The buggy had rocked and plowed its way over the hummocks and through the sand of the narrow lane and was at the top of a grass-covered knoll, a little hill.  At the foot of the hill was the beach, strewn with seaweed, and beyond, the Sound, its waters now a rosy purple in the sunset light.  On the slope of the hill toward the beach stood a low, rambling, white house, a barn, and several sheds and outbuildings.  There were lilac bushes by the front door of the house, a clam-shell walk from the lane to that door, and, surrounding the whole, a whitewashed picket fence.  A sandy rutted driveway led from the rear of the house and the entrance of the barn down to a big gate, now wide open.  It was through this gateway and along this drive that the sagacious Major was pulling the buggy.

Mary-’Gusta stared at the house.  As she stared the back door was thrown open and a tall, thin man came out.  He was in his shirtsleeves, his arms were bare to the elbow, and to Mary-’Gusta’s astonishment he wore an apron, a gingham apron similar to those worn by Mrs. Hobbs when at work in the kitchen.

“Ahoy, there, Isaiah!” hailed the Captain.  “Here we are.”

The man with the apron took a big nickel watch from the upper pocket of his vest, looked at it, and shook his head.  Upon his face, which was long and thin like the rest of him, there was a grieved expression.

“A little mite late, ain’t we, Isaiah?” said Zoeth, hastily.  “Hope we ain’t kept supper waitin’ too long?”

The tall man returned the watch to the pocket.

“Only twenty-three minutes, that’s all,” he drawled, with the resignation of a martyr.  “Twenty-three minutes ain’t much in a lifetime, maybe—­but it don’t help fried potatoes none.  Them potatoes was ready at half-past five.”

“Well, ’tain’t six yet,” protested Captain Shad.

“Maybe ’tain’t, but it’s twenty-three minutes later’n half-past five.  Last thing you said to me was, ‘Have supper ready at half-past five!’ I had it ready.  Them potatoes went on the fire at—­”

“There! there!” interrupted the Captain.  “Never mind the potatoes.  We’ll ’tend to them in a minute.  Give us a hand with this dunnage.  There’s a satchel here and some more stuff.  Sooner this craft’s unloaded the sooner we can eat.  All ashore that’s goin’ ashore.”

Zoeth climbed out of the buggy.  He lifted their passenger to the ground.

“Mary-’Gusta,” he said, “here’s where Cap’n Gould and I live.  This is Mr. Isaiah Chase.  Isaiah, this is Mary Lathrop, Cap’n Marcellus’s little girl.  She’s come to—­t—­”

“To make us a little visit,” put in the Captain, promptly.  “You want to get acquainted with Isaiah, Mary-’Gusta; he’s cook and steward for me and Mr. Zoeth.  That’s right; shake hands and be sociable.”

Mary-’Gusta extended her hand and Mr. Chase, after wiping his own hand on the apron, pumped hers up and down.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, solemnly.