“What ails the old man, Al?” whispered Issachar, peering in around the corner of the door at the silent figure tilted back in the revolving chair, its feet upon the corner of the desk. “Ain't said so much as 'Boo' for up'ards of twenty minutes, has he? I was in there just now fillin' up his ink-stand and, by crimus, I let a great big gob of ink come down ker-souse right in the middle of the nice, clean blottin' paper in front of him. I held my breath, cal'latin' to catch what Stephen Peter used to say he caught when he went fishin' Sundays. Stevey said he generally caught cold when he went and always caught the Old Harry when he got back. I cal'lated to catch the Old Harry part sure, 'cause Captain Lote is always neat and fussy 'bout his desk. But no, the old man never said a word. I don't believe he knew the ink was spilled at all. What's on his mind, Al; do you know?” Albert did not know, so he asked Laban. Laban shook his head. “Give it up, Al,” he whispered. “Somethin's happened to bother him, that's sartin'. When Cap'n Lote gets his feet propped up and his head tilted back that way I can 'most generally cal'late he's doin' some real thinkin'. Real thinkin'--yes, sir-ee--um-hm--yes--yes. When he h'ists his boots up to the masthead that way it's safe to figger his brains have got steam up. Um-hm--yes indeed.” “But what is he thinking about? And why is he so quiet?” “I give up both riddles, Al. He's the only one's got the answers and when he gets ready enough maybe he'll tell 'em. Until then it'll pay us fo'mast hands to make believe we're busy, even if we ain't. Hear that, do you, Is?” “Hear what?” demanded Issachar, who was gazing out of the window, his hands in his pockets. “I say it will pay us--you and Al and me--to make believe we're workin' even if we ain't.” “'Workin'!” indignantly. “By crimus, I AM workin'! I don't have to make believe.” “That so? Well, then, I'd pick up that coal-hod and make believe play for a spell. The fire's 'most out. Almost--um-hm--pretty nigh--yes--yes.” Albert and his grandfather walked home to dinner together, as was their custom, but still the captain remained silent. During dinner he spoke not more than a dozen words and Albert several times caught Mrs. Snow regarding her husband intently and with a rather anxious look. She did not question him, however, but Rachel was not so reticent. “Mercy on us, Cap'n Lote,” she demanded, “what IS the matter? You're as dumb as a mouthful of mush. I don't believe you've said ay, yes or no since we sat down to table. Are you sick?” Her employer's calm was unruffled. “No-o,” he answered, with deliberation. “That's a comfort. What's the matter, then; don't you WANT to talk?” “No-o.” “Oh,” with a toss of the head, “well, I'm glad I know. I was beginnin' to be afraid you'd forgotten how.” The captain helped himself to another fried “tinker” mackerel.