"Knock!" says I. "I all but kicked your everlasting derelict out of
water. It's me, Wingate--one of the selectmen. Tumble up, there! I want
to talk to you."

Blueworthy didn't exactly tumble, so's to speak, but the door opened,
and he comes shuffling and groaning into sight. His face was twisted up
and he had one hand spread-fingered on the small of his back.

"Dear, dear!" says he. "I'm dreadful sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr.
Wingate. I've been wrastling with this turrible lumbago, and I'm 'fraid
it's affecting my hearing. I'll tell you--"

"Yes--well, you needn't mind," I says; "'cordin' to common tell, you
was born with that same kind of lumbago, and it's been getting no better
fast ever since. Jest drag your sufferings out onto this bench and come
to anchor. I've got considerable to say, and I'm in a hurry."

Well, he grunted, and groaned, and scuffled along. When he'd got planted
on the bench he didn't let up any--kept on with the misery.

"Look here," says I, losing patience, "when you get through with the
Job business I'll heave ahead and talk. Don't let me interrupt the
lamentations on no account. Finished? All right. Now, you listen to me."

And then I told him just how matters stood. His house was to be seized
on the mortgage, and he was to move to the poorhouse next day. You never
see a man more surprised or worse cut up. Him to the poorhouse? HIM--one
of the oldest families on the Cape? You'd think he was the Grand
Panjandrum. Well, the dignity didn't work, so he commenced on the