Charlie Codman's Cruise

"This ain't the house," said Peter. "You've made a mistake. Nobody ever comes here."

"No more I should think they would, if you always keep 'em waiting as long as you have me. Come along down, and let me in."

"But I tell you," persisted Peter, who didn't at all like the visitor's manners, "that you've made a mistake. This ain't the house."

"Ain't what house, I'd like to know?"

"It ain't the house you think it is," said the old man, a little puzzled by this question.

"And what house do I think it is? Tell me that, you old–"

Probably the sentence would have been finished in a manner uncomplimentary to Peter, but perhaps, from motives of policy, the stranger suppressed what he had intended to say.

"I don't know," returned Peter, at a loss for a reply, "but there's a mistake somewhere. Nobody comes to see me."

"I shouldn't think they would," muttered the outsider, "but every rule has its exceptions, and somebody's come to see you now."

"You've mistaken the person."

"No, I haven't. Little chance of making a mistake. You're old Peter Manson."

"He has come to see me," thought Peter, uneasily; "but it cannot be for any good end. I won't let him in; no, I won't let him in."

"Well what are you going to do about it?" asked his would-be visitor, impatiently.

"It's too late to see you to-night."

"Fiddlestick!" retorted the other. "It isn't eight yet."

"I'm just going to bed," added Peter, becoming momentarily more uneasy at the man's obstinacy.

"Going to bed at half past seven! Come, now, that's all a joke. You don't take me for a fool!"

"But I am," urged Peter, "I always do. I'm very poor, and can't afford to keep a fire and light going all the evening."

"You poor! Well, may be you are. But that ain't neither here nor there. I have got some important business to see you about, and you must let me in."

"Come to-morrow."

"It's no use; I must see you to-night. So just come down and let me in, or it'll be the worse for you."

"What a dreadful ruffian!" groaned Peter; "I wish the watch would come along, but it never does when it's wanted. Go away, good man," he said, in a wheedling tone. "Go away, and come again to-morrow."

"I tell you I won't go away. I must see you to-night."

Convinced that the man was not to be denied, Peter, groaning with fear, went down, and reluctantly drawing the bolt, admitted the visitor.

III.

THE UNWELCOME VISITOR

Opening the door with trembling hand Peter Manson saw before him a stout man of forty-five, with a complexion bronzed by exposure to the elements.

Short and thick-set, with a half-defiant expression, as if, to use a common phrase, he "feared neither man nor devil," a glance at him served hardly to reassure the apprehensive old man.

The stranger was attired in a suit of coarse clothing, and appeared to possess little education or refinement. He might be a sailor,—there was an indefinable something about him,—a certain air of the sea, that justified the suspicion that he had passed some part of his life, at least, in the realms of Father Neptune.

Peter Manson, holding in his hand the fragment of candle which flickered wildly from the sudden gust of wind which rushed in at the door just opened, stood in silent apprehension, gazing uneasily at his unwelcome visitor.

"Well, shipmate," said the latter, impatiently, "how long are you going to stand staring at me? It makes me feel bashful, not to speak of its not being over and above civil."

"What do you want?" inquired Peter, his alarm a little increased by this speech, making, at the same time, a motion as if to close the door.

"First and foremost, I should like to be invited in somewhere, where it isn't quite so public as at the street door. My business is of a private nature."

"I don't know you," said the miser, uneasily.

"Well, what's the odds if I know you?" was the careless reply. "Come, push ahead. Where do you live? Up stairs, or down stairs? I want to have a little private talk with you somewhere."

The speaker was about to cross the threshold when Peter stepped in front, as if to intercept him, and said, hurriedly, "Don't come in to-night; to-morrow will do just as well."

"By your leave," said the visitor, coolly, pushing his way in, in spite of the old man's feeble opposition. "I have already told you that I wanted to see you to-night. Didn't you hear me?"

"Thieves!" the old man half ejaculated, but was checked by the other somewhat sternly.

"No, old man, I am not a thief; but if you don't have done with your stupid charges, I may be tempted to verify your good opinion by trying my hand at a little robbery. Now lead the way to your den, wherever it is, if you know what is best for yourself."

The outer door was already closed, and Peter felt that he was at the intruder's mercy. Nevertheless, there was something in this last speech, rough and imperative as it was, that gave him a little feeling of security, so far as he had been led to suspect any designs on his property on the part of his companion.

Without venturing upon any further remonstrance, which, it was clear, would prove altogether useless, he shuffled up stairs, in obedience to the stranger's command, yet not without casting back over his shoulder a look of apprehension, as if he feared an attack from behind.

His visitor, perceiving this, smiled, as if amused at old Peter's evident alarm.

Arrived at the head of the stairs, Peter opened the door into the apartment appropriated to his own use.

The stranger followed him in, and after a leisurely glance about the room, seated himself with some caution in a chair, which did not look very secure.

Peter placed the flickering candle upon the mantel-piece, and seated himself.

It was long, very long, since a visitor had wakened the echoes of the old house; very long since any human being, save Peter himself, had been seated in that room. The old man could not help feeling it to be a strange thing, so unaccustomed was he to the sight of any other human face there.

"It seems to me," said his visitor, dryly, taking in at a glance all the appointments of the room, "that you don't care much about the luxuries of life."

"I," said Peter, "I'm obliged to live very plain,—very plain, indeed,—because I am so poor."

"Poor or not," said the visitor, "you must afford to have a better fire while I am here. I don't approve of freezing."

He rose without ceremony, and taking half a dozen sticks from the hearth, deposited them in the stove, which now contained only some burning embers.