It was Captain Zeb Mayo who was calling. The captain sat in his antique chaise, drawn by the antique white horse, and was hailing the parsonage through a speaking trumpet formed by holding both his big hands before his mouth. The reins he had tucked between the edge of the dashboard and the whip socket. If he had thrown them on the ground he would still have been perfectly safe, with that horse. “Mr. Ellery, ahoy!” roared Captain Zeb through his hands. The window of Zoeth Peters's house, next door to the Regular church, was thrown up and Mrs. Peters's head, bound with a blue-and-white handkerchief in lieu of a sweeping cap, was thrust forth into the crisp March air. “What is it, Cap'n Mayo?” screamed Mrs. Peters. “Hey?” “Hey?” repeated Captain Zeb, peering round the chaise curtain. “Who's that?” “It's me. Is somebody dead?” “Who's me? Oh! No, Hettie, nobody's dead, though I'm likely to bust a blood vessel if I keep on yellin' much longer. Is the parson to home?” “Hey?” “Oh, heavens alive! I say is--Ha, there you be, Mr. Ellery. Mornin', Keziah.” The minister and Mrs. Coffin, the former with a napkin in his hand, had emerged from the side door of the parsonage and now came hurrying down to the gate. “Land of Goshen!” exclaimed the captain, “you don't mean to tell me you ain't done breakfast yet, and it after seven o'clock. Why, we're thinkin' about dinner up to our house.” Keziah answered. “Yes,” she said, “I shouldn't wonder. Your wife tells me, Zeb, that the only time you ain't thinkin' about dinner is when you think of breakfast or supper. We ain't so hungry here that we get up to eat in the middle of the night. What's the matter? Hettie Peters is hollerin' at you; did you know it?” “Did I know it? Tut! tut! tut! I'd known it if I was a mile away, 'less I was paralyzed in my ears. Let her holler; 'twill do her good and keep her in practice for Come-Outer meetin'. Why, Mr. Ellery, I tell you: Em'lous Sparrow, the fish peddler, stepped up to our house a few minutes ago. He's just come down from the shanties over on the shore by the light--where the wreck was, you know--and he says there's a 'morphrodite brig anchored three or four mile off and she's flyin' colors ha'f mast and union down. They're gettin' a boat's crew together to go off to her and see what's the row. I'm goin' to drive over and I thought maybe you'd like to go along. I told the old lady--my wife, I mean--that I thought of pickin' you up and she said 'twas a good idee. Said my likin' to cruise with a parson in my old age was either a sign that I was hopeful or fearful, she didn't know which; and either way it ought to be encouraged. He, he, he! What do you say, Mr. Ellery? Want to go?” The minister hesitated. “I'd like to,” he said. “I'd like to very much. But I ought to work on my sermon this morning.”