Walking seemed hard for him, for he carried a stout cane. Perched jauntily atop his head was a seaman’s cap.
“Aren’t you young ladies afraid to be walking alone in this dense fog?” he asked with concern. “You might get lost.”
“We are already.” Connie gravely informed him.
“We’re trying to get back to Starfish Cottage,” added Vevi. “We don’t know which way to go. Please help us.”
“Lost, eh?” chuckled the friendly old seaman. “This fog put me in mind o’ the day we were running from Halifax to New York on the John Horner. The fog was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.”
“Are you a sea captain?” Connie asked. She had noticed that the old man wore a uniform with gold braid.
“Aye,” the stranger chuckled. “An old sea dog that’s coiled up his cables. I’ve been in dry dock so many years all my hinges are rusty.”
“Don’t you sail any more?” asked Vevi.
“Haven’t set foot on a deck since my son was lost at sea. I’m an old salt that’s quit the sea—swallowed the anchor, so to speak. But what were you saying about looking for a starfish?”
“Not a fish—a cottage by that name,” explained Connie.