White Baldwin, with
his mother and sister, had driven away in a cart, leaving their
tenantless house with closed doors and tightly shuttered windows.
Cabot Grant, with hands thrust into his trousers pockets, leaned
against a wharf post and surveyed the oncoming launch with languid
curiosity. The Yankee schooner swung gracefully at her moorings, and
from her a boat was pulling towards shore; while on the deck of the
"Sea Bee," also anchored in the stream, David Gidge placidly smoked a
pipe.
The launch slowed down as it neared him, and an officer inquired in the
crisp tones of authority:
"What place is this?"
Deliberately taking the pipe from his mouth, and looking about him as
though to refresh his memory, Mr. Gidge answered:
"I've heard it called by a number of names."
"Was one of them Pretty Harbour?"
"Now that you mention it, I believe it were."
"What kind of a building is that?" continued the officer, sharply,
pointing to the factory as he spoke.
David gazed at the building with interest, as though now seeing it for
the first time.
"Looks to me like a barn," he said at length. "Same time it might be a
church, though I don't reckon it is."
"Isn't it a lobster factory?"
"They might make lobsters in it, but I don't think they does. Mebbe
that young man on the wharf could tell ye. He looks knowing."
Disgusted at this exhibition of stupidity, and muttering something
about a chuckle-headed idiot, the officer motioned for his launch to
move ahead, and, in another minute, it lay alongside the wharf.
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