"Hello, Shavin's," hailed Mr. Bearse, blithely.

The tall man applied the brush to the nude pine legs of the wooden
sailor. One side of those legs were modestly covered forthwith by
a pair of sky-blue breeches. The artist regarded the breeches
dreamily. Then he said:

"Hello, Gab."

His voice was a drawl, very deliberate, very quiet, rather soft and
pleasant. But Mr. Bearse was not pleased.

"Don't call me that," he snapped.

The brush was again dipped in the paint pot and the rear elevation
of the pine sailor became sky-blue like the other side of him.
Then the tall man asked:

"Call you what?"

"Gab. That's a divil of a name to call anybody. Last time I was
in here Cap'n Sam Hunniwell heard you call me that and I cal'lated
he'd die laughin'. Seemed to cal'late there was somethin'
specially dum funny about it. I don't call it funny. Say,
speakin' of Cap'n Sam, have you heard the news about him?"

He asked the question eagerly, because it was a part of what he
came there to ask. His eagerness was not contagious. The man on
the chair put down the blue brush, took up a fresh one, dipped it
in another paint pot and proceeded to garb another section of his