“You're surprised 'cause you ain't thought it out. That's my way; I always think things out. Most folks are selfish. They want to do what they want to do, and they want others to want the same thing. If the others don't want it, then they like to make 'em have it; anyhow. Dorindy is crazy on cleanin'. She wouldn't live in a dirty house no more'n she'd live in a lobster pot. It's the way she's made. But a hen ain't made that way. A hen LIKES dirt; she scratches in it and digs holes in it to waller in, and heaves it over herself all day long. If you left it to the hens would THEY clean their house? I guess not! So, I say what's the use of cruelizin' 'em by makin' 'em live clean when they don't want to? I--” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Lute, you're wasting your breath. It is Dorinda you should explain all this to, not to me. And you're wasting my time. I want you to take that envelope to Mr. Carver; and I want you to go now.” “Well, I'm goin', ain't I? I was only just sayin'--” “Say it when you come back. And if Mr. Carver asks you why I sent that envelope to him be sure and give him the message I gave you. Do you remember it?” “Sartin. That what you done wan't wuth so much.” “Not exactly. That what I saved wasn't worth it.” “All right. I'll remember. But what did you save, Ros? Dorindy says 'twas somethin' you found afloat in the bay. If it was somethin' belongin' to them Coltons I'd have took the money, no matter what the thing was wuth. They can afford to pay and, if I was you, I'd take the reward.” “I have my reward. Now go.” I had my reward and I believed it worth much more than five dollars. I had learned my lesson. I knew now exactly how I was regarded by the occupants of the big house and by the townspeople as well. I should cherish no more illusions as to my importance in their eyes. I meant to be really independent from that time on. I did not care--really did not care--for anything or anybody outside my immediate household. I was back in the position I had occupied for years, but with one difference: I had an ambition now. It was to make both sides in the Shore Lane controversy realize that George Taylor was right when he said I had the whip-hand. By the Almighty, they should dance when I cracked that whip! My first opportunity to crack it came a day or two later, when Captain Dean called upon me. He had a definite proposition to make, although his Yankee shrewdness and caution prevented his making it until he had discussed the weather and other unimportant trifles. Then he leaned against the edge of my work-bench--we were in the boathouse--and began to beat up to windward of his proposal. “Ros,” he said, “you remember I told you you was all right, when I met you at the bank t'other day.” “I remember,” I answered. “Yes. Well, I cal'late you know what I meant by that.” I did not pretend ignorance of his meaning. “I presume,” I replied, “that you meant I was right in not selling that strip of land to Mr. Colton.”