“I’ve been cal’latin’ to make up that bed for more’n a month,” explained Isaiah.  “Last time ’twas unmade was when Zoeth had that minister from Trumet here of a Saturday and Sunday.  Every day I’ve cal’lated to make up that bed, but I don’t seem to get no time.  I’m so everlastin’ busy I don’t get time for nothin’, somehow.”

“I can make the bed,” declared Mary-’Gusta, eagerly.  “I can make beds real well.  Mrs. Hobbs told me so—­once.”

The two men looked at each other.  Before either could speak a tremendous racket broke out on the floor below, a sound of something—­or somebody—­tumbling about, a roar in a human voice and a feline screech.  Mary-’Gusta rushed for the stairs.

“I knew he would,” she said, frantically.  “I was afraid somebody would.  It was right in front of the door.  Oh!  David, dear!  I’m a-comin’!  I’m a-comin’!”

From the kitchen came Captain Shadrach’s voice.  It sounded excited and angry.

“Who in blazes left that dum critter right under my feet?” he hollered.  “I—­I swan, I believe I’ve broke my neck—­or his—­one or t’other.”

When Zoeth and Isaiah reached the kitchen they found the Captain sitting in a chair, rubbing his knees, and Mary-’Gusta seated on the floor beside the open basket, hugging the frightened and struggling David.

“I—­I guess he’s all right,” panted the child.  “I was so afraid he’d be killed.  You ain’t killed, are you, David?”

David appeared to be remarkably sound and active.  He wriggled from his owner’s arms and bolted under the stove.

“No; he’s all right,” said Mary-’Gusta.  “Isn’t it nice he ain’t hurt, Mr.—­I mean Cap’n Gould?”

Captain Shad rubbed his knee.  “Um—­yes,” he said, with elaborate sarcasm; “it’s lovely.  Course I don’t mind breakin’ both my legs, but if that cat had been—­er—­bruised or anything I should have felt bad.  Well, Isaiah,” he added, tartly, turning to the grinning “steward,” “are them fried potatoes of yours real or just in your mind?”

“Eh?  Why—­why they’re right there on the stove, Cap’n Shad.”

“Want to know!  Then suppose you put ’em on the table.  I’m hungry and I’d like to eat one more square meal afore somethin’ else happens to finish me altogether.  By fire! if this ain’t been a day!  First that chair, and then that will and letter of Marcellus’s, and then this.  Humph!  Come on, all hands, let’s eat supper.  I need somethin’ solid to brace me up for tomorrow’s program; if it’s up to this, I’ll need strength to last it through.  Come on!”

That first supper in the white house by the shore was an experience for Mary-’Gusta.  Mrs. Hobbs, in spite of her faultfinding and temper, had been a competent and careful housekeeper.  Meals which she prepared were well cooked and neatly served.  This meal was distinctly different.  There was enough to eat—­in fact, an abundance—­fried cod and the fried potatoes and hot biscuits and dried-apple pie; but everything was put upon the table at the same time, and Mr. Chase sat down with the others and did not even trouble to take off his apron.  The tablecloth was not very clean and the knives and forks and spoons did not glitter like those the child had been accustomed to see.