The old man nodded. "Sounds cur'us, don't it? But that was what he
wanted. He was a big hotel keeper and he sort o' got the idea that if he
could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for the hotel. He
offered me a good deal o' money if I'd go with him--said he'd give
me five hunderd a year and keep." The old man chuckled. "I told him I
wouldn't go for a thousand--not for two thousand," he said emphatically.
"Why, I don't s'pose there's money enough in New York to tempt me to
live there.

"Have you been there?"

"Yes, I've been there a good many times. We've put in for repairs and
one thing and another, and I sailed a couple of years between there and
Liverpool once. It's a terrible shet-in place," he said suddenly.

"I believe you're right," admitted the young man. He had lighted his
pipe and was leaning back, watching the smoke. "You _do_ feel shut
in--sometimes. But there are a lot of nice people shut in with you."

"That's what I meant," he said, quickly. "I can't stan' so many folks."

"You're not much crowded here." The young man lifted his head. Down
below they could hear the surf beating. The wind had risen. It rushed
against the little house whirlingly.

The old man listened a minute. "I shall have to go down and reef her
down," he said thoughtfully. "It's goin' to blow."

"I should say it _is_ blowing," said the young man.