Walking just behind this pleasant old person, with feet that tried to go sedately, and not betray by hopping and skippings the joy that was in them, came the boy John; brought along in case there should be a parcel to carry.  Mr. Scraper had brought, too, his supple bamboo cane, in case of need; it was a cane of singular parts, and had a way that was all its own of curling about the legs and coming up “rap” against the tender part of the calf.  The boy John was intimately acquainted with the cane; therefore, when his legs refused to go steadily, but danced in spite of him, he had dropped behind Mr. Endymion, and kept well out of reach of the searching snake of polished cane.

The Skipper greeted the new-comer with his loftiest courtesy, which was quite thrown away on the old gentleman.

“Hey! hey!” said Mr. Scraper, nodding his head, and fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, “got some shells, I hear!  Got some shells, eh?  Nothing but rubbish, I’ll swear; nothing but rubbish.  Seen ’em all before you were born; not worth looking at, I’ll bet a pumpkin.”

“Why, Deacon Scraper, how you do talk!” exclaimed pretty Lena Brown, who was standing near by.  “The shells are just elegant, I think; too handsome for anything.”

“All rubbish! all rubbish!” the old gentleman repeated, hastily.  “Children’s nonsense, every bit of it.  Have you got anything out of the common, though? have you, hey?”

He looked up suddenly at the Skipper, screwing his little eyes at him like animated corkscrews; but he read nothing in the large, calm gaze that met his.

“The gentleman please to step down in the cabin,” the Skipper said, with a stately gesture.  “At liberty in a moment, I shall take the pleasure to exhibit my collection.  The gentleman is a collector?” he added, quietly; but this Mr. Scraper would not hear of.

“Nothing of the sort!” he cried, testily, “nothing of the sort!  Just came down here with this fool boy, to keep him from falling into the water.  Don’t know one shell from another when I see ’em.”

This astounding statement brought a low cry from John, who had been standing on one foot with joy and on the other with fear, the grave dignity of his new friend filling him with awe.  Perhaps he would not be noticed now, when all the grown people were here; perhaps—­but his thoughts were put to flight by Mr. Scraper’s words.  John was a truthful boy, and he could not have the Spanish man think he had lied in saying that the old man was a collector.  He was stepping forward, his face alight with eager protest, when Mr. Endymion Scraper brought his cane round with a backward sweep, catching John on the legs with spiteful emphasis.  The Skipper saw it, and a dark red flushed through the bronze of his cheek.  His glance caught the child’s and held it, speaking anger, cheer, and the promise of better things; the boy dropped back and rubbed his smarting shins, well content, with a warm feeling about the heart.