“Hello!” says I.  “I guess that’s Peter and the rest coming now.”

Mr. Montague got off his throne kind of sudden.

“Ahem!” says he.  “Is there a room here where I may—­er—­receive Mr. Brown in a less public manner?  It will be rather a—­er—­ surprise for him, and—­”

Well, there was a good deal of sense in that.  I know ’twould surprise me to have such an image as he was sprung on me without any notice.  We steered him into the gents’ parlor, and shut the door.  In a minute the horse and wagon come into the yard.  Maudina said she’d had a “heavenly” drive, and unloaded some poetry concerning the music of billows and pine trees, and such.  She and her father went up to their rooms, and when the decks was clear Jonadab and me tackled Peter T.

“Peter,” says Jonadab, “we’ve got a surprise for you.  One of your relations has come.”

Brown, he did look surprised, but he didn’t act as he was any too joyful.

“Relation of mine?” says he.  “Come off!  What’s his name?”

We told him Montague, Booth Montague.  He laughed.

“Wake up and turn over,” he says.  “They never had anything like that in my family.  Booth Montague!  Sure ’twa’n’t Algernon Cough-drops?”

We said no, ’twas Booth Montague, and that he was waiting in the gents’ parlor.  So he laughed again, and said somethin’ about sending for Laura Lean Jibbey, and then we started.

The checkerboard feller was standing up when we opened the door.  “Hello, Petey!” says he, cool as a cucumber, and sticking out a foot and a half of wrist with a hand at the end of it.

Now, it takes considerable to upset Peter Theodosius Brown.  Up to that time and hour I’d have bet on him against anything short of an earthquake.  But Booth Montague done it—­knocked him plumb out of water.  Peter actually turned white.

“Great—­” he began, and then stopped and swallered.  “Hank!” he says, and set down in a chair.

“The same,” says Montague, waving the starboard extension of the checkerboard.  “Petey, it does me good to set my eyes on you.  Especially now, when you’re the real thing.”

Brown never answered for a minute.  Then he canted over to port and reached down into his pocket.  “Well,” says he, “how much?”

But Hank, or Booth, or Montague—­whatever his name was—­he waved his flipper disdainful.  “Nun-nun-nun-no, Petey, my son,” he says, smiling.  “It ain’t ‘how much?’ this time.  When I heard how you’d rung the bell the first shot out the box and was rolling in coin, I said to myself:  ‘Here’s where the prod comes back to his own.’  I’ve come to live with you, Petey, and you pay the freight.”

Peter jumped out of the chair.  “Live with me!” he says.  “You Friday evening amateur night!  It’s back to ’Ten Nights in a Barroom’ for yours!” he says.

“Oh, no, it ain’t!” says Hank, cheerful.  “It’ll be back to Popper Dillaway and Belle.  When I tell ’em I’m your little cousin Henry and how you and me worked the territories together—­why—­well, I guess there’ll be gladness round the dear home nest; hey?”