“Here, now,” he shouted to Jackson, “you just let this feller and plantchette fight it out together!”

“What’s the matter with plantchette?” said Jeff, before he said to his brother, “Hello, Jackson!” and to the Canuck, “Hello, Jombateeste!” He shook hands conventionally with them both, and then with the painter, whom he greeted with greater interest.  “Glad to see you here, Mr. Westover.  Did I take you by surprise?” he asked of the company at large.

“No, sir,” said Whitwell.  “Didn’t surprise us any, if you are a fortnight ahead of time,” he added, with a wink at the others.

“Well, I took a notion I wouldn’t wait for the cattle-ship, and I started back on a French boat.  Thought I’d try it.  They live well.  But I hoped I should astonish you a little, too.  I might as well waited.”

Whitwell laughed.  “We heard from you—­plantchette kept right round after you.”

“That so?” asked Jeff, carelessly.

“Fact.  Have a good voyage?” Whitwell had the air of putting a casual question.

“First-rate,” said Jeff.  “Plantchette say not?”

“No.  Only about the broken shaft.”

“Broken shaft?  We didn’t have any broken shaft.  Plantchette’s got mixed a little.  Got the wrong ship.”

After a moment of chop-fallenness, Whitwell said: 

“Then somebody’s been makin’ free with your name.  Curious how them devils cut up oftentimes.”

He explained, and Jeff laughed uproariously when he understood the whole case.  “Plantchette’s been havin’ fun with you.”

Whitwell gave himself time for reflection.  “No, sir, I don’t look at it that way.  I guess the wires got crossed some way.  If there’s such a thing as the spirits o’ the livin’ influencin’ plantchette, accordin’ to Mr. Westover’s say, here, I don’t see why it wa’n’t.  Jeff’s being so near that got control of her and made her sign his name to somebody else’s words.  It shows there’s something in it.”

“Well, I’m glad to come back alive, anyway,” said Jeff, with a joviality new to Westover.  “I tell you, there a’n’t many places finer than old Lion’s Head, after all.  Don’t you think so, Mr. Westover?  I want to get the daylight on it, but it does well by moonlight, even.”  He looked round at the tall girl, who had been lingering to hear the talk of planchette; at the backward tilt he gave his head, to get her in range, she frowned as if she felt his words a betrayal, and slipped out of the room; the boy had already gone, and was making himself heard in the low room overhead.

“There’s a lot of folks here this summer, mother says,” he appealed from the check he had got to Jackson.  “Every room taken for the whole month, she says.”

“We’ve been pretty full all July, too,” said Jackson, blankly.

“Well, it’s a great business; and I’ve picked up a lot of hints over there.  We’re not so smart as we think we are.  The Swiss can teach us a thing or two.  They know how to keep a hotel.”