Most of the wagons were loading goods brought from the interiors of storehouses alongside the approach to the wharf. In these storehouses we recognized the hulls of ships, but so shored up, dismantled, and cut into by doors and stories that of their original appearance only their general shapes remained. There was a great number of these storehouses along the shore, some of them being quite built about by piles and platforms, while two were actually inland several hundred feet. I read the name _Niantic_ on the stern of one of them; and found it to have acquired in the landward side a square false front. It was at that time used as a hotel. "Looks as if they'd taken hold of Talbot's idea hard," observed Yank. "Say!" cried Johnny, "will one of you drinking men kindly take a look and inform me if I've gone wrong?" This remark was called forth by the discovery, as we neared the shore, of hordes of rats. They were large, fat, saucy rats; and they strolled about in broad daylight as if they owned the place. They sat upright on sacks of grain; they scampered across the sidewalks; they scuttled from behind boxes; they rustled and squeaked and fought and played in countless droves. The ground seemed alive with them. It was a most astonishing sight. "And will you look at that dog!" cried Yank disgustedly. Across an open doorway, blinking in the sun, lay a good-looking fox terrier. His nose was laid between his paws, and within two yards of that nose a large brown rat disported itself with a crust of bread. "My Lord!" cried Johnny, his sporting blood aboil. "Here, pup, sic 'em! sic 'em!" He indicated the game urgently. The fox terrier rolled up one eye, wagged his stub tail--but did not even raise his nose. "No use," observed the dog's owner, who had appeared in the doorway. "What's the matter with him?" demanded Johnny indignantly; "is he sick?" "No, he ain't sick," replied the owner sadly; "but he ain't got no use for rats. I bought him for damn near his weight in gold dust when the _Panama_ came in last month. He was the best ratter you ever see. I reckon he must've killed a million rats the first week. But, Lord! he got sick of rats. I reckon a rat could go right up and pull his whiskers now, and he'd never mind." We condoled with the _blase_ dog, and moved on. "Same old mud," observed Yank.