d him he
had the smallpox instead of the measles. You don't mind my callin' you
'Crawford,' do you?" he added, turning to that young gentleman. "I'm old
enough to be your father, for one thing, and for another a handle's all
right on a jug or a sasspan, but don't seem as if 'twas necessary to
take hold of a friend's name by. And I hope we're goin' to be friends,
we three."

Crawford said he hoped so, too, and he said it with emphasis.

"Good!" exclaimed the Captain with enthusiasm. "And we'll cement
the friendship--the book fellers are always tellin' about cementin'
friendships--with this supper of ours, eh? If we only had some of
Isaiah's last batch of mincemeat we could sartinly do it with that; it
was the nighest thing to cement ever I saw put on a table. I asked him
if he filled his pies with a trowel and you ought to have heard him
sputter. You remember Isaiah, don't you, Crawford? Tall, spindlin'
critter, sails cook for Zoeth and me at the house down home. He ain't
pretty, but his heart's in the right place. That's kind of strange,
too," he added with a chuckle, "when you consider how nigh his
shoulder-blades are to the top of his legs."

Between his stories and jokes he found time to ask his male guest a
few questions and these questions, although by no means offensively
personal, were to the point. He inquired concerning the young man's home
life, about his ambitions and plans for the future, about his friends
and intimates at college. Crawford, without being in the least aware
that he was being catechized, told a good deal, and Captain Shadrach's
appraising regard, which had learned to judge men afloat and ashore,
read more than was told. The appraisal was apparently satisfactory for,
after the young man had gone and the Captain and Mary were saying good
night in the Wyeth parlor, Shadrach said:

"A nice boy, I should say. Yes, sir, a real nice young feller, as young
fellers go. I like him fust-rate."

"I'm glad, Uncle Shad," said Mary. "I like him, too."

Shadrach regarded her with a little of the questioning scrutiny he had
devoted to Crawford during dinner.

"You do, eh?" he mused. "How much?"

"How much?" repeated Mary, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean how much do you like him? More'n you do your Uncle Zoeth and me,
for instance?"

She looked up into his face. What she saw there brought the color to her
own. He might have said more, but she put her finger-tips upon his lips.

"Nonsense!"