"Who in the world are you?" said Mr. Bastable, clutching the arms of his chair, his eyelids squeezed together oddly.
"Oh! I'm Jack Hardy. Mother said I was to be sure and call. My traps are coming after."
"They are, are they? You're a pretty cool young spark, aren't you? I must take it, I suppose, that you're my Cousin Millicent's boy, eh?"
"Of course, Cousin Humfrey. She said you'd be glad to put me up for a day or two, if I reminded you what friends you and she were, I don't know how many years ago."
"She did, eh? Well, you'd better give an account of yourself. How old are you, and what are you doing in these parts? I don't suppose you came all the way from London to remind me of your mother."
"I'm sixteen, sir, and just appointed to the Fury—you know, the revenue cutter now repairing at Wynport. I've got a few days' leave, so I've just walked over."
"So I should suppose. Your boots look as if you'd walked through half a dozen horseponds on the way."
"Only one, cousin," replied Jack, laughing. "That was in helping a friend of yours, who tumbled over through walking backwards looking at a chimney on fire: Mr. Gudgeon, the farmer."
"A friend of mine, eh? Well, not exactly," said Mr. Bastable dryly. "So his chimney was afire."
"Yes, though I must say he took it pretty coolly; didn't seem to remember it when he got back into the house."