"That's who I've got
to defend with a shotgun."
The girl flushed rosily, but she laughed, too.
"You can leave them to me, Uncle Ira. I shall know how to get rid of
them."
"Maybe they won't come," said Prudence.
"They won't? I swan!" snorted her husband. "They all see she's
more'n half Honey. Couldn't keep 'em away any more than you can
flies."
It was quite as Cap'n Ira prophesied. The path from Big Wreck Cove
across the fields to the Head, a path which had become grass-grown
of late years, was soon worn smooth. It was a shorter way from the
town than the wagon road.
The errands invented by the youthful and more or less unattached
male inhabitants of the port to bring them by this path through the
Ball premises were most ingenious indeed. Early on Monday morning,
while Sheila was hanging out her first lineful of clothes, Andrew
Roby, clam basket and hoe on arm, appeared as the first of a long
line of itinerant pedestrians who more or less bashfully bade Cap'n
Ira good day as he sat in his armchair in the sun.
"What's the matter?" asked the old man soberly. "All the clams give
out down to the cove? I heard they was getting scarce. You got to
come clean over here to the beaches, I cal'late, to find you a mess
for dinner, Andy?"
"Well--er--Cap'n Ira, mother was wishing for some big chowder
clams," said young Roby, his eyes squinting sidewise at the slim
figure of Sheila on tiptoe to reach the line.
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