W. T.
on the stem of his pipe as if the bowl of it were full of modified milk.
He was the postmaster and the customs officer of the port; he owned the fishing-tug and the pound nets; and he employed all the men of the village who would work in his boats. He was building another tug and needed hands to help with her. The old sailor looked as if he might be of some use.
Captain Jim, after dinner, proposed it and was answered by a grunt which he accepted as assenting; and when the men, returning to their work, reappeared in the meadow where the tug's keel had been laid, Captain Jim led the new-comer to join them.
"What's yer name?" he asked, on the way.
He got no answer.
He said: "All right. I'll call you 'Sam.' I s'pose you can swing an adz?"
They came among the oak timbers that were being cut out for the boat's ribs. Captain Jim held out an adz to him. He drew away with a nervous shrinking from the tool, and when the captain asked, sharply, "What's the matter?" he looked down at his hands, held them out, open, and showed a deformity that he had been concealing.
The little finger of each hand was closed down flat on the palm, as if paralyzed.
"Huh!" Captain Jim said. "How'd you do that?"
The question was asked in a tone that was scarcely
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