hour, and that there would be no need to buy another clock.

The Captain was a woman-hater. This fact accounted for his choosing to
live as a hermit on the bit of sand, which he had grown to love. But
that loneliness was a trial to Shrimp, who naturally desired a harem of
his own. Many times, when the wind was from the mainland, Captain
Ichabod had heard the far-away crow of a barnyard fowl, and had gravely
and criticizingly listened as Shrimp returned the salute in lusty
manner. He had seen the bird swell in rage, and his comb turn red in
jealous envy of the other rooster on the mainland.

Captain Ichabod had now come to busying himself with fishing by hook and
line for blue fish and sheepshead. In addition he set a line of gill
nets in the cove for mullet or any other fish that might become
entangled within their meshes. On all his excursions Shrimp accompanied
his master. He would perch himself proudly upon the center-board box.
More than once, before becoming a seasoned sailor, he had failed to
dodge the boom to which the little leg o' mutton sail was attached, and
had been knocked from his perch when Uncle Ichabod for a joke let the
boat jibe in a flaw of the wind. But Shrimp learned. He learned to dodge
the boom. He became, under stress of circumstances, an expert
sailor--and was never seasick.

When Shrimp had finished his meal, Ichabod addressed the mangy-looking
bird very gravely:

"Shrimp, thar hain't nary sail nor steamer smoke in sight off the Capes
and I 'low thar has a dozen skippers seen that-thar same mare's tail as
did I last night, and has had the good common sense to haul to in the
hook o' the Cape ter ride out the blow that is sure ter come. May the
sarpants o' Davy Jones' have mercy on him or her as don't take kivver;
me an' you, rooster, 'll have ter do our hook an' linin' in the Spar
Channel on this ebb fer so soon as she hauls a leetle more to the
south'ard thar is goin' ter be hell kicked up in the Inlet an' me and
yo', ole feathers an' comb, had better do our anglin' clost enough that
we can shoot inter this home harbor without loosin' o' our rag."

Captain Ichabod busied himself with getting his leads and lines in
shape. He cut up a half-dozen mullets for bait. Then he picked up the
mast, around which was wrapped a patchwork of canvas, very snugly. It
felt at home there for it had been thus rolled around the mast time and
again through many years. Captain Ichabod now walked to the red ski