“Three hundred year he ’lowed he’d fished from that there harbor, a hook-an’-line man through it all; an’ as they wasn’t none o’ us abroad on the coast when he come in, he’d stick to it, spite o’ parsons. They was a mean little red-headed parson came near churchin’ un for the whopper; but Bill Hulk wouldn’t repent. ‘You isn’t been here long enough t’ _know_, parson,’ says he. ‘’Tis goin’ on three hundred year, I tells you! I’ll haul into my fourth hundred,’ says he, ‘come forty-three year from Friday fortnight.’ Anyhow, he’d been castin’ lines on the Gingerbread grounds quite long enough. ’Twas like t’ make a man’s back ache—t’ make his head spin an’ his stomach shudder—jus’ t’ think o’ the years o’ labor an’ hardship Bill Hulk had weathered. Seemed t’ me the very stars must o’ got fair disgusted t’ watch un put out through the Tickle afore dawn an’ pull in after dark. “‘Lord!’ says they. ‘If there ain’t Bill Hulk puttin’ out again! Won’t nothin’ _ever_ happen t’ he?’” I thought it an unkind imputation. “Well,” Tumm explained, “the little beggars is used t’ change; an’ I wouldn’t wonder if they was bored a bit by ol’ Bill Hulk.” It might have been. “Four or five year after that,” Tumm proceeded, “the tail of a sou’east gale slapped me into Gingerbread Cove, an’ I ’lowed t’ hang the ol’ girl up till the weather turned civil. Thinks I, ‘’Tis wonderful dark an’ wet, but ’tis also wonderful early, an’ I’ll jus’ take a run ashore t’ yarn an’ darn along o’ ol’ Bill Hulk.’ So I put a bottle in my pocket t’ warm the ol’ ghost’s marrow, an’ put out for Seven Stars Head in the rodney. ’Twas mean pullin’ agin the wind, but I fetched the stage-head ’t last, an’ went crawlin’ up the hill. Thinks I, ‘They’s no sense in knockin’ in a gale o’ wind like this, for Bill Hulk’s so wonderful hard o’ hearin’ in a sou’east blow.’ “So I drove on in. “‘Lord’s sake, Bill!’ says I, ‘what you up to?’ “‘Nothin’ much, Tumm,’ says he. “‘It don’t look right,’ says I. ‘What _is_ it?’ “‘Nothin’ much,’ says he; ‘jus’ countin’ up my money.’ “’Twas true enough: there he sot—playin’ with his fortune. They was pounds of it: coppers an’ big round pennies an’ silver an’ one lone gold piece. “‘You been gettin’ rich?’ says I. “‘Tumm,’ says he, ‘you got any clear idea o’ how much hard cash they is lyin’ right there on that plain deal table in this here very kitchen you is in?’ “‘I isn’t,’ says I. “‘Well,’ says he, ‘they’s as much as fourteen dollar! An’ what d’ye think o’ that?’ “I ’lowed I’d hold my tongue; so I jus’ lifted my eyebrow, an’ then sort o’ whistled, ‘Whew!’ “‘Fourteen,’ says he, ‘an’ more!’ “‘_Whew!_’ says I. “‘An’, Tumm,’ says he, ‘I had twenty-four sixty once—about eighteen year ago.’ “‘You got a heap now,’ says I. ‘Fourteen dollar! Whew!’ “‘No, Tumm!’ cries he, all of a sudden. ‘No, no! I been lyin’ t’ you. I been lyin’!’ says he. ‘Lyin’!’ “‘I don’t care,’ says I; ‘you go right ahead an’ lie.’