“Well,” he replied, “we’ve got somebody in view that would like to try and fill it.  Barzilla Small was in to see me yesterday afternoon and he’s sartin that his boy Luther—­Lute, everybody calls him—­is just the one for the place.  He’s been to work up in Fall River in a bank, so Barzilla says; that would mean he must have had some experience.  Whether he’ll do or not I don’t know, but he’s about the only candidate in sight, these war times.  What do you think of him, Jed?”

Jed rubbed his chin.  “To fill Gus Howes’ place?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.  Didn’t think I was figgerin’ on makin’ him President of the United States, did you?”

“Hum! . . .  W-e-e-ll. . . .  One time when I was a little shaver, Sam, down to the fishhouse, I tried on a pair of Cap’n Jabe Kelly’s rubber boots.  You remember Cap’n Jabe, Sam, of course.  Do you remember his feet?”

The captain chuckled.  “My dad used to say Jabe’s feet reminded him of a couple of chicken-halibut.”

“Um-hm. . . .  Well, I tried on his boots and started to walk across the wharf in em. . . .”

“Well, what of it?  Gracious king! hurry up.  What happened?”

“Eh? . . .  Oh, nothin’ much, only seemed to me I’d had half of my walk afore those boots began to move.”

Captain Hunniwell enjoyed the story hugely.  It was not until his laugh had died away to a chuckle that its application to the bank situation dawned upon him.

“Umph!” he grunted.  “I see.  You cal’late that Lute Small will fill Gus Howes’ job about the way you filled those boots, eh?  You may be right, shouldn’t wonder if you was, but we’ve got to have somebody and we’ve got to have him now.  So I guess likely we’ll let Lute sign on and wait till later to find out whether he’s an able seaman or a—­a—­”

He hesitated, groping for a simile.  Mr. Winslow supplied one.

“Or a leak,” he suggested.

“Yes, that’s it.  Say, have you heard anything from Leander Babbitt lately?”

“No, nothin’ more than Gab Bearse was reelin’ off last time he was in here.  How is Phin Babbitt?  Does he speak to you yet?”

“Not a word.  But the looks he gives me when we meet would sour milk.  He’s dead sartin that I had somethin’ to do with his boy’s volunteerin’ and he’ll never forgive me for it.  He’s the best hand at unforgivin’ I ever saw.  No, no!  Wonder what he’d say if he knew ’twas you, Jed, that was really responsible?”

Jed shook his head, but made no reply.  His friend was at the door.

“Any money to take to the bank?” he inquired.  “Oh, no, I took what you had yesterday, didn’t I?  Any errands you want done over to Harniss?  Maud and I are goin’ over there in the car this afternoon.”

Jed seemed to reflect.  “No-o,” he said; “no, I guess not. . . .  Why, yes, I don’t know but there is, though.  If you see one of those things the soldiers put on in the trenches I’d wish you’d buy it for me.  You know what I mean—­a gas mask.”