Charles' baritone was unusually good.
So on many evenings Captain Sam's front parlor rang with melody,
while the captain smoked in the big rocker and listened admiringly
and gazed dotingly. At the moving-picture theater on Wednesday and
Saturday evenings Orham nudged and winked when two Hunniwells and a
Phillips came down the aisle. Even at the Congregational church,
where Maud sang in the choir, the young bank clerk was beginning to
be a fairly constant attendant. Captain Eri Hedge declared that
that settled it.
"When a young feller who ain't been to meetin' for land knows how
long," observed Captain Eri, "all of a sudden begins showin' up
every Sunday reg'lar as clockwork, you can make up your mind it's
owin' to one of two reasons--either he's got religion or a girl.
In this case there ain't any revival in town, so--"
And the captain waved his hand.
Jed was not blind and he had seen, perhaps sooner than any one
else, the possibilities in the case. And what he saw distressed
him greatly. Captain Sam Hunniwell was his life-long friend. Maud
had been his pet since her babyhood; she and he had had many
confidential chats together, over troubles at school, over petty
disagreements with her father, over all sorts of minor troubles and
joys. Captain Sam had mentioned to him, more than once, the
probability of his daughter's falling in love and marrying some
time or other, but they both had treated the idea as vague and far
off, almost as a joke.
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