I did not know exactly how to begin, but at last I gave a kind of cough, and said: "Can you tell me—"
But I got no farther than that. Both men looked up as if their heads had been pulled back on wires. One of them sprang to the ladder and came up it like a flash.
"Hullo!" he said, as soon as he reached the top; "who are you, and what do you want?"
He was a small man, with a clean-shaven face,—a very pale face it was, too. His hat was off, and I noticed that his hair was rather short. As for his age, I could not have told about that,—it might have been twenty-five or fifty, or any age between. He was quick in his movements, but his manner of speaking was pleasant enough.
"I'm looking for a boat," I said; "someone told me that it was here,—this is Rogers's Island, isn't it?"
"This is Rogers's Island, all right," he answered,—"what kind of a boat is it you are looking for?"
"She's a white cat-boat,—the 'Hoppergrass',—or the 'Hannah J.
Pettingell',—it's more likely that's her name."
He looked at me inquiringly with his quick little eyes. The other man came up through the trap-door. He had put on his coat,—a long, black, "swallow-tail" coat. He was tall and thin, and dressed all in black, with a white neck-tie. His hair was sandy, and he had reddish side-whiskers,—the kind called "side-boards." I never saw a man with such a solemn face,—nor one with so long a nose. But he smiled as he walked over to me, a kind of painful smile as if he had the face-ache. He leaned over, took one of my hands, and held it in his damp grasp, while he patted me on the shoulder with his other hand.
"Well, my little man," he said, "what is your name, and what can I do for you?"
I did not like being called "my little man," and I tried to drop his clammy hand. But he held mine still, and smiled his tooth-achy smile.