THE "HEBE MAITLAND." CAPTAIN BUCKINGHAM'S NARRATIVE.


"I was that way," he said, "full of opinions, like one of those
little terrier pups with his tail sawed off, so he wags with the
stump, same way a clock does with the pendulum when the weight's gone
--pretty chipper. I used to come often from the other end of Newport
Street, where I was born, to Pemberton's. But that wasn't on account
of Pemberton, though he was agreeable, but on account of Madge
Pemberton. Madge and I were agreed, and Pemberton was agreeable, but
I was restless and keyed high in those days, resembling pups, as
stated.

"No anchoring to Pemberton's chimney for me," I says. "No digging
clams and fishing for small fry in Long Island Sound for me. I'm
going to sea."

And Madge asks, "Why?" calm and reasonable, and I was near stumped
for reasons, having only the same reason as a lobster has for being
green. It's the nature of him, which he'll change that colour when
he's had experience and learned what's what in the boiling. I fished
around for reasons.

"When I'm rich," I says, "I'll fix up Pemberton's for a swell hotel."

Madge says, "It's nice as it is," and acted low in her mind. But if
she thought the less of me for wanting to go to sea, I couldn't say.
Maybe not.

I left Greenough in the year '65, and went to New York, and the