The “club” was one of the rooms over Mr. Higgins's store and post office. It had been recently fitted up with chairs and tables from its members' garrets and, when the depot and store were closed, was a favorite gathering place of those reckless ones who cared to “set up late”--that is, until eleven o'clock. Most of the men in town belonged, but many, Captain Berry among them, visited the room but seldom. “Checkers,” said the depot master, referring to the “club's” favorite game, “is too deliberately excitin' for me. To watch Beriah Higgins and Ezra Weeks fightin' out a game of checkers is like gettin' your feet froze in January and waitin' for spring to come and thaw 'em out. It's a numbin' kind of dissipation.” But Obed Gott was a regular attendant at the “club,” and to-night he had a particular reason for wishing to be there. His cousin noticed his hesitation and made haste to relieve his mind. “That's all right, Obed,” he said, “go to the club, by all means. I ain't such a stranger at your house that I can't find my way to bed without help. Good-night, Sim. Good-night, Issy. Cheer up; maybe the Major's glassware IS priceless. So long, Cap'n Sol. See you again some time tomorrer.” He and Mr. Gott departed. The depot master rose from his chair. “Issy,” he commanded, “shut up shop.” Issy obeyed, closing the windows and locking the front door. Captain Sol himself locked the ticket case and put the cash till into the small safe. “That'll do, Is,” said the Captain. “Good-night. Don't worry too much over the Major's glass. I'll talk with him, myself. You dream about pleasanter things--your girl, if you've got one.” That was a chance shot, but it struck Issy in the heart. Even during his melancholy progress to and from Major Hardee's, the vision of Gertie Higgins had danced before his greenish-blue eyes. His freckles were engulfed in a surge of blushes as, with a stammered “Night, Cap'n Berry,” he hurried out into the moonlight. The depot master blew out the lamps. “Come on, Sim,” he said, briefly. “Goin' to walk up with me, or was YOU goin' to the club?” “Cal'late I'll trot along with you, if you don't mind. I'd just as soon get home early and wrastle with the figures on that Williams movin' job.” They left the depot, locked and dark, passed the “general store,” where Mr. Higgins was putting out his lights prior to adjournment to the “club” overhead, walked up Main Street to Cross Street, turned and began climbing the hill. Simeon spoke several times but his friend did not answer. A sudden change had come over him. The good spirits with which he told of his adventure with Williams and which had remained during Phinney's stay at the depot, were gone, apparently. His face, in the moonlight, was grave and he strode on, his hands in his pockets. At the crest of the hill he stopped. “Good-night, Sim,” he said, shortly, and, turning, walked off.