“No, no, Ophelia,” she protested, “it isn’t any use.  That old thing has been out of order for—­why, for years.  No one could possibly play on it.  No one has for ever and ever so long.  Father knows it perfectly well.”

Again Captain Jethro tugged at his beard.

“Humph!” he grunted. “’Tis out of order; I remember now. . . .  Humph!  I—­I forgot that.  Well, we’ll have to have some sort of music.  Can anybody that’s here play on anything?”

There was silence for a moment.  Then a thin masculine voice from the dimness made proclamation.

“I can play on the fiddle,” it said; and then added, as if in afterthought, “some.”

There was a rustle in the corner from which the voice had come.  Mutterings and whisperings arose.  “Don’t talk so foolish!” “Well, Sary, he asked if anybody could play on anything and I—­” “Be still, I tell you!  I declare if there’s any chance for a person to make a jumpin’ numbskull out of himself in front of folks I’ll trust you to be right on deck.”  “Now, Sary, what are you goin’ on like this for?  I only just—­”

The dispute was growing louder and more violent.  Captain Jethro roared a command for silence.

“What’s all this?” he demanded.  “Silence there for’ard!” He waited an instant and then asked, “Who was it said they could play the fiddle?  Was it you, Abel Hardin’?”

Mr. Abel Harding, clam digger and fish purveyor, resident in South Wellmouth, acknowledged his identity.

“Yus, Cap’n Jeth,” he declared.  “I said I could play the fiddle, and I can, too.  Sary B., she says—­”

“Sarah B.”—­otherwise Mrs. Abel Harding—­interrupted.  “He can’t play nothin’ but two jig tunes and he plays them like the very Old Scratch,” she snapped, with emphasis.

“Well, I never said I was anything great at it, did I?  I said I can play some, and I can.  If you’d just keep your tongue to home and leave me be I—­”

“Silence!” shouted the light keeper again.  The domestic squabble broke off in the middle and some irreverent giggles from other sections of the circle subsided.  Captain Jethro’s indignant gaze swept the group.  Primmie said afterward, “You couldn’t see him glare at you, but you could feel him doin’ it.”  When the stillness was absolute the captain asked, “Where is your fiddle, Abel?”

“Eh?” Mr. Harding paused and cleared his throat.  “Why,” he stammered, “it’s—­it’s to home.  Er—­er—­that’s where I keep it, you know.”

“Humph!” Captain Jethro’s scorn was withering.  “And home is eleven mile away or such matter.  How much good is your bein’ able to play on it goin’ to do us when ’tain’t here for you to play on?”

There were discreet snickers from the dimness.  Mrs. Hardin’s voice was audible, saying, “There, I told you so, foolhead.”  The captain once more ordered and obtained silence.

“We’ve had enough of this,” he growled.  “This ain’t a play-actin’ show to laugh at.  If we can’t behave accordin’ as we should we’ll give it up.  Marietta says she can’t get into contact with the sperit world without music.  Would it do if we was to sing somethin’, Marietta?”