"Whatever, Skipper Job," the clerk resumed, with a twinkle in his eye, "I took him into the cabin, and the crew and you were snug enough in the forecastle, where no hail of mine could reach you. It was not until then," he resumed, "when the light of the cabin lamp fell full upon him, that I had a proper appreciation of my customer's size and strength—not until then that I marked the deathly pallour of his face and the strange light in his eyes. He was frowsy, dirty, dressed in ragged moleskin cloth; and he had a habit of looking to right and left and aloft—anywhere, it appeared, but straight in my face—so that I caught no more than a red flash from his eyes from time to time. I felt uneasy, without being able to account to myself for the feeling; so, anxious to be well rid of him, I asked, abruptly, in what I could serve him.
"'I'm thinkin' you'll not be havin' the thing I wants,' said he.
"That touched me on a tender spot. 'I'm thinking,' said I, 'that we've a little of all that you ever thought of.'
"'I don't think you has,' said he, 'but 'twould be best for you if you had.'
"There was a hidden meaning in that. Why should it be best for me?
"'And what is it?' said I.
"''Tis a spool o' silk thread,' said he, soberly, 't' bind the fairies with—the wicked fairies that tells me t' do the things I don't want t'. If you've any o' that, sir, I'll take all you got aboard, for I wants it bad.'
"'Come, now, my man,' said I sharply, 'stop your joking. I'm tired, and in no humour for it. What is it you want?'
"'I'm not jokin', sir,' said he. 'I wants a spool o' green silk thread t' lash the wicked fairies t' the spruce trees.'
"I could not doubt him longer; there was too much longing, too much hopelessness, in his voice for that. He was demented; but there are many men of that coast whom lonely toil has driven mad, but yet who live their lives through to the natural end, peaceable folk and good fishermen, and I thought that this poor fellow had as good a right to trade with me as the sanest man in Shelter Harbour.