Jed, who was sitting before the battered old desk in the corner of his workshop, did not look around, but he waved his right hand, the fingers of which held the stump of a pencil, over his shoulder.

“Ssh-h, sh-h, Sam!” he observed, mildly.  “Don’t bother me now; please don’t, there’s a good feller.  I’m tryin’ to work out somethin’ important.”

“Well, this is important.  Or, if it ain’t, there’s plenty that is important waitin’ for me up at the bank.  I’m handlin’ this house business as a favor to you.  If you think I’ve got nothin’ else to do you’re mistaken.”

Jed nodded, contritely, and turned to face his friend.  “I know it, Sam,” he said, “I know it.  I haven’t got the least mite of excuse for troublin’ you.”

“You ain’t troublin’ me—­not that way.  All I want of you is to say yes or no.  I tell you Mrs. Armstrong thinks she can’t afford to pay forty a month.”

“Yes.”

“And perhaps she can’t.  But you’ve got your own interests to think about.  What shall I do?”

“Yes.”

“Yes!  What in time are you sayin’ yes for?”

“Hum?  Eh?  Oh, excuse me, Sam; I didn’t mean yes, I mean no.”

“Gracious king!”

“Well—­er—­er—­,” desperately, “you told me to say yes or no, so I—­”

“See here, Jed Winslow, have you heard what I’ve been sayin’?”

“Why, no, Sam; honest I ain’t.  I’ve run across an idea about makin’ a different kind of mill—­one like a gull, you know, that’ll flap its wings up and down when the wind blows—­and—­er—­I’m afraid my head is solid full of that and nothin’ else.  There generally ain’t more’n room for one idea in my head,” he added, apologetically.  “Sometimes that one gets kind of cramped.”

The captain snorted in disgust.  Jed looked repentant and distressed.

“I’m awful sorry, Sam,” he declared.  “But if it’s about that house of mine—­rent or anything, you just do whatever Mrs. Armstrong says.”

“Whatever she says?  Haven’t you got anything to say?”

“No, no-o, I don’t know’s I have.  You see, I’ve settled that she and Babbie are to have the house for as long as they want it, so it’s only fair to let them settle the rest, seems to me.  Whatever Mrs. Armstrong wants to pay’ll be all right.  You just leave it to her.”

Captain Sam rose to his feet.

“I’ve a dum good mind to,” he declared “’Twould serve you right if she paid you ten cents a year.”  Then, with a glance of disgust at the mountain of old letters and papers piled upon the top of the desk where his friend was at work, he added:  “What do you clean that desk of yours with—­a shovel?”

The slow smile drifted across the Winslow face.  “I cal’late that’s what I should have to use, Sam,” he drawled, “if I ever cleaned it.”