The only outward sign of life about the dwelling was a curl of blue smoke. Without this signal of good cheer it had a menacing look, as it lay in its bed of mud glaring at me from under its eaves of eyebrows, shading eyes of windows a-glint in the fading light.
I crossed the small beach strewn with oyster shells, ascended the tottering bridge, and knocked. The door was opened by a gray-bearded old man in a rough jacket. He was bare-footed, his trousers rolled up above his ankles, like a boy's.
"Can you help me across the river?" I asked.
"Yes, perhaps I can. Come into the Hulk," he replied, holding the door against the gusts of wind.
The room was small and low, with doors leading into two others. In its centre, before a square stove, stood a young child cooking the evening meal. I saw no other inmates.
"You are wet," said the old man, laying his hand on my shoulder, feeling me over carefully; "come nearer the stove."
The child brought a chair. As I dropped into it I caught his eye fixed upon me intently.
"What are you?" he said abruptly, noting my glance,—"a peddler." He said this standing over me,—his arms akimbo, his bare feet spread apart.
"No, a painter," I answered smiling; my trap had evidently misled him.
He mused a little, rubbing his beard with his thumb and forefinger; then, making a mental inventory of my exterior, beginning with my slouch hat and taking in each article down to my tramping shoes, he said slowly,—