“I’m looking for a boat,” I said; “someone told me that it was here,—­this is Rogers’s Island, isn’t it?”

“This is Rogers’s Island, all right,” he answered,—­“what kind of a boat is it you are looking for?”

“She’s a white cat-boat,—­the ’Hoppergrass’,—­or the ’Hannah J. Pettingell’,—­it’s more likely that’s her name.”

He looked at me inquiringly with his quick little eyes.  The other man came up through the trap-door.  He had put on his coat,—­a long, black, “swallow-tail” coat.  He was tall and thin, and dressed all in black, with a white neck-tie.  His hair was sandy, and he had reddish side-whiskers,—­the kind called “side-boards.”  I never saw a man with such a solemn face,—­nor one with so long a nose.  But he smiled as he walked over to me, a kind of painful smile as if he had the face-ache.  He leaned over, took one of my hands, and held it in his damp grasp, while he patted me on the shoulder with his other hand.

“Well, my little man,” he said, “what is your name, and what can I do for you?”

I did not like being called “my little man,” and I tried to drop his clammy hand.  But he held mine still, and smiled his tooth-achy smile.

“What is it we can do for you?” he repeated.  He had a smooth voice that somehow made me feel as if I was having warm butter poured over me.

“I’m looking for a boat,” I said, trying again to snatch away my hand.

“A boat?” he queried, in mild surprise, “and what is your name,—­ my little man?”

I started to tell him, and then it struck me, that we had given our real names to the constable at Bailey’s Harbor, and that I might get into trouble if I told mine again, here.  I tried to think of another name to give, but as I hadn’t made up one in advance, it seemed to stick.  Of course, I had often read of various kinds of criminals and desperadoes who went under false names, and also of people who were no more criminals than we, who had to give names other than their own.  There were spies in war-time, for instance.  These people in books all seemed to do it easily enough, and so I could have done, if I had had one ready.  As it was I stammered over it.

“Sam-er-er-Jim-er-James B-B-Brown,” I said at last.

“Sam Jim James Brown!” he said, in his buttery tones, “well, Sam Jim James Brown, what is it you want here?”

I told him again about the boat, and how they told us at Lanesport that Captain Bannister was coming to Rogers’s Island to look for her.

“What kind of a boat is it?” said the other man.  I had succeeded at last in getting the tall man to let go of my hand, and I backed a little away from him.  I described the “Hoppergrass” as well as I could, and told about the Captain’s notion for changing the name.

“A white cat-boat, hey?” said the little man, “and Captain Bannister,—­oh, yes! of Lanesport?  Captain Bannister of Lanesport?”

“No, he comes—­”