by, suddenly became fired with the desire to set about doing
something, something energetic.

Gabriel Bearse was not a summer visitor, but a "native," that is,
an all-the-year-round resident of Orham, and, as his fellow natives
would have cheerfully testified, it took much more than windmills
to arouse HIS energy. He had not halted to look at the mills. He
had stopped because the sight of them recalled to his mind the fact
that the maker of these mills was a friend of one of the men most
concerned in his brand new news item. It was possible, barely
possible, that here was an opportunity to learn just a little more,
to obtain an additional clip of cartridges before opening fire on
the crowd at the post office. Certainly it might be worth trying,
particularly as the afternoon mail would not be ready for another
hour, even if the train was on time.

At the rear of the little yard, and situated perhaps fifty feet
from the edge of the high sand bluff leading down precipitously to
the beach, was a shingled building, whitewashed, and with a door,
painted green, and four windows on the side toward the road. A
clamshell walk led from the gate to the doors. Over the door was a
sign, very neatly lettered, as follows: "J. EDGAR W. WINSLOW.
MILLS FOR SALE." In the lot next to that, where the little shop
stood, was a small, old-fashioned story-and-a-half Cape Cod house,
painted a speckless white, with vivid green blinds. The blinds
were shut now, for the house was unoccupied. House and shop and
both yards were neat and clean as a New England kitchen.

Gabriel Bearse, after a moment's reflection, opened the gate in the
picket fence and walked along the clamshell walk to the shop door.