And with this promised hospitality in lieu of fare the discomfited boatmen were fain to be content.
CHAPTER XIII.
"A STRANGE, STRANGE STORY," SAID FRANK. "I WONDER
HOW IT WILL ALL END."
The loss of nets and boats had been a severe blow to the honest folks of Methlin.
Gladly would Eean have made good his neighbours' losses; but, alas! he was poor. Sitting in his cave one evening, however, composing a poem on the recent disaster for a well-known American magazine that knew the fisherman bard's worth, he was looking around him at his picture-hung walls.
"Why not," he thought, "dispose of a few of these, and head a subscription with the funds thus raised?"
It was an intention that did him infinite credit, for he dearly loved those strange scenes; they were in reality the painted history of his life.
"Well, go they must," he said. "It is in a good cause."
As he was placing five of them on his table he heard footsteps on the stone stairs, and immediately after the white-haired old doctor entered.
"Good morning, poet," he said. "Versifying, eh? Well, there is five yellow boys towards a subscription for boats and nets for your poor people. If I were rich I'd give you more. No, I won't have thanks. I'll run away if you begin. But what are you bundling up those quaint and curious pictures for? Ah! good Eean, I see it in those shy eyes of yours. Nay, nay, you cannot deceive a doctor. But I tell you what, you shan't make the sacrifice."