his living as a "hollibubber," or one who carts away the refuse slates.
On returning to his native parish he had brought back and retained the
name of his profession, the parish register alone preserving his true
name of Matthew Spry. He was a fervent Methodist--a local preacher, in
fact--and was held in some admiration by "the people" for his lustiness
in prayer-meeting. A certain intensity in his large grey eyes gave
character to a face that was otherwise quite insignificant. You could
see he was a good man.

"Did 'ee see that dainty frigate go cruisin' by, two hour agone?"

"No."

"Then ye missed a sweet pretty sight. Thirty guns, I do b'lieve, an'
all sail set. I cou'd a'most count her guns, she stood so close."

"Hey?"

"She tacked just here an' went round close under Bradden Point; so she's
for Troy, that's certain. Be you bound that way, too?"

"Iss, I'll see her, if she's there."

"Best not go too close, my son; for I know the looks o' those customers.
By all accounts you'm a man of too much substance to risk yourself near
a press-gang."

Young Zeb gazed over the old man's head at the horizon line, and
answered, as if reading the sentence there, "I might fare worse,
hollibubber."