A brisk rap on the door; then a man's voice.
"Hello, there! Wake up."
Albert rolled over, opened one eye, then the other and raised himself on his elbow.
"Eh? Wh-what?" he stammered.
"Seven o'clock! Time to turn out."
The voice was his grandfather's."Oh--oh, all right!" he answered.
"Understand me, do you?"
"Yes--yes, sir.I'll be right down."
The stairs creaked as Captain Zelotes descended them.Albert yawned cavernously, stretched and slid one foot out of bed.He drew it back instantly, however, for the sensation was that of having thrust it into a bucket of cold water.The room had been cold the previous evening; plainly it was colder still now.The temptation was to turn back and go to sleep again, but he fought against it.Somehow he had a feeling that to disregard his grandfather's summons would be poor diplomacy.
He set his teeth and, tossing back the bed clothes, jumped to the floor.Then he jumped again, for the floor was like ice.The window was wide open and he closed it, but there was no warm radiator to cuddle against while dressing.He missed his compulsory morning shower, a miss which did not distress him greatly.He shook himself into his clothes, soused his head and neck in a basin of ice water poured from a pitcher, and, before brushing his hair, looked out of the window.
It was a sharp winter morning.The wind had gone down, but before subsiding it had blown every trace of mist or haze from the air, and from his window-sill to the horizon every detail was clean cut and distinct.He was looking out, it seemed, from the back of the house.The roof of the kitchen extension was below him and, to the right, the high roof of the barn.Over the kitchen roof and to the left he saw little rolling hills, valleys, cranberry swamps, a pond.A road wound in and out and, scattered along it, were houses, mostly white with green blinds, but occasionally varied by the gray of unpainted, weathered shingles.A long, low-spreading building a half mile off looked as if it might be a summer hotel, now closed and shuttered.Beyond it was a cluster of gray shanties and a gleam of water, evidently a wharf and a miniature harbor.
And, beyond that, the deep, brilliant blue of the sea.Brown and blue were the prevailing colors, but, here and there, clumps and groves of pines gave splashes of green.
There was an exhilaration in the crisp air.He felt an unwonted liveliness and a desire to be active which would have surprised some of his teachers at the school he had just left.The depression of spirits of which he had been conscious the previous night had disappeared along with his premonitions of unpleasantness.He felt optimistic this morning.After giving his curls a rake with the comb, he opened the door and descended the steep stairs to the lower floor.
His grandmother was setting the breakfast table.He was a little surprised to see her doing it.What was the use of having servants if one did the work oneself? But perhaps the housekeeper was ill.
"Good morning," he said.
Mrs.Snow, who had not heard him enter, turned and saw him.When he crossed the room, she kissed him on the cheek.
"Good morning, Albert," she said."I hope you slept well."Albert replied that he had slept very well indeed.He was a trifle disappointed that she made no comment on his promptness in answering his grandfather's summons.He felt such promptness deserved commendation.At school they rang two bells at ten minute intervals, thus giving a fellow a second chance.It had been a point of senior etiquette to accept nothing but that second chance.Here, apparently, he was expected to jump at the first.There was a matter of course about his grandmother's attitude which was disturbing.
She went on setting the table, talking as she did so.
"I'm real glad you did sleep," she said."Some folks can hardly ever sleep the first night in a strange room.Zelotes--I mean your grandpa--'s gone out to see to the horse and feed the hens and the pig.He'll be in pretty soon.Then we'll have breakfast.Isuppose you're awful hungry."
As a matter of fact he was not very hungry.Breakfast was always a more or less perfunctory meal with him.But he was surprised to see the variety of eatables upon that table.There were cookies there, and doughnuts, and even half an apple pie.Pie for breakfast! It had been a newspaper joke at which he had laughed many times.But it seemed not to be a joke here, rather a solemn reality.
The kitchen door opened and Mrs.Ellis put in her head.To Albert's astonishment the upper part of the head, beginning just above the brows, was swathed in a huge bandage.The lower part was a picture of hopeless misery.
"Has Cap'n Lote come in yet?" inquired the housekeeper, faintly.
"Not yet, Rachel," replied Mrs.Snow."He'll be here in a minute, though.Albert's down, so you can begin takin' up the things."The head disappeared.A sigh of complete wretchedness drifted in as the door closed.Albert looked at his grandmother in alarm.
"Is she sick?" he faltered.
"Who? Rachel? No, she ain't exactly sick...Dear me! Where did I put that clean napkin?"The boy stared at the kitchen door.If his grandmother had said the housekeeper was not exactly dead he might have understood.But to say she was not exactly sick--"But--but what makes her look so?" he stammered."And--and what's she got that on her head for? And she groaned! Why, she MUST be sick!"Mrs.Snow, having found the clean napkin, laid it beside her husband's plate.
"No," she said calmly."It's one of her sympathetic attacks;that's what she calls 'em, sympathetic attacks.She has 'em every time Laban Keeler starts in on one of his periodics.It's nerves, I suppose.Cap'n Zelotes--your grandfather--says it's everlastin'
foolishness.Whatever 'tis, it's a nuisance.And she's so sensible other times, too."Albert was more puzzled than ever.Why in the world Mrs.Ellis should tie up her head and groan because the little Keeler person had gone on a spree was beyond his comprehension.
His grandmother enlightened him a trifle.
