I could see the carpenters, whose hammers I had heard, at work upon the roof of the barn, now destined to do double duty as a stable and garage.They, and the painters and plumbers, had been busy on the premises for months.The establishment had been a big one, even when Major Atwater owned it, but the new owners had torn down and added and rebuilt until the house loomed up like a palace or a Newport villa.A Newport villa in Denboro! Why on earth any one should deliberately choose Denboro as a place to live in I couldn't understand; but why a millionaire, with all creation to select from, should build a Newport villa on the bluff overlooking Denboro Bay was beyond comprehension.The reason given in the Cape Cod Item was that Mrs.Colton was "in debilitated health," whatever that is, and had been commanded by her doctors to seek sea air and seclusion and rest.Well, there was sea air and rest, not to mention seclusion or sand and mosquitoes, for a square mile about the new villa, and no one knew that better than I, condemned to live within the square.But if Mrs.Colton had deliberately chosen the spot, with malice aforethought, the place for her was a home for the feeble minded.At least, that was my opinion on that particular morning.
It was not the carpenters who caused me to pause in my walk and look across the lane and over the stone wall at my new neighbor's residence.What caught my attention was that the place looked to be inhabited.The windows were open--fifty or so of them--smoke was issuing from one of the six chimneys; a maid in a white cap and apron was standing by the servants' entrance.Yes, and a tall, bulky man with a yachting cap on the back of his head and a cigar in his mouth was talking with Asa Peters, the boss carpenter, by the big door of the barn.
I had not been up to the village for two days, having been employed at our boat-house on the beach below the house, getting my motor dory into commission for the summer.But now I remembered that Lute had said something about the Coltons being expected, or having arrived, and that he seemed much excited over it.He would have said more, but Dorinda had pounced on him and sent him out to shut up the chickens, which gave him the excuse to play truant and take his evening's trip to the post-office.It was plain that the Coltons HAD arrived.Very likely the stout man with the yachting cap was the mighty "Big Jim" himself.Well, I didn't envy him in his present situation.He had my pity, if anything.
Possibly the fact that I could pity some one other than myself helped to raise my spirits.At any rate I managed to shake off a little of my gloom and tramped on up the Lane, feeling more like a human being and less like a yellow dog.Less as I should imagine a yellow dog ought to feel, I mean, for, as a matter of fact, most yellow dogs of my acquaintance seem to be as happy as their brown or white or black relatives.I walked up the Lane, turned into the Lower Road, and headed for the village.The day was a gorgeous one, the air bracing as a tonic, and my thirtieth birthday was not yet so far astern as to be lost in the fog.After all, there were some consolations in being alive and in a state of health not "debilitated." I began to whistle.
A quarter of a mile from the junction of the Shore Lane, on the Lower Road, was a willow-shaded spot, where the brook which irrigated Elnathan Mullet's cranberry swamp ran under a small wooden bridge.It was there that I first heard the horn and, turning, saw the automobile coming from behind me.It was approaching at a speed of, I should say, thirty miles an hour, and I jumped to the rail of the bridge to let it pass.Autos were not as common on the Cape then as they have become since.Now the average pedestrian of common-sense jumps first and looks afterwards.
