again.

"Flesh or spirit, that's not a lot to whiten a man's gills," cried I;
"why, thunder, Peter Bligh, you're big enough to put 'em all in your
pocket, and soft enough they'd lie when they got there. Do you mean to
tell me," I asked him, "that four hale and strong men are to be
frightened out of their wits by three pretty girls?--and you a
religious man, too, Peter! Why, I'm ashamed of you, that I am, lads,
right down ashamed of you!"

They plucked up at this, and Peter he made haste to excuse himself.

"If they was Christian men with knives in their hands," says he, "I'd
put up a bit of a prayer, and trust to the Lord to shoot 'em; but them
three's agen all reason, at this time of night in such a lone place."

"Go on with you, Peter," chimes in Dolly Venn; "three ripping little
girls, and don't I wish they'd ask me in to tea! Why, look, they're
down by the house now, and somebody with them, though whether it's a
man or a woman I really don't pretend to say."

"I'm derned if I don't think it's a lion," says Seth Barker, asking my
pardon for the liberty.

We all stood still at this, for we were on the hillside just above the
house now; and down on the fair grass-way below us we espied the three
little girls with their torches still burning, and they as deep in talk
with a stranger as a man might have been with his own mother. A more
remarkable human being than the one these little ladies had happened
upon I don't look to see again the world around. Man or lion--God
forgive me if I know what to call him. He'd hair enough, shaggy hair
curling about his shoulders, to have stuffed a feather bed. His dress
was half man's, half woman's. He'd a tattered petticoat about his legs,
a seaman's blouse for his body, and a lady's shawl above that upon his
shoulders--his legs were bare as a barked tree, and what boots he had
should have been in the rag-shop. More wonderful still was it to
see the manner of the young ladies towards him--for I shall always
call them that--they petted him and fondled him, and one put a mock
crown of roses on his head. Then, with that pretty song of theirs,
"Rosamunda--munda--munda," they all ran off together towards the
northern shore and left us in the darkness, as surprised a party of
men as you'll readily meet with.

"Well," says Peter Bligh, and he was the first among us to speak,
"yon's a nice shipmate to speak on a quiet road. So help me thunder,
but I wouldn't pass round the tin for him