[Illustration: Old Salts Are More Picturesque and Companionable Spinning
Yarns about the Stove in a Shoemaker's Shop than when One Is Obliged to
Live, Eat and Sleep with Them]

We knew his habits well. He eked out a scanty sustenance by fishing off
the shore and would frequently come in on the ebb tide and leave his
boat half way up the beach, going home to dinner and returning when the
flood tide had about reached his boat, to bring it up to its moorings.

So one day we dug a "honey pot" by the side of his boat, at the very
spot where we knew he would approach it, covered it over with dry
seaweed and about the time he was due we were lying out of sight, but
within earshot, behind the rocks. He drifted down, at peace with all the
world, went in over the tops of his rubber boots, and then, for one
blissful moment, we had our reward.

Some of these old salts were so thoroughly salted, being drenched with
the brine of many stormy voyages, that they kept in good condition well
beyond their allotted time of three score years and ten. Some were of
uncertain age, but were evidently well beyond the century mark, as
proved by the aggregate time consumed on their many voyages, the stories
of which they had reiterated with such convincing detail.

One of these, Captain Sam Morris, was patiently stalked by the boys
through a long season of yarn spinning, careful tally being kept. When
the tale was complete, the boys closed in on him.

"How old are you, Captain Sam?"

"Oh, I dunno, I ain't kep' count."