The man, who was reclining in an invalid's rolling-chair, clapped both
large, pale hands to the wheels and pushed himself out along the
porch. He had shawls pinned about him, an untidy, drab-colored hat on
his head, and, when he looked down at me, he scowled.

"I know who you are," he said, in his acid voice; "you're one of the
Zoological men from Bronx Park. You look like it, anyway."

"It is easy to recognize you from your reputation," I replied,
irritated at his discourtesy.

"Really," he replied, with something between a sneer and a laugh, "I'm
obliged for your frankness. You're after my great auks, are you not?"

"Nothing else would have tempted me into this place," I replied,
sincerely.

"Thank Heaven for that," he said. "Sit down a moment; you've
interrupted us." Then, turning to the young woman, who wore the neat
gown and tiny cap of a professional nurse, he bade her resume what she
had been saying. She did so, with deprecating glance at me, which made
the old man sneer again.

"It happened so suddenly," she said, in her low voice, "that I had no
chance to get back. The boat was drifting in the cove; I sat in the
stern, reading, both oars shipped, and the tiller swinging. Then I
heard a scratching under the boat, but thought it might be
sea-weed--and, next moment, came those soft thumpings, like the sound
of a big fish rubbing its nose against a float."