A dozen would have stopped him. By their smiles he knew that he had brought home the first load of frozen herring of the season; but small glory in that for him now. All along the coast when around his lashed body the green seas curled ’twas not of herring, or bonus, or anything with the mark of money on it that was holding thrall his fancy. The Duncan herself could hardly have taken longer leaps before the gale than did Clancy up the dock.

An empty buggy, with a sleepy-looking horse between the shafts, was standing before the door of an office at the head of the wharf. A boy was huddled on some steps near by.

“Whose gear?” asked Clancy, who by then was on the seat and reaching for a whip.

“Belongs to a runner selling fish-hooks inside.”

“Well, tell him I took it when he comes out. Chk-chk—get up, you fat loafer!”

“Oh, Captain—oh, Captain!” the owner called from the doorway of an office, but he called too late. Up the street a plump, astonished horse was flying with a rattling buggy, and a cloud of dust in his wake. Through the streets of Gloucester went Clancy; gybed a corner, then went for fair sailing on a straight stretch; another corner, a beat up an incline, one more corner and another fine straight stretch, and then fetched up all standing, with the sides of the poor beast shaking like a mainsail in the wind.

Fifty yards away was Clancy’s home. But he did not go clattering to that; the courage of him was now failing. He slacked down, halted even, and, leaning a hand against a tree before the door, drew a full breath or two. So much could happen in a week! At the door he tried to fit the key to the lock, but it would not turn. The cold sweat came over him. What did it mean? He tried again. Still no turn. He tried the knob then—and the door opened. It hadn’t been locked at all. And then he remembered: “There’ll be no lock on the door, Tommie, once I hear you are on the way home. Night or day you won’t have to stop to open the lock.”

Perhaps all was well after all. He stepped into the hall. Hearing a noise in the kitchen, he headed that way. Maybe—but no; it was the old helper. Before he could reach her he heard her, talking to herself, as was her habit.

“Tea and toast,” she was saying. “Mustn’t cut the slices too thick for toast—tea and toast for the poor creature!”

“And who’s the poor creature? How is she?”

The old woman started and turned at the sound of that hoarse voice.

“Oh, Captain Clancy!”

“And how is she?”

“Oh, but the lovely baby boy—the day after we sent the telegram.”

Clancy gripped the door-frame and came nigher to the old woman.

“But Ann?”

“Man alive, have no fear! Would I be standing with a quiet mind here and the poor girl not well? She’s sitting up to-day.”

He started to say something, but his tongue would not act.

“Upstairs—in her room?” he managed to whisper at length.