the topmasts of sailing ships thrusting upward above gray
roofs. Small marvel that my head should be filled with the
ways of the sea and the wonder of it, or that I should spend
long hours dreaming over books that told of adventures
thereon. It was over such a book that I was poring one
summer's evening as I sat in the library bow-window. The
breeze from the harbor came in and stirred the curtains
beside my head, and brought with it the last westering ripple
of sunlight and a smell of climbing roses. The book had
dropped from my hand and I was well-nigh drowsing, when I
saw, as plain as day, the queerest figure possible clicking
open our garden gate. He looked to be some sort of South
American half-breed,--swart face under rough black hair, and
striped blanket gathered over dirty white trousers. Now I had
seen many a strange man disembark from ships, but, never such
a one as this, and when I saw that he was coming straight
toward my window, I was half tempted to make an escape.

He leaned on the sill of the open casement with his dark face
just below mine and began to pour out, in halting English, a
tale which at first I had some trouble in understanding. The
most that I made of it was that he, and he alone, knew the
whereabouts of a city buried ages since under the sea and
filled with treasure of an unbelievable description. But you
may imagine that even the hint of such a thing was enough to
set me all athrill, and I was not greatly surprised at myself
when I found that I was following the queer, slinking figure
down our bare little New England street.

He led me to a ship, an old brigantine heavy with age and