here was John? Franci and Rento had charge of the deck exhibition, but
the Skipper kept his station at the head of the gang-plank, and while
courteously receiving his visitors, with a word of welcome for each, he
looked often up the road to see if his little friend was coming. He
thought the gleam of red hair would brighten the landscape; but it came
not, and the Skipper was not one to neglect a possible customer. Now and
again he would touch some one on the arm, and murmur gently, "In a few
moments presently, other exhibition in the cabin, to which I have the
pleasure of invite you. I attend in person, which is free to visitors."

He spoke without accent, the Skipper, but his sentences were sometimes
framed on foreign models, and it was no wonder if now and then he met a
blank stare. He looked a little bored, possibly; these faces, full of
idle wonder, showed no trace of the collector's eager gaze; yet he was
content to wait, it appeared. Mr. Bill Hen Pike judged, from the way in
which everything was trigged up, that the schooner "cal'lated to make
some stay hereabouts;" and the Skipper did not contradict him, but bowed
gravely, and said, "In a few moments, gentleman, do me the honour to
descend to the cabin, where I take the pleasure of exhibit remarkable
collection of shells."

But now the Skipper raised his head, and became in a moment keenly
alert; for a new figure was seen making its slow way to the wharf,--a
new figure, and a singular one.

An old man, white-haired and wizen, with a face like a knife-blade, and
red, blinking eyes. The face wore a look of eager yet doleful
anticipation, as of a man going to execution and possessed with an
intense desire to feel the edge of the axe. His thin fingers twitched
and fumbled about his pockets, his lips moved, and he shook his head
from time to time. This old gentleman was clad in nankeen trousers of
ancient cut, a velvet waistcoat and a blue swallow-tail coat, all
greatly too large for him. His scant locks were crowned by a cheap straw
hat of the newest make, his shoes and gaiters were of a twenty-year-old
pattern. Altogether, he was not an ordinary-looking old gentleman, nor
was his appearance agreeable; but the village people took no special
notice of him, being well used to Mr. Endymion Scraper and his little
ways. They knew that he was wearing out the clothes that his extravagant
uncle had left behind him at his death, twenty years ago. They had seen
three velvet