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Updated: June 28, 2025
I live over to Trumet. Me and my wife drove over for a sort of picnic like. We've got her cousin, Mrs. Sophia Hains, along. Sophi's a widow from Boston, and she ain't never seen a lighthouse afore. I know Seth Atkins slightly, and I was cal'latin' he'd show us around, but bein' as he's so sick " "Sick? Is Mr. Atkins sick?" "Why, yes. Didn't you know it?
To the average person the view would have been desolation itself. To Captain Dan it was a section of Paradise. It was the picture which had been in his mind for months. And here it was in reality, unchanged, unspoiled, a part of home, his home. And he, at last, was at home again. They had been in Trumet a week, the captain and Serena and Gertrude.
This was August, the season of the year when, if ever, Trumet shopkeepers should be beaming across their counters at the city visitor, male or female, and telling him or her, that "white duck hats are all the go this summer," or "there's nothin' better than an oilskin coat for sailin' cruises or picnics."
He entered the kitchen and tossed the hat into a corner. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Why don't you act surprised to see a feller? Here I've been cruisin' from the Horn to Barnegat and back again, and you act as if I'd just dropped in to fetch the cup of molasses I borrowed yesterday. What do you mean by it?" "Oh, I heard you'd made port." "Did, hey? That's Trumet, sure pop. You ain't the only one.
Captain Dan ate scarcely any luncheon that day. He seemed to have lost his appetite. This was a good deal of a loss and his wife commented upon it. "What does ail you, Daniel?" she asked anxiously. "Why don't you eat?" "Hey? Oh, I don't know, Serena. Don't feel hungry, somehow." "Well, it's the first time you haven't been hungry since you came back to Trumet.
The storm caused by these outbreaks subsided and Trumet settled into its jog trot. The stages rattled through daily, the packet came and went every little while, occasionally a captain returned home from a long voyage, and another left for one equally long. Old Mrs.
It's a long vy'age, even if I come back direct, which ain't likely. So I may not see the old town again for a couple of years. Take care of yourself, won't you? Good men, especially ministers, are scurse, and from what I hear about you I cal'late Trumet needs you." "When are you going?" "Last of next week, most likely." "Will you shall you go alone? Are you to be to be " "Married? No.
They are skilled navigators, those Trumet road mosquitoes, and they know the advantage of snug harbors under hat brims and behind spreading ears. And each individual smashed by a frantic palm leaves a thousand blood relatives to attend his funeral and exact revenge after the Corsican fashion.
The driver leaned down and extended a hand. The minister took it and was pulled up to the seat. "Whew!" he panted. "I'm much obliged to you. I guess you saved me from a ducking, if nothing worse." "Yes," was the answer, "I wouldn't wonder if I did. This ain't Saturday night and 'twould be against Trumet principles to take a bath any other time. All taut, are you?
"Humph!" he observed. "You have sold it, ain't you? Well, by the everlastin'!" "Why why, Jethro! What are you talkin' about?" "About that two hundred and fifty shares of Wellmouth Development of yours. You've sold it, ain't you, Martha? And you must have got par for it, too. Did the Trumet Trust Company folks buy it?" But Miss Phipps was recovering from her surprise.
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