"Too late in the day," says he. "'Fraid of gittin' sunburned. You
want to watch for 'em about daybreak. Millions then. Travel in
flocks."

"Ye-e-es?" says I. "All hangin' onto a string, I expect. But why the
painted posts stickin' up out of the water?"

"Hitchin' posts," says he, "for sea hosses."

Oh, I got a bunch of valuable marine information from him, and when the
second mate came up he added a lot more. If I hadn't thought to tell
'em how there was always snow on the Singer and Woolworth towers, and
how the East Side gunmen was on strike to raise the homicide price to
three dollars and seventy-five cents, they'd had me well Sweeneyed. As
it was, I guess we split about even.

Him findin' Boothbay Harbor among all that snarl of islands and
channels wasn't any bluff, though. That was the real sleight of hand.
As we're comin' up to the dock he points out Ira's boatworks, just on
the edge of the town. Half an hour later I've left my baggage at the
hotel and am interviewin' Mr. Higgins.

He's the same old Ira; only he's wearin' blue overalls and a boiled
shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"Roarin' Rocks, eh?" says he. "Why, that's the Hollister place on
Cunner Point, about three miles up."

"Can I get a trolley?" says I.