Dr. Sage now arrived; a shrewd, observant, intelligent man, who had formerly represented the district in which he lived, in Congress.  He was skilful in his profession, and soon made up his mind concerning the state of his patient.  As the deacon never left him for a moment, to him he first communicated his opinion, after the visit, as the two walked back towards the well-known dwelling of the Pratts.

“This poor man is in the last stages of a decline,” said the physician, coolly, “and medicine can do him no good.  He may live a month; though it would not surprise me to hear of his death in an hour.”

“Do you think his time so short!” exclaimed the deacon.  “I was in hopes he might last until the Sea Lion goes out, and that a voyage might help to set him up.”

“Nothing will ever set him up again, deacon, you may depend, on that.  No sea-voyage will do him any good; and it is better that he should remain on shore, on account of the greater comforts he will get.  Does he belong on Oyster Pond?”

“He comes from somewhere east,” answered the deacon, careful not to let the doctor know the place whence the stranger had come, though to little purpose, as will presently be seen.  “He has neither friend nor acquaintance, here; though I should think his effects sufficient to meet all charges.”

“Should they not be, he is welcome to my visit,” answered the doctor, promptly; for he well understood the deacon’s motive in making the remark.  “I have enjoyed a pleasant sail across the bays with young Gar’ner, who has promised to take me back again.  I like boating, and am always better for one of these sailing excursions.  Could I carry my patients along, half of them would be benefited by the pure air and the exercise.”

“It’s a grateful thing to meet with one of your temperament, doctor—­but Daggett—­”

“Is this man named Daggett?” interrupted the physician.

“I believe that is what he calls himself, though a body never is certain of what such people say.”

“That’s true, deacon; your rambling, houseless sailor is commonly a great liar—­at least so have I always found him.  Most of their log-books will not do to read; or, for that matter, to be written out, in full.  But if this man’s name is really Daggett, he must come from the Vineyard.  There are Daggetts there in scores; yes, he must be a Vineyard man.”

“There are Daggetts in Connecticut, as I know, of a certainty—­”

“We all know that, for it is a name of weight there; but the Vineyard is the cradle of the breed.  The man has a Vineyard look about him, too.  I dare say, now, he has not been home for many a day.”