In consequence, by spring the social status of Albert Speranza among those of his own age in the village had become something like this: He was in high favor with most of the girls and in corresponding disfavor with most of the young fellows. The girls, although they agreed that he was “stand-offish and kind of queer,” voted him “just lovely, all the same.” Their envious beaux referred to him sneeringly among themselves as a “stuck-up dude.” Some one of them remembered having been told that Captain Zelotes, years before, had been accustomed to speak of his hated son-in-law as “the Portygee.” Behind his back they formed the habit of referring to their new rival in the same way. The first time Albert heard himself called a “Portygee” was after prayer meeting on Friday evening, when, obeying a whim, he had walked home with Gertie Kendrick, quite forgetful of the fact that Sam Thatcher, who aspired to be Gertie's “steady,” was himself waiting on the church steps for that privilege. Even then nothing might have come of it had he and Sam not met in the path as he was sauntering back across lots to the main road and home. It was a brilliant moonlight night and the pair came together, literally, at the bend where the path turns sharply around the corner of Elijah Doane's cranberry shanty. Sam, plowing along, head down and hands in his pockets, swung around that corner and bumped violently into Albert, who, a cigarette between his lips--out here in the fields, away from civilization and Captain Zelotes, was a satisfyingly comfortable place to smoke a cigarette--was dreaming dreams of a future far away from South Harniss. Sam had been thinking of Gertie. Albert had not. She had been a mere incident of the evening; he had walked home with her because he happened to be in the mood for companionship and she was rather pretty and always talkative. His dreams during the stroll back alone in the moonlight had been of lofty things, of poetry and fame and high emprise; giggling Gerties had no place in them. It was distinctly different with Sam Thatcher. They crashed together, gasped and recoiled. “Oh, I'm sorry!” exclaimed Albert. “Can't you see where you're goin', you darned Portygee half-breed?” demanded Sam. Albert, who had stepped past him, turned and came back. “What did you say?” he asked. “I said you was a darned half-breed, and you are. You're a no-good Portygee, like your father.”