He was a thin man and his trousers hung about his ankles like a loose sail on a yard.His hair was thick and plentiful, a brown sprinkled with gray at the temples.His face was smooth-shaven, with wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and mouth.He wore spectacles perched at the very end of his nose, and looked down over rather than through them as he dipped the brush in the can of paint beside him on the floor.
"Hello, Shavin's," hailed Mr.Bearse, blithely.
The tall man applied the brush to the nude pine legs of the wooden sailor.One side of those legs were modestly covered forthwith by a pair of sky-blue breeches.The artist regarded the breeches dreamily.Then he said:
"Hello, Gab."
His voice was a drawl, very deliberate, very quiet, rather soft and pleasant.But Mr.Bearse was not pleased.
"Don't call me that," he snapped.
The brush was again dipped in the paint pot and the rear elevation of the pine sailor became sky-blue like the other side of him.
Then the tall man asked:
"Call you what?"
"Gab.That's a divil of a name to call anybody.Last time I was in here Cap'n Sam Hunniwell heard you call me that and I cal'lated he'd die laughin'.Seemed to cal'late there was somethin'
specially dum funny about it.I don't call it funny.Say, speakin' of Cap'n Sam, have you heard the news about him?"He asked the question eagerly, because it was a part of what he came there to ask.His eagerness was not contagious.The man on the chair put down the blue brush, took up a fresh one, dipped it in another paint pot and proceeded to garb another section of his sailor in a spotless white shirt.Mr.Bearse grew impatient.
"Have you heard the news about Cap'n Sam?" he repeated."Say, Shavin's, have you?"The painting went serenely on, but the painter answered.
"Well, Gab," he drawled, "I--"
"Don't call me Gab, I tell you.'Tain't my name.""Sho! Ain't it?"
"You know well enough 'tain't.My name's Gabriel.Call me that--or Gabe.I don't like to be called out of my name.But say, Shavin's--""Well, Gab, say it."
"Look here, Jed Winslow, do you hear me?""Yes, hear you fust rate, Gabe--now."
Mr.Bearse's understanding was not easily penetrated; a hint usually glanced from it like a piece of soap from a slanting cellar door, but this time the speaker's tone and the emphasis on the "now" made a slight dent.Gabriel's eyes opened.
"Huh?" he grunted in astonishment, as if the possibility had never until that moment occured to him."Why, say, Jed, don't you like to be called 'Shavin's'?"No answer.A blue collar was added to the white shirt of the sailor.
"Don't you, Jed?" repeated Gabe.
Mr.Winslow's gaze was lifted from his work and his eyes turned momentarily in the direction of his caller.
"Gabe," he drawled, "did you ever hear about the feller that was born stone deef and the Doxology?""Eh? What-- No, I never heard it."
The eyes turned back to the wooden sailor and Mr.Winslow chose another brush.
"Neither did he," he observed, and began to whistle what sounded like a dirge.
Mr.Bearse stared at him for at least a minute.Then he shook his head.
"Well, by Judas!" he exclaimed."I--I--I snum if I don't think you BE crazy, same as some folks say you are! What in the nation has--has your name got to do with a deef man and the Doxology?""Eh?...Oh, nothin'."
"Then what did you bust loose and tell me about 'em for? They wan't any of MY business, was they?""No-o.That's why I spoke of 'em."
"What? You spoke of 'em 'cause they wan't any of my business?""Ye-es...I thought maybe--" He paused, turned the sailor over in his hand, whistled a few more bars of the dirge and then finished his sentence."I thought maybe you might like to ask questions about 'em," he concluded.
Mr.Bearse stared suspiciously at his companion, swallowed several times and, between swallows, started to speak, but each time gave it up.Mr.Winslow appeared quite oblivious of the stare.His brushes gave the wooden sailor black hair, eyes and brows, and an engaging crimson smile.When Gabriel did speak it was not concerning names.
"Say, Jed," he cried, "HAVE you heard about Cap'n Sam Hunniwell?
'Bout his bein' put on the Exemption Board?"His companion went on whistling, but he nodded.
"Um-hm," grunted Gabe, grudgingly."I presumed likely you would hear; he told you himself, I cal'late.Seth Baker said he see him come in here night afore last and I suppose that's when he told you.Didn't say nothin' else, did he?" he added, eagerly.
Again Mr.Winslow nodded.
"Did he? Did he? What else did he say?"The tall man seemed to consider.
"Well," he drawled, at length, "seems to me I remember him sayin'--sayin'--"
"Yes? Yes? What did he say?"
"Well--er--seems to me he said good night just afore he went home."The disappointed Gabriel lost patience."Oh, you DIVILISH fool head!" he exclaimed, disgustedly."Look here, Jed Winslow, talk sense for a minute, if you can, won't you? I've just heard somethin' that's goin' to make a big row in this town and it's got to do with Cap'n Sam's bein' app'inted on that Gov'ment Exemption Board for drafted folks.If you'd heard Phineas Babbitt goin' on the way I done, I guess likely you'd have been interested."It was plain that, for the first time since his caller intruded upon his privacy, the maker of mills and sailors WAS interested.
He did not put down his brush, but he turned his head to look and listen.Bearse, pleased with this symptom of attention, went on.
"I was just into Phineas' store," he said, "and he was there, so Ihad a chance to talk with him.He's been up to Boston and never got back till this afternoon, so I cal'lated maybe he hadn't heard about Cap'n Sam's app'intment.And I knew, too, how he does hate the Cap'n; ain't had nothin' but cuss words and such names for him ever since Sam done him out of gettin' the postmaster's job.
Pretty mean trick, some folks call it, but--"Mr.Winslow interrupted; his drawl was a trifle less evident.
