"Ay, ay,--heave ahead!"

So we started once more. The streets were black as ink. They were
paved with cobblestones, and there did not seem to be any side-
walks. The buildings were fishermen's and clammers' huts, boat-
houses, and small shops,--all dark and deserted. The fog shut out
everything at a short distance. At the top of the hill there was
one dim light in the rear of a little shanty.

"Hist!"

Mr. Daddles stopped us.

"It's the lair of the old fox himself!"

"Who?"

"None but black-hearted Gregory the Gauger. Him it was--or one of
his minions--that killed old Diccon, our messmate, but a hundred
paces from the cave, last Michaelmas. Shall we go in and slit his
weazand?"

We crept up to the window and looked in. A little man, with chin-
whiskers like a paintbrush, sat inside, shucking clams by the
light of a lantern. We decided not to go in and slit his weazand.
Suddenly he looked up, as if he had heard us, and then rising,
started for the door. We all darted back hastily, and hid in the
shadow of the next building. He came out, emptied the pail of
clam-shells, looked toward the sky, yawned, and went in again.