here,--this is Rogers's Island, isn't it?"

"This is Rogers's Island, all right," he answered,--"what kind of
a boat is it you are looking for?"

"She's a white cat-boat,--the 'Hoppergrass',--or the 'Hannah J.
Pettingell',--it's more likely that's her name."

He looked at me inquiringly with his quick little eyes. The other
man came up through the trap-door. He had put on his coat,--a
long, black, "swallow-tail" coat. He was tall and thin, and
dressed all in black, with a white neck-tie. His hair was sandy,
and he had reddish side-whiskers,--the kind called "side-boards."
I never saw a man with such a solemn face,--nor one with so long a
nose. But he smiled as he walked over to me, a kind of painful
smile as if he had the face-ache. He leaned over, took one of my
hands, and held it in his damp grasp, while he patted me on the
shoulder with his other hand.

"Well, my little man," he said, "what is your name, and what can I
do for you?"

I did not like being called "my little man," and I tried to drop
his clammy hand. But he held mine still, and smiled his tooth-achy
smile.

"What is it we can do for you?" he repeated. He had a smooth voice
that somehow made me feel as if I was having warm butter poured
over me.