Varunas winked again. “I have a suspicion he was,” he chuckled. “’Twas dark and kind of foggy after the rain, and a body that wan’t up to snuff, or hadn’t been tipped off same as I was, would have swore there wan’t another soul within a half mile. But--well, you know that old fish shanty over at the fur side of the Circle, on the rise next the beach? Um-hum. Well, when Hornet and me went past that shanty the first time round it looked to me as if the door was open just a crack. When we went round the second time the crack was wider. It _might_ have been the wind that blowed it open--only there wan’t any wind. He, he, he!” He slapped his knee in gleeful triumph. Townsend’s smile became a grin. “All right, Varunas,” he said. “How was the betting the last time you heard?” “There ain’t much--or there wasn’t yesterday. There might be a little more to-day. Some of them Bayporters might drift over and begin to loosen up; ’specially if Sam and Seth spread the news that Claribel couldn’t do no better’n he done this mornin’.” “If they do you might let me know.” “You bet you I will! I’ll let myself know, too, about seven or eight dollars’ worth.... Say, Cap’n, don’t for mercy sakes tell Nabby I said that. She’s death on bettin’ anyhow; and--” with aggrieved indignation, “if I won she’d make me hand her over the heft of the money. The only way for me to keep my winnin’s is to spend ’em quick. I’ve learned that much.” Foster Townsend left the house soon afterward and strolled, as was his morning custom, about the place, his hands in the pockets of his coat, the soft hat at the back of his head, and his after-breakfast cigar between his teeth. He lingered by the poultry yards, looked at the hogs in their pens, made mental notes of a section of fence which needed repair, decided that the strip of lawn on the left-hand side of the drive should be plowed and reseeded in the spring. His tour of inspection was leisurely, for he enjoyed it. He loved every inch of his domain. It was his. He had earned it. It represented success, the prize at the top of the ladder which he had climbed unaided. He had been a poor boy; now he was a rich man. In his youth the aristocrats of his native town scarcely deigned to notice him; now he was the aristocrat and his was the voice of authority. He had fought his way up from cabin boy to captain of a ship, from captain to owner, from that, through keen trading and daring speculation, to the day when he could afford to retire from active business. The break with his partner, Elisha Cook, and the lawsuit which followed the break, had threatened disaster time after time, but during the years of expensive and worrisome litigation he had never lost his nerve. If Cook won and was awarded even the greater part of the sum for which he was suing, it meant ruin to Townsend, but the risk but made the battle more enjoyable. And Cook had not won. True, the latter and his lawyers had not openly