"Be you shutting out the sound of the sea?" laughed Tim. "You can't do it, Dallas. It'll foller and foller. I've tried it in the woods."
When they were once seated at the smoking supper, however, Dallas forgot the sound of the sea, or whatever had pursued him. He had a way of giving himself up so childishly to his fun, and a habit, too, when serious, of showing his great ignorance through incessant questions, that even Tim Graah felt himself his superior. While Dallas set open-mouthed, listening intently to the story of Jane Graah's marriage, Tim regarded him as little better than a fool. One would think, from his questions, he never had lived where there were women before.
"Where will you live when you are married, Dallas?" the story being finished.
"Here." The answer was grave and prompt. "There's a place up on the river nobody knows but me. I'll build a house there."
"Thee has matured thy plans early," said a quiet voice behind him, and turning, the boys saw the Quaker Ledwith in the open door. "Thy supper smelled savory, Friend Galbraith. Thee must blame it for making me unlatch the door and come in uninvited."
Dallas colored with pleasure. "There's a crab or two left," looking in the dish, and then bustling off for a clean plate.
The Quaker seated himself, his thick arms crossed on the little table; his square, solid figure seemed to fill up the room, and Tim, from being an honored guest, felt himself dwindle suddenly down into the usual superfluous nuisance of a boy.
Ledwith remained a moment doubtful after the dish was placed before him; the delicious morsel tempted him. Then he pushed it from him. "I think I will not eat thy bread and salt, Dallas," he said. "Thee has a comfortable little house here; very comfortable. But a gun, eh? One would not think thee needed defence for thy house?"
Tim, whose wide-awake gaze never left the stranger's face, wondered here, more and more, how, without apparent motion, the stolid light-blue eyes took in and noted all that was in the room; but Dallas laughed unconcernedly, clearing away the dishes.
"The gun is Laddoun's."
"Laddoun's? But thou art a keen marksman, they tell me. Does thee not find thy skill wasted on this beach?"
A trace of significance crept into the last words. He checked himself suddenly, coughing behind his hand, and sat looking steadily in the fire, while Galbraith made some boyish efforts to entertain him, discussing the schools of mackerel that had run in last week, and the chance of a nor'easter before November.
"Thee has learned the lingo of the beach soon," looking up at last. "Thee has got quite a salty flavor into thyself Here's the workshop? So?" suddenly facing about to a little closet immediately behind him. Had the man eyes in the back of his head, then? Tim dragged behind them with a pale face, one hand gripping Galbraith's shirt sleeve. But Dallas hurried eagerly with a candle after the Quaker, who stood in the recess quite motionless for a moment; in that moment, however, he had absorbed every item about him, and classed and rated them.
"Shelf of old books—bought off of stalls—De Candolle, Bartram, Pursh—a botanist, eh? half-worn-out works on chemistry—how many? old treatises on geology. These cost a pretty penny!" while Galbraith passed his hand over them with an unconscious caress, brushing the dust from one or two. "Bottles full of ore and sand. Boxes of herbs and earths; a pick—shovels. What is in that cupboard?" sharply, tapping it with his cane.
Galbraith opened it with a proud flush; the Quaker gave a start of surprise. "A battery! Chemical apparatus—manufactured out of old vials and pipes. Thee has a wonderful cleverness, boy," turning over the queer substitutes for retorts and crucibles with a smile, and speaking in a quick, changed voice. "I had a fancy for the study when I was a boy, but I took to—to making analyses of a differ-
