' substance! Oh! I know. I've heered. I've been told. Two
dollars was the price agreed--a quarter a-piece for us folks an' fifty
a-piece for the monks! The boat was throwed in. That was the bargain
fixed an' fast, an' deny it, if ye can, with this here Melvin an' me
an' this poor sick Gerry for witnesses. You haul in your sails an'
put for shore! Don't ye come around here a-tryin' to cheat no more.
I've been layin' for ye ever sence that night. I've 'lowed I'd meet up
with ye an' get even. Pay? Not this side Davy Jones's locker! Be off
with ye an don't ye dare to show your face here again till you've
l'arnt common honesty, such as ary yuther Marylander knows. What would
these here women an' childern do if it wasn't for Cap'n Jack Hurry a
pertectin' of 'em? Tell me that, you ornery land-lubber, you!"

But the teamster was already gone. He had not tarried the completion
of the Captain's tirade. He saw that there was little prospect of
receiving pay for that morning's ride except after much discussion and
many hard words, and decided that if he were ever to secure further
patronage from these silly people who lived on a boat he would better
not quarrel with them now.

With his departure peace was restored and the welcomes bestowed upon
Gerald made him very happy and roused a wish in his heart to become as
good a fellow as they all seemed to imagine him to be. With some shame
he remembered his often ungrateful treatment of Mrs. Lucetta and her
children, and described the family so graphically that Dorothy clapped
her hands, exclaiming:

"I'm going right away to know them! I am! What darlings they must be,
those little 'Saints' and sinners, and what a charming woman the
mother must be. Melvin has told us how she served them with that poor
pudding and sour buttermilk, just as if they were the greatest
luxuries."

Mrs. Calvert nodded, smiling:

"Yes, dear, I shall be glad to have you know her. She is a born
gentlewoman and a good one--which is better. But now, has everybody
had all the breakfast wanted? If so, let's all go off to our arbor in
the woods. 'The Grotto,' the girls named it, Gerald, and it's
beautiful. But where is Jim? Why should he have gone away from the
Stillwell cottage before you, in that sudden way you mentioned?"

"I reckon he went to search for a runaway kid. The one they called
Saint Augustine. Fancy such a name as that for the wildest little
tacker ever trod shoe-leather--or went barefoot, I mean.