Fogo was nowhere
to be seen. "Drownded hissel'," was Caleb's first thought, but his
ear caught the sound of hammering up at the house. He walked indoors
to see that all was right.
"How be feelin'?" he asked, putting his head in at the dining-room
door.
Mr. Fogo laid down the mallet with which he had been nailing a loose
plank in the flooring, and looked up.
"All right, Caleb, thank you."
"I was afear'd you might be none compass agen."
"What?"
"None compass--Greek for 'mazed.' Good-bye for the present, sir."
Caleb borrowed a hammer, a nail or two, and a spade, and descended
again to the beach. Here he chose a spot carefully, and began to dig
a large hole in the shingle. This finished, he turned to the board,
and spent some time with the brush in his hand and his head on one
side, thinking. Then he began to paint vigorously.
Half-an-hour later, a tall post with a board on top stood on the
beach at Kit's House. On the board, in letters six inches long, was
tarred the following inscription:--
TAKE NOTICE.
ALL WIMMEN
FOUND TRAPESING ON THIS
BEECH WILL BE DEALT
WITH ACCORDING
TO THE LAW.
Above this notice jauntily rested the Admiral's cocked-hat, which had
drifted ashore further up on the shingle--an awful witness to the
earnestness of the threat and the vanity of human greatness.
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