These fishermen plied in the oyster trade of Philadelphia with the oysters at that time found in the estuaries of the mouth of the Delaware River. Two trips a week with a sloop were made from Philadelphia to the oyster beds and back. In this trade, Sven at once turned his hand. He was a handy sailor-man,--industrious and saving. At the time when Roderick Barclugh arrived in Philadelphia, one of the best known and happiest men in the town was Sven Svenson. He had taken hold of the responsible end of the oyster trade himself. Any day, in oyster season, one could find this flaxen-haired Swede pushing a wheel-barrow up and down Market Street and through Front Street,--opening a dozen here and a dozen there for passers-by. Everybody ate them on the half-shell, tempered with a squirt of pepper-“sass” from a three-cornered bottle having a goosequill through the cork. Every one liked Sven; not alone for the happy smile with which he opened you an oyster; but he gave it with a sly wink and an extra squirt of “sass,” that pleased. The mistresses of the best households held Sven as a prime favorite, since, whenever they gave an order for a feast, they could depend upon having their orders filled. He also supplied their tastes with the best in the market. There were no family secrets but Sven heard them through the servants, or else he happened upon those little wordy duels which occur in the best of families. Moreover, as many Swedish girls were in domestic service it was an easy matter for Sven to hear all the choice gossip of the town. After settling himself into his bachelor quarters, one of the first things that Roderick Barclugh undertook was to take early morning walks all over the town for knowledge of the people. On several of these observation journeys, he had passed this pumpkin-faced Swede, who, on general principles, saluted every person of note with a most gracious courtesy and removal of his hat. Barclugh, noticing how good-naturedly everybody stopped Sven’s wheel-barrow, and how many patronized his fresh oysters, recognized in this guileless vender of shellfish a master-key to all the town’s frailties. Following up his observations, the next day when he met Sven on his morning rounds,--merrily pushing his wheel-barrow up Market Street, dressed in leather breeches, white cap and apron,--the fishmonger stopped and bowed low, half recognizing Barclugh’s desire to speak. “How do you sell your wares, my good man?” spoke Barclugh. “Sax pence ahl vat you eet, sahr,” was the prompt reply. “All right, let us have some of the smallest, with no pepper-sauce, my man. I like them briny. Are these from the deep salt water?” continued Barclugh, thus to draw out Sven, who bustled around to please his new customer. With a jerky motion he opened a choice bivalve and held it up for Barclugh to eat on the half-shell.