Thankful now began advertising in the Boston papers.  And the answers to the ads began to arrive.  Sometimes men and women from the city came down to inspect the High Cliff House, preparatory to opening negotiations for summer quarters.  They inspected the house itself, interviewed Thankful, strolled along the bluff admiring the view, and sampled a meal.  Then, almost without exception, they agreed upon terms and selected rooms.  That the house would be full from top to bottom by the first of July was now certain.  But, as Imogene said to Captain Bangs, “If we lose five dollars a week on everyone of ’em that ain’t nothin’ to hurrah about, seems to me.”

The captain had not piloted any new boarders to the High Cliff.  Perhaps he thought, under the circumstances, this would be a doubtful kindness.  But the time came when he did bring one there.  And the happenings leading to that result were these: 

It was a day in the first week in June and Captain Obed, having business in Wellmouth Centre, had hired George Washington, Mrs. Barnes’ horse, and the buggy and driven there.  The business done he left the placid George moored to a hitching-post by the postoffice and strolled over to the railway station to watch the noon train come in.

The train was, of course, late, but not very late in this instance, and the few passengers alighted on the station platform.  The captain, seated on the baggage-truck, noticed one of these passengers in particular.  He was a young fellow, smooth-faced and tall, and as, suitcase in hand, he swung from the last car and strode up the platform it seemed to Captain Obed as if there was something oddly familiar in that stride and the set of his square shoulders.  His face, too, seemed familiar.  The captain felt as if he should recognize him—­but he did not.

He came swinging on until he was opposite the baggage-truck.  Then he stopped and looked searchingly at the bulky form of the man seated upon it.  He stepped closer and looked again.  Then, with a twinkle in his quiet gray eye, he did a most amazing thing—­he began to sing.  To sing—­not loudly, of course, but rather under his breath.  And this is what he sang: 

     “Said all the little fishes that swim there below: 
     ‘It’s the Liverpool packet!  Good Lord, let her go!’”

To the average person this would have sounded like the wildest insanity.  But not to Captain Obed Bangs of East Wellmouth.  The captain sprang from the truck and held out his hand.

“Johnnie Kendrick!” he shouted.  “It’s Johnnie Kendrick, I do believe!  Well, I swan to man!”

The young man laughed, and, seizing the captain’s hand, shook it heartily.

“I am glad you do,” he said.  “If you hadn’t swanned to man I should have been afraid there was more change in Captain Obed Bangs than I cared to see.  Captain Obed, how are you?”

Captain Obed shook his head.  “I—­I—­” he stammered.  “Well, I cal’late my timbers are fairly strong if they can stand a shock like this.  Johnnie Kendrick, of all folks in the world!”