Glancing into the room, he saw Tom Pearce, whom he had seen many times before on board several of the boats that sail over the bay. The fisherman, or rather smuggler, was seated before a table on which stood a ship's lamp, reading what appeared to be an old time-stained letter, and after an interval he muttered aloud:
"Well, well, I don't know what to do! That girl is dear to my old heart, and I'd rather die than any harm should come to her; and again I don't like to stand in her way; while according to this letter from the old woman, written nigh on to thirteen years ago, I've no right to let her pass from my possession."
The mutterings of the old man were interrupted by a loud rap at his rickety door.
"Come in!" called the old smuggler.
The door opened, and a roughly dressed man strode into the cabin.
"Hello, Pearce! I see you are here to meet me."
"Yes, Mr. Garcia, I'm waiting for you."
Mr. Garcia took a seat by the table opposite the old smuggler, and saw the latter crumple the letter, and put it in his pocket.
"Eh, old man, what's that your hiding?"
"Nothing that will interest you, sir; it's only an old letter from my dead wife, sent to me many years ago when she was visiting some of her friends over in Connecticut."