He held Muriel’s hand as he made this explanation, and dropping it when he had concluded, stood looking intently at her, as though some reply was expected. He was a short man, with a round face, yellow and rosy, like a winter pippin; round, dark eyes, which never winked; a short nose, shaped like a beak; and he had a way of bending his head sideways, and looking at you like some odd bird. There was a general aspect of the sea-faring man about him, and he had been for many years the skipper of coasting vessels, in which occupation he had amassed some property. He now lived in the same house with Harrington, for whom he had a great affection, and did a little business in collecting rents for a number of house-owners. “I just came up to let the folks here know,” he continued, “that there’s no sneakin’ soul-drivers come to Boston this time. I was told there was some of a crowd here, but they’re all scattered now, and I met Brown, who said he’d been informed ’twas a false alarm. No danger, I hope. The Vigilance Committee keep a sharp look-out ahead, and we’re pretty sure to know what’s goin’ on.” In those dark days, when Boston had gone for kidnapping, there was an organization, composed of the leading Abolitionists, with a few anti-slavery people, young and old, who made it their business to keep a watch for Southern man-hunters, to warn fugitives of their danger, to assist them in their flight with money and arms, and in every practicable way to baffle the kidnappers. This was known as the Vigilance Committee, and its existence and efforts were among the few bright rays which lit the dark insanity of Boston at that period. Captain Fisher was a member of it, as was Harrington. “I got here before you, Eldad,” said Harrington, smiling. “Charles came to the house with the rumor, and I ran down town at once, and found there was no truth in it.” “Trust you for bein’ on hand, John,” returned the Captain. “You’re spry as a topman. When Gabriel toots that horn of his, you’ll be the first one up out o’ your grave.” The Captain wandered over to Roux, and laying his hands on the negro’s shoulders looked at him steadily with his head curved sideways, then shook him gently to and fro, then got round to one side of him and took another look, and then punched him with his forefinger in the ribs. “Roux, how are you?” he chirruped in conclusion, as the negro squirmed away from the fore-finger, good-naturedly smiling. “Firs’-rate, Captain,” answered Roux. “Got scared though at that story.” The Captain stood oblivious of his answer, looking at Tugmutton who, swollen with pride, was exhibiting the baby to Emily. Roux became absorbed in admiring awe at Tugmutton’s complacent familiarity with Miss Ames. Tugmutton was in one of his lordliest moods, proud of his exclusive aristocratic acquaintance, and conscious that Roux and the two children, who stood timidly at a distance, were following him with reverent eyes.