He saw the figure on the porch, smoking, and hailed it:

"Hey, Cap'n Abe! Those fishhooks you sold me last evening aren't what
I wanted--and there's the _Merry Andrew_ waiting out there for me now.
I want----"

The figure in the armchair turned its head. It was not Cap'n Abe at
all!

"Mornin', young feller," said the stranger cordially. "You'll have to
explain a leetle about them hooks. I ain't had a chance to overhaul
much of Abe's cargo yet. I don't even know where he stows his small
tackle. Do you?"

Fully a minute did Lawford Tapp keep him waiting for an answer while he
stared at the stranger. He was not a big man, but he somehow gave the
impression of muscular power. He was dressed in shabby
clothing--shirt, dungaree trousers, and canvas shoes such as sailors
work and go aloft in. The pipe he smoked was Cap'n Abe's--Lawford
recognized it.

There was not, however, another thing about this man to remind one of
the old storekeeper. This stranger was burned to a rich mahogany hue.
Not alone his shaven face, but his bared forearms and his chest where
the shirt was left unbuttoned seemed stained by the tropical sun.
Under jet-black brows the eyes that gazed upon Lawford Tapp seemed dark.

His sweeping mustache was black; and such hair as was visible showed
none of the iron gray of advancing age in it. He wore gold rings in
his ears and to cap his piratical-looking figure was a red bandana worn