sailor in a spotless white shirt. Mr. Bearse grew impatient.

"Have you heard the news about Cap'n Sam?" he repeated. "Say,
Shavin's, have you?"

The painting went serenely on, but the painter answered.

"Well, Gab," he drawled, "I--"

"Don't call me Gab, I tell you. 'Tain't my name."

"Sho! Ain't it?"

"You know well enough 'tain't. My name's Gabriel. Call me that--
or Gabe. I don't like to be called out of my name. But say,
Shavin's--"

"Well, Gab, say it."

"Look here, Jed Winslow, do you hear me?"

"Yes, hear you fust rate, Gabe--now."

Mr. Bearse's understanding was not easily penetrated; a hint
usually glanced from it like a piece of soap from a slanting cellar
door, but this time the speaker's tone and the emphasis on the
"now" made a slight dent. Gabriel's eyes opened.

"Huh?" he grunted in astonishment, as if the possibility had never
until that moment occured to him. "Why, say, Jed, don't you like