But when to-morrow came news of any kind was unobtainable. No trains
could get through, and the telephone and telegraph wires were out of
commission, owing to the great storm. Bayport was buried under a white
coverlet, three feet thick on a level, which shone in the winter sun
as if powdered with diamond dust. The street-shoveling brigade, meaning
most of the active male citizens, was busy with plows and shovels.
Simmons's was deserted in the evenings, for most of the regular habitues
went to bed after supper, tired out.

Two days of this. Then Gabe Lumley, his depot wagon replaced by a
sleigh, drove the panting Daniel into the yard of the Cy Whittaker
place. Gabe was much excited. He had news of importance to communicate
and was puffed up in consequence.

"The wire's all right again, Georgianna," he said to the housekeeper,
who had hurried to the door to meet him. "Fust message just come
through. Guess who it's for?"

"Stop your foolishness, Gabe Lumley!" ordered Miss Taylor. "Hand over
that telegram this minute. Don't you stop to talk! Hand it over!"

Gabe didn't intend to be "corked" thus peremptorily.

"It's pretty important news, Georgianna," he declared. "Kind of bad
news, too. I think I'd ought to prepare you for it, sort of. When Cap'n
Obed Pepper died, I--"

"DIED! For the land sakes! WHAT are you sayin'? Give me that, you
foolhead! Give it to me!"

She snatched the telegram from him and tore it open. It was not as bad
as might have been, but it was bad enough. Lawyer Peabody wired that
Captain Cyrus Whittaker was at his home in Ostable, sick in bed, and
threatened with pneumonia.

Captain Cy, hurrying homeward in response to the attorney's former
telegram, had reached Boston the day of the blizzard. He had taken the
train for Bayport that afternoon. The train had reached Ostable after
nine o'clock that night, but could get no farther. The captain, burning
with fever and torn by chills, had wallowed through the drifts to his
lawyer's home and collapsed on his doorstep. Now he was very ill and, at
times, delirious.

For two weeks he lay, fighting off the threatened attack of pneumonia.
But he won the fight, and, at last, word came to the anxious ones at
Bayport that he was past the danger point and would pull through. There
was rejoicing at the Cy Whittaker place. The Board of Strategy came and
performed an impromptu war dance around the dining-room table.

"Whe-e-e!" shouted Bailey Bangs, toss