ll, my lad," he said; "and what is this great thing you have to tell
me that is so mightily wonderful? I got what's-his-name--Mr. Jones's--
letter, and now I am ready to hear what you have to say."

But if he thought but little of his visitor's appearance at first, he
soon changed his sentiments towards him, for Tom had not spoken twenty
words when Mr. Chillingsworth's whole aspect changed. He straightened
himself up in his seat, laid aside his pipe, pushed away his glass of
Madeira, and bade Tom take a chair. He listened without a word as Tom
Chist told of the buried treasure, of how he had seen the poor negro
murdered, and of how he and Parson Jones had recovered the chest again.
Only once did Mr. Chillingsworth interrupt the narrative. "And to
think," he cried, "that the villain this very day walks about New York
town as though he were an honest man, ruffling it with the best of us!
But if we can only get hold of these log-books you speak of. Go on;
tell me more of this."

When Tom Chist's narrative was ended, Mr. Chillingsworth's bearing was
as different as daylight is from dark. He asked a thousand questions,
all in the most polite and gracious tone imaginable, and not only urged
a glass of his fine old Madeira upon Tom, but asked him to stay to
supper. There was nobody to be there, he said, but his wife and
daughter.

Tom, all in a panic at the very thought of the two ladies, sturdily
refused to stay even for the dish of tea Mr. Chillingsworth offered
him.

He did not know that he was destined to stay there as long as he should
live.

"And now," said Mr. Chillingsworth, "tell me about yourself."

"I have nothing to tell, your honor," said Tom, "except that I was
washed up out of the sea."

"Washed up out of the sea!" exclaimed Mr. Chillingsworth. "Why, how was
that? Come, begin at the beginning, and tell me all."

Thereupon Tom Chist did as he was bidden, beginning at the very
beginning and telling everything just as Molly Abrahamson had often
told it to him. As he continued, Mr. Chillingsworth's interest changed
into an appearance of stronger and stronger excitement. Suddenly he
jumped up out of his chair and began to walk up and down the room.

"Stop! stop!" he cried out at last, in the midst of something Tom was
saying. "Stop! stop! Tell me; do you know the name of the vessel that
was wrecked, and from which you were washed ashore?"

"I've heard it said," said Tom Chist, "'twas the _Bristol Merchant