himself for having so curiously let himself drift away from the very purpose of his visit. He concluded he had best call on old Coble again at the store, and walked thither with hangdog mien, unable even now to shake off the jail. Old Coble was sorting out a bale of sponge into three baskets—one for bests, one for seconds, and one for thirds.
“Hello, young man!” he roared. Matt felt a momentary trepidation before he remembered that the old man meant his tones to be inviting. He crunched his way towards the mountain over the gritty débris, sniffing in the pungent aroma of the place. The old giant straightened himself, brushed the sand off each hand with the other, and, running his fingers through his white beard by way of combing that, held out his hairy paw to Matt. He gripped the young man’s long fingers heartily, then waved him to a seat on an empty inverted sponge-box.
“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” said Matt.
“Not at all,” said Coble, in angry accents.
There was a pause.
“I made a fool of myself last night,” Matt commenced, abruptly.
Coble looked down inquiringly at him.
“I didn’t say one word to your daughter about the Frenchman,” he continued, ruefully.
The mountain shook with explosive laughter.