said he see him come in here night afore last and I suppose that’s when he told you.  Didn’t say nothin’ else, did he?” he added, eagerly.

Again Mr. Winslow nodded.

“Did he?  Did he?  What else did he say?”

The tall man seemed to consider.

“Well,” he drawled, at length, “seems to me I remember him sayin’—­ sayin’—­”

“Yes?  Yes?  What did he say?”

“Well—­er—­seems to me he said good night just afore he went home.”

The disappointed Gabriel lost patience.  “Oh, you divilish fool head!” he exclaimed, disgustedly.  “Look here, Jed Winslow, talk sense for a minute, if you can, won’t you?  I’ve just heard somethin’ that’s goin’ to make a big row in this town and it’s got to do with Cap’n Sam’s bein’ app’inted on that Gov’ment Exemption Board for drafted folks.  If you’d heard Phineas Babbitt goin’ on the way I done, I guess likely you’d have been interested.”

It was plain that, for the first time since his caller intruded upon his privacy, the maker of mills and sailors was interested.  He did not put down his brush, but he turned his head to look and listen.  Bearse, pleased with this symptom of attention, went on.

“I was just into Phineas’ store,” he said, “and he was there, so I had a chance to talk with him.  He’s been up to Boston and never got back till this afternoon, so I cal’lated maybe he hadn’t heard about Cap’n Sam’s app’intment.  And I knew, too, how he does hate the Cap’n; ain’t had nothin’ but cuss words and such names for him ever since Sam done him out of gettin’ the postmaster’s job.  Pretty mean trick, some folks call it, but—­”