tottered off in the direction of the post-office. The daily purchases,
the daily gossip at the "store," would fill the rest of the morning, as
John well knew. He listened in silence to the charges to "keep stiddy to
work, and git that p'tater-patch wed by noon;" he watched the departure
of his tormentor, and went straight to the potato-patch, duty and fear
leading him by either hand. The weeds had no safety of their lives that
day; he was in too great a hurry to dally, as he loved to do, over the
bigger stalks of pigweed, the giants which he, with his trusty
sword--only it was a hoe--would presently dash to the earth and behead,
and tear in pieces. Even the sprawling pusley-stems, which generally
played the part of devil-fish and tarantulas and various other monsters,
suffered no amputation of limb by limb, but were torn up with merciful
haste, and flung in heaps together.

Was the potato-patch thoroughly "wed?" I hardly know. But I know that in
less than an hour after Mr. Endymion Scraper started for the village the
boy John was on his way to the wharf.

As he drew near the river he found that something was the matter with
his breath. It would not come regularly, but in gasps and sighs; his
heart beat so hard, and was so high up in his throat he was almost
choked. Would he see anything when he turned the corner that led down to
the wharf? And if anything,--what? Then he shut his eyes and turned the
corner.

The schooner was there. No longer spectral or shadowy, she lay in plain
sight by the wharf, her trim lines pleasant to look at, her decks
shining with neatness, her canvas all spread out to dry, for the night
dew had been heavy. Lifting his fearful eyes, the child saw the bronze
figure standing in the bow, but now it was plainly seen to be a man, a