"Stand by to anchor!" came the order from aft, and the mate, calling three men with him, went up the ladder to the fo'c'sle head.
Dan was one of the three. He was at the rail, looking at the little town as it unfolded itself, house after house, with the narrow streets between, when he first noticed the white figure at his side. He turned in surprise; it was the Dago, in the cherished suit of duck which he had guarded for so long under his mattress. Heretofore, Dan had known him only in his rags of working-clothes, a mildly pathetic and ridiculous figure; now he was seemly, unfamiliar, a little surprising.
"What's all this?" demanded Dan.
The Dago was looking with all his eyes at the town, already growing dim.
"Dis?" he repeated. "Dese clo'se, I keep dem for my town, Dan. To come back wis yais! For not be like a mendigo a beggar. Now, no need to keep dem no more; and dis place oh, Dan, it is so like, so like! I dream it all yais de church, de praca all of it!"
"Steady!" growled Dan. "Don't get dreamin' it again."
"No," said the Dago; "I never dream no more. Never no more!"
He did not take his eyes from it; he stood at the rail gazing, intent, absorbed. He did not hear the mate's brief order that summoned him and the others across the deck.
"When I go out on de fishin' boat," he said aloud, thinking Dan was still at his side, "a girl was singin' an'—"
"Here, you!" cried the mate. "What's the matter with you? Why don't you?"