"Is this man named Daggett?" interrupted the physician.

"I _believe_ that is what he calls himself, though a body never is certain
of what such people say."

"That's true, deacon; your rambling, houseless sailor is commonly a great
liar--at least so have I always found him. Most of their log-books will
not do to read; or, for that matter, to be written out, in full. But if
this man's name is really Daggett, he must come from the Vineyard. There
are Daggetts there in scores; yes, he must be a Vineyard man."

"There are Daggetts in Connecticut, as I know, of a certainty--"

"We all know that, for it is a name of weight there; but the Vineyard is
the cradle of the breed. The man has a Vineyard look about him, too. I
dare say, now, he has not been home for many a day."

The deacon was in an agony. He was menaced with the very thing he was in
the hope of staving off, or a discussion on the subject of the sick man's
previous life. The doctor was so mercurial and quick of apprehension,
that, once fairly on the scent, he was nearly certain he would extract
every thing from the patient. This was the principal reason why the deacon
did not wish to send for him; the expense, though a serious objection to
one so niggardly, being of secondary consideration when so many doubloons
were at stake. It was necessary, however, to talk on boldly, as any
appearance of hesitation might excite the doctor's distrust. The answers,
therefore, came instantaneously.

"It may be as you say, doctor," returned the deacon; "for them Vineyard