“First,” he continued, gravely important, as one who discloses a mystery, “I am tell you thee name of thee beeg fool. James All—his name. Ol’ bach. Ver’ ol’ bach. Ver’ rich man. Ho! mos’ rich. You not theenk? Ver’ well. I am once hear tell he have seven lobster-tin full of gold. Mygod! I am mos’ put crazy. Lobster-tin—seven! An’ he have half-bushel of silver dollar. How he get it? Ver’ well. His gran’-father work ver’ hard; his father work ver’ hard; all thee gold come to this man, an’ _he_ work ver’, ver’ hard. They work fearful—in thee gale, in thee cold; they work, work, work, for thee gold. Many, many year ago, long time past, thee gold be-geen to have save. It be-geen to have save many year afore I am born. Eh? Fun-ee t’ing! They work, work, work; but _I_ am not work. Oh no! I am leetle baby. They save, save, save; but _I_ am not save. Oh no! I am foolsh boy, in Damascus. Ver’ well. By-’n’-by I am thee growed man, an’ they have fill thee seven lobster-tin with thee gold. For what? Eh? I am tell you what for. Ha! I am show you I am ver’ good business man. I am thee ver’ mos’ bes’ business man in Newf’un’lan’.” My glance, quick, suspicious, was not of the kindest, and it caught his eye. “You theenk I have get thee gold?” he asked, archly. “You theenk I have get thee seven lobster-tin?... Mygod!” he cried, throwing up his hands in genuine horror. “You theenk I have _steal_ thee gold? No, no! I am ver’ hones’ business man. I say my prayer all thee nights. I geeve nine dollar fifty to thee Orth’dox Church in Washin’ton Street in one year. I am thee mos’ hones’ business man in Newf’un’lan’—an’” (significantly), “I am _ver’ good_ business man.” His eyes were guileless.... A punt slipped past, bound out, staggering over a rough course to Lost Men grounds. The spray, rising like white dust, drenched the crew. An old man held the sheet and steering-oar. In the bow a scrawny boy bailed the shipped water—both listless, both misshapen and ill clad. Bitter, toilsome, precarious work, this, done by folk impoverished in all things. Seven lobster-tins of gold coin! Three generations of labor and cruel adventure, in gales and frosts and famines, had been consumed in gathering it. How much of weariness? How much of pain? How much of evil? How much of peril, despair, deprivation? And it was true: this alien peddler, the on-looker, had the while been unborn, a babe, a boy, laboring not at all; but by chance, in the end, he had come, covetous and sly, within reach of all the fruit of this malforming toil.... “Look!” I followed the lean, brown finger to a spot on a bare hill—a sombre splash of black.