We responded in the affirmative; and he soon produced a silver medal, with an inscription on one side recording the circumstances, and on the other an embossed picture of a ship in distress, a cannon from which the ball and rope attached had been discharged and were visible in mid air, several men standing around the gun, and a life-boat climbing the seas.
“But, Bill, tell us about the Barnegat pirates leading a lame horse with a lantern tied to his neck over the sand hills in imitation of a ship’s light, and thus inveigling vessels ashore.”
“I can only say I have never heard of it. As quick as a vessel comes ashore, the insurance agent is telegraphed for, and he takes charge of everything. Why, we even buy the wrecks and pay well for them, too. Now and then something is washed up like that coal in front of the house, but it is not often.”
“What do you mean by the stations?”
“They are houses built by the Government and placed at regular distances along the beach. The gun, and rope, and life-boat, and life-car, and all other things that are needed in case of shipwreck, are kept in them. Then there is a stove and coal ready to make a fire, for if a poor wretch got ashore in mid-winter he would soon freeze if he couldn’t get to a fire. And if the man who has charge of the station lives two miles off across a bay that he can’t cross in a bad storm, what can the poor half-drowned fellows do, if they are too much benumbed to break open the door? I’d stave it in for them pretty quick if I was there, law or no law.”
“It is a shame that a matter like that should not be free from politics.”
“So it was once,” Bill went on fluently; for on this subject he felt that his family had a right to be eloquent; “at one time some department had it in charge that never would either appoint or remove a man on political account; but that is all changed now, and the men are expected to go out with every administration, and shipwrecked passengers die while political favorites draw the two hundred dollars a year pay for the station-master.”
“Now, Bill, stop your talk about the public wrongs, and tell us something more interesting. Have you ever heard one of Bill’s ghost stories?” This inquiry was addressed to the public.
Bill’s face lengthened; he sat silently nursing his leg and smoking his brierwood pipe, while a shadow seemed to settle on his countenance. “Come, Bill,” we responded, “let’s have the story.”
Bill answered not, and the shadow deepened, and the smoke was puffed in heavier masses from his lips.