on the Singer and Woolworth towers, and
how the East Side gunmen was on strike to raise the homicide price to
three dollars and seventy-five cents, they'd had me well Sweeneyed. As
it was, I guess we split about even.

Him findin' Boothbay Harbor among all that snarl of islands and
channels wasn't any bluff, though. That was the real sleight of hand.
As we're comin' up to the dock he points out Ira's boatworks, just on
the edge of the town. Half an hour later I've left my baggage at the
hotel and am interviewin' Mr. Higgins.

He's the same old Ira; only he's wearin' blue overalls and a boiled
shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"Roarin' Rocks, eh?" says he. "Why, that's the Hollister place on
Cunner Point, about three miles up."

"Can I get a trolley?" says I.

"Trolley!" says he. "Why, Son, there ain't any 'lectric cars nearer'n
Bath."

"Gee, what a jay burg!" says I. "How about a ferry, then?"

Ira shakes his head. Seems Roarin' Rocks is a private joint, the
summer place of this Mr. Hollister who's described by Ira as "richer'n
Croesus"--whatever that might mean. Anyway, they're exclusive parties
that don't encourage callers; for the only way of gettin' there is over
a private road around the head of the bay, or by hirin' a launch to
take you up.

"Generally," says Ira, "they send one of their boats down to meet
company. Now, if they was expectin' you----"

"That's just it," I breaks in, "they ain't. Fact is, Ira, there's a
young lady visitin' there with her aunt, and--and--well, Aunty and me
ain't so chummy as we might be."

"Just so," says Ira, noddin' wise.

"Now my plan was to go up there and kind of stick around, you know,"
says I, "sort of in the shade, until the young lady strolled out."

Ira shakes his head discouragin'. "They're mighty uppish folks," says
he. "Got 'No Trespass' signs all over the place--dogs too."

"Hellup!" says I. "What am I up against? Why don't Aunty travel with
a bunch of gumshoe guards and be done with it?"

"Tell you what," says Ira, struck by a stray thought, "if lookin' the
place over'll do any good, you might go out with Eb Westcott this
afternoon when he baits. He's got pots all around the point."

That don't mean such a lot to me; but my middle name is Brodie. "Show
me Eb," says I.

He wa'n't any thrillin' sight, Eb; mostly rubber hip boots, flannel
shirt, and whiskers. He could have been cleaner. So could his old tub
of a lobster boat; but no