"I thought I'd warn ye not to twit. My rheumaticks is a good deal
better at this writin', and my mind ain't so much occupied by other
matters as it has been for a week or so. When you come home don't
talk northin' but business, jest as you natch'ally would to a
brother-in-law and an equal pardner. That advice don't cost northin',
but it's vallyble."

As Cap'n Sproul trudged home, his little wife's arm tucked snugly
in the hook of his own, he observed, soulfully:

"Mattermony, Louada Murilla--mattermony, it is a blessed state that
it does the heart good to see folks git into as ought to git into
it. As the poet says--um-m-m, well, it's in that book on the
settin'-room what-not. I'll read it to ye when we git home."




V


Cap'n Aaron Sproul was posted that bright afternoon on the end of
his piazza. He sat bolt upright and twiddled his gnarled thumbs
nervously. His wife came out and sat down beside him.

"Where you left off, Cap'n," she prompted meekly, "was when the black,
whirling cloud was coming and you sent the men up-stairs--"

"Aloft!" snapped Cap'n Sproul.