“I mean sailin'. I went ridin', too, but--” “You'll have to excuse me, Bailey,” interrupted Captain Hiram, rising and looking at his watch. “I've stayed here a good deal longer'n I ought to, already. I must be gettin' on home to see how poor little Dusenberry, my boy, is feelin'. I do hope he's better by now. I wish Dr. Parker hadn't gone out of town.” The depot master rose also. “And I'll have to be excused, too,” he declared. “It's most time for the up train. Good-by, Hiram. Give my regards to Sophrony, and if there's anything I can do to help, in case your baby should be sick, just sing out, won't you?” “But I want to tell about this automobilin' scrape,” protested Captain Bailey. “It was one of them things that don't happen every day.” “So was that fortune business of Effie's,” declared Wingate. “Honest, the way it worked out was queer enough.” But the train whistled just then and the group broke up. Captain Sol went out to the platform, where Cornelius Rowe, Ed Crocker, Beriah Higgins, Obed Gott, and other interested citizens had already assembled. Wingate and Stitt followed. As for Captain Hiram Baker, he hurried home, his conscience reproving him for remaining so long away from his wife and poor little Hiram Joash, more familiarly known as “Dusenberry.” CHAPTER XIII DUSENBERRY'S BIRTHDAY Mrs. Baker met her husband at the door. “How is he?” was the Captain's first question. “Better, hey?” “No,” was the nervous answer. “No, I don't think he is. His throat's terrible sore and the fever's just as bad.” Again Captain Hiram's conscience smote him. “Dear! dear!” he exclaimed. “And I've been loafin' around the depot with Sol Berry and the rest of 'em instead of stayin' home with you, Sophrony. I KNEW I was doin' wrong, but I didn't realize--” “Course you didn't, Hiram. I'm glad you got a few minutes' rest, after bein' up with him half the night. I do wish the doctor was home, though. When will he be back?” “Not until late to-morrer, if then. Did you keep on givin' the medicine?” “Yes, but it don't seem to do much good. You go and set with him now, Hiram. I must be seein' about supper.” So into the sick room went Captain Hiram to sit beside the crib and sing “Sailor boy, sailor boy, 'neath the wild billow,” as a lugubrious lullaby. Little Hiram Joash tossed and tumbled. He was in a fitful slumber when Mrs. Baker called her husband to supper. The meal was anything but a cheerful one. They talked but little. Over the home, ordinarily so cheerful, had settled a gloom that weighed upon them. “My! my!” sighed Captain Hiram, “how lonesome it seems without him chatterin' and racketin' sound. Seems darker'n usual, as if there was a shadow on the place.” “Hush, Hiram! don't talk that way. A shadow! Oh, WHAT made you say that? Sounds like a warnin', almost.” “Warnin'?” “Yes, a forewarnin', you know. 'The valley of the shadow--'”