W. T.
ful refuge—so cool and so moist—and you will understand what Captain Johnson does not profess to know, namely, why "th' ol' crocodile happened in on Port Derby." As well ask why the alligators happened in on the Everglades of Florida.
The captain, sitting on the veranda of the little hotel, saw him come crawling across the wooden bridge of Catfish Creek. "Well," he says, "I seen at onct he was a sailorman. Rings in his ears, ol'-fashioned sailor ways. He was the color of a smoked ham that's been hung too long. Kind o' dried up an' drawn to the string. Bald as a peeled egg. Been trampin', I c'u'd see that."
And the captain greeted him, "Well, mate, where 're you bound to?"
3
The man stopped and looked up at him slowly, with a brow-puckered scrutiny, dazed and uncertain. He did not reply.
"Come in out o' the sun," the captain said; and he came into the shade of the veranda and sat down on the steps, with his back turned.
He had no pack. He was coatless, in a gray flannel shirt, a leather belt, and stained overalls. A bare toe showed through a break in his shoe.
Captain Jim tried him with various inquiries: "Come far?" "Purty tired, eh?" "Lookin' fer work?"
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