of the
past formed her principal topic of conversation.

There were half a dozen others, including an artist whose aversion to
barbers was proclaimed by the luxuriant length of his locks, a quiet old
gentleman who kept the second-hand book store two doors below; his wife,
a neat, trim little body; and Mr. and Mrs. C. Dickens, no less.

Mr. Dickens was bald, an affliction which he tried to conceal by
brushing the hair at the sides of his head across the desert at the
top. He shaved his cheeks and wore a beard and mustache. Mrs. Dickens
addressed him as "C.," and handed him the sauce bottle, the bread, or
whatever she imagined he desired, as if she were offering sacrifice to
an idol.

She sat next to Captain Elisha and imparted information concerning her
lord and master in whispers, during the intervals between offerings.

"My husband will be pleased to meet you, Captain Warren," she murmured.
"Any friend of Mr. Pearson is certain to be an acquisition. Mr. Pearson
and my husband are congenial spirits; they are members of the same
profession."

"I want to know, ma'am."

"Yes. What is it, 'C.' dear? Oh, the butter! Margaret--" to the
waitress--"Mr. Dickens wishes another butter-ball. Yes, Captain Warren,
Mr. Dickens is an author. Haven't you noticed the--er--resemblance? It
is considered quite remarkable."

Captain Elisha looked puzzled. "Why," he said, "I hadn't noticed it
'special. Jim's--Mr. Pearson's--eyes and his are some the same color,
but--"

"Oh, no! not the resemblance to Mr. Pearson. I didn't mean _that_. The
resemblance to his more famous namesake. Surely you notice it _now_."

The captain shook his head. "I--I'm afraid I'm thick-headed, ma'am," he
admitted. "I'm out of soundin's."

"But the nose, and his beard, and his manner. Don't they remind you of
the English Dickens?"

"O-oh!" Captain Elisha inspected the great man with interest. He had
a vague memory of a portrait in a volume of "Pickwick" at home. "Oh, I
see! Yes, yes."

"Of course you see! Everyone does. Mr. Dickens often says--it is one of
his favorite jokes--that while other men must choose a profession, his
was chosen for him by fate. How, with such a name, could he do anything
except write?"

"I don't know, ma'am. But names are risky pilots, ain't they? I've run
against a consider'ble number of Solomons, but there wa'n't one of 'em
that carried more'n a deckload of wisdom. They christened me Elisha, but
I can't even prophesy the we