had seen, and the emergencies he had been placed in at sea. Fred
told me that his grandfather had a diving-bell of his own on board his
own ship, and the things he saw when he went down in it must have made
his remembrances of the South American forests appear tame by
comparison.

Once, in the middle of the Pacific, the captain dropped down in his
bell into the midst of a society of sea people who had no hair, but
the backs of their heads were shaped like sou'-wester hats. The front
rim formed one eyebrow for both eyes, and they could move the peak
behind as beavers move their tails, and it helped them to go up and
down in the water. They were not exactly mermaids, Fred said, they had
no particular tail, it all ended in a kind of fringe of seaweed, which
swept after them when they moved, like the train of a lady's dress.
The captain was so delighted with them that he stayed below much
longer than usual; but in an unlucky moment some of the sea people let
the water into the diving-bell, and the captain was nearly drowned. He
did become senseless, but when his body floated, it was picked up and
restored to life by the first mate, who had been cruising, with tears
in his eyes, over the spot in the ship's boat for seven days without
taking anything to eat.--"_He_ was a Dartmouth man, too," said Fred
Johnson.

"He evidently knew what to do in the emergency of drowning," thought I.

I feel as if any one who hears of Fred's stories must think he was a
liar. But he really was not. Mr. Johnson was very strict with the boys
in some ways, though he was so good-natured, and Fred had been taught
to think a lie to get himself out of a scrape or anything of that sort
quite as wrong as we should have thought it. But he liked _telling_
things. I believe he made them up and amused himself with them in his
own head if he had no one to listen. He used to say, "Come and sit in
the kitchen garden this afternoon, and I'll _tell_ you." And whether
he meant me to think them true or not, I certainly did believe in his
stories.

One thing always struck me as very odd about Fred Johnson. He was very
fond of fruit, and when we sat on the wall and ate the white currants
with pounded sugar in a mug between us, I believe he always ate more
than I did, though he was "telling" all the time, and I had nothing to
do but to listen and eat.

He certainly talked very slowly, in a dreary, monotonous sort of
voice, which suited his dull, pasty face bett