breakfast. The kitchen was about as big as a good-sized packing
box and Jed, standing over the oilstove, could reach any shelf in
sight without moving. He cooked his oatmeal porridge, boiled his
egg and then sat down at the table in the next room--his combined
living and dining-room and not very much bigger than the kitchen--
to eat. When he had finished, he washed the dishes, walked up to
the post office for the mail and then, entering the workshop, took
up the paint brush and the top sailor-man of the pile beside him
and began work. This, except on Sundays, was his usual morning
routine. It varied little, except that he occasionally sawed or
whittled instead of painted, or, less occasionally still, boxed
some of his wares for shipment.

During the forenoon he had some visitors. A group of summer people
from the hotel came in and, after pawing over and displacing about
half of the movable stock, bought ten or fifteen dollars' worth and
departed. Mr. Winslow had the satisfaction of hearing them burst
into a shout of laughter as they emerged into the yard and the
shrill voice of one of the females in the party rose above the
hilarity with: "Isn't he the WEIRDEST thing!" And an accompanying
male voice appraised him as "Some guy, believe me! S-o-o-me guy!"
Jed winced a little, but he went on with his painting. On one's
forty-fifth birthday one has acquired or should have acquired a
certain measure of philosophical resignation.

Other customers or lookers came and went. Maud Hunniwell, Captain
Sam's daughter, dropped in on her way to the post office. The
captain was a widower and Maud was his only child. She was,
therefore, more than the apple of his eye, she was a whole orchard
of apples. She was eighteen, pretty and vivacious, and her father