The dining room was long and low. The woodwork was white, the floor
green painted boards, with braided rag mats scattered over them.
There were old-fashioned pictures on the walls, pictures which brought
shudders to the artistic soul of Atwood Graves. A broad bay window
filled one side of the apartment, and in this window, on shelves and in
wire baskets, were Miss Baker's cherished and carefully tended plants.
As for the dining table, it was dark, old-fashioned walnut, as were the
chairs.

"Set right down here, Mr. Graves," ordered the captain. "I'll try
to keep you supplied with solid cargo, and Abbie'll 'tend to the
moistenin'. Hope that teapot is full up, Abbie. Hot tea tastes good
after you've swallered as much cold rain as Mr. Graves and I have...
Father-we-thank-thee-for-these-mercies-set-before-us-Amen... How's your
appetite when it comes to clam pie, Mr. Graves?"

Mr. Graves's appetite was good, and the clam pie was good. So, too,
were the hot biscuits and the tea and homemade preserves and cake.
Conversation during the meal was, for the most part, a monologue by the
captain. He gave Miss Baker a detailed and exaggerated account of his
adventures in Ostable, on board the train, and during the drive home.
The housekeeper listened, fidgeting in her chair.

"'Lisha Warren," she interrupted, "how you do talk! Rainin' so hard you
had to hold the reins taut to keep the horse's head out of water so he
wouldn't drown! The idea!"

"Fact," asserted Captain Warren, with a wink at his guest. "And that
wa'n't the worst of it. 'Twas so dark I had to keep feelin' the buggy
with my foot to be sure I was in it. Ain't that so, Mr. Graves?... Here!