Nautilus | Page 3

hardened into the garret floor. He staggered a few steps, as
the hard hand gave him a push and let him go, then stood firm and
looked about him. Gradually the room grew familiar; the painted bed
and chair, the window with its four small panes, which he loved to
polish and clean, "so that the sky could come through," the purple
mussel-shell and the china dog, his sole treasures and ornaments. The
mussel was his greatest joy, perhaps; it had been given him by a
fisherman, who had brought a pocket-full back from his sea trip, to
please his own children. It made no sound, but the tint was pure and
lovely, and it was lined with rainbow pearl. The dog was not jealous,
for he knew (or the boy John thought he knew), that he was, after all,
the more companionable of the two, and that he was talked to ten times
for the mussel's once. John was telling him now, as he struggled into

his shirt and trousers, about the vision of last night, and the dreams that
followed it. "And as soon as ever I have my chores done," he said, and
his eyes shone, and his cheek flushed at the thought, "as soon as ever,
I'm going down there, just to see. Of course, I suppose it isn't there, you
know; but then,--if it should be!"
The dog expressed sympathy in his usual quiet way, and was of the
opinion that John should go by all means, for, after all, who could say
that the vision might not have been reality? When one considered the
stories one had read! and had not the dog just heard the whole of
"Robinson Crusoe" read aloud, bit by bit, in stealthy whispers, by early
daylight, by moonlight, by stray bits of candle begged from a
neighbor,--had he not heard and appreciated every word of the
immortal story? He was no ignorant dog, indeed! His advice was worth
having.
Breakfast was soon eaten; it did not take long to eat breakfast in Mr.
Scraper's house. The chores were a more serious matter, for every
spoon and plate had to be washed to the tune of a lashing tongue, and
under an eye that withered all it lighted on. But at last,--at last the
happy hour came when the tyrant's back was turned, and the tyrant's
feet tottered off in the direction of the post-office. The daily purchases,
the daily gossip at the "store," would fill the rest of the morning, as
John well knew. He listened in silence to the charges to "keep stiddy to
work, and git that p'tater-patch wed by noon;" he watched the departure
of his tormentor, and went straight to the potato-patch, duty and fear
leading him by either hand. The weeds had no safety of their lives that
day; he was in too great a hurry to dally, as he loved to do, over the
bigger stalks of pigweed, the giants which he, with his trusty
sword--only it was a hoe--would presently dash to the earth and behead,
and tear in pieces. Even the sprawling pusley-stems, which generally
played the part of devil-fish and tarantulas and various other monsters,
suffered no amputation of limb by limb, but were torn up with merciful
haste, and flung in heaps together.
Was the potato-patch thoroughly "wed?" I hardly know. But I know
that in less than an hour after Mr. Endymion Scraper started for the

village the boy John was on his way to the wharf.
As he drew near the river he found that something was the matter with
his breath. It would not come regularly, but in gasps and sighs; his
heart beat so hard, and was so high up in his throat he was almost
choked. Would he see anything when he turned the corner that led
down to the wharf? And if anything,--what? Then he shut his eyes and
turned the corner.
The schooner was there. No longer spectral or shadowy, she lay in
plain sight by the wharf, her trim lines pleasant to look at, her decks
shining with neatness, her canvas all spread out to dry, for the night
dew had been heavy. Lifting his fearful eyes, the child saw the bronze
figure standing in the bow, but now it was plainly seen to be a man, a
swarthy man, with close-curled black hair, and bright, dark eyes. Two
other men were lounging about the deck, but John took little heed of
them. This man, the strangest he had ever seen, claimed his whole
thought. He was as dark as the people in the geography book, where the
pictures of the different races were; not an Ethiopian, evidently (John
loved the long words in the geography book), because his nose was
straight and