“Oh, we-ll, in that case I'd just sort of--of edge around till I found one that--that was a beginnin' of SOMETHIN' and I'd start there. You understand, don't you? Take that yarn I was spinnin' just now--that one about Josiah Dimick's great uncle's pig on his mother's side. I mean his uncle on his mother's side, not the pig, of course. Now I hadn't no intention of tellin' about that hog; hadn't thought of it for a thousand year, as you might say. I just commenced to tell about Angie Phinney, about how fast she could talk, and that reminded me of a parrot that belonged to Sylvanus Cahoon's sister--Violet, the sister's name was--loony name, too, if you ask ME, 'cause she was a plaguey sight nigher bein' a sunflower than she was a violet--weighed two hundred and ten and had a face on her as red as--” “Just a minute, Ase. About that pig?” “Oh, yes! Well, the pig reminded me of Violet's parrot and the parrot reminded me of a Plymouth Rock rooster I had that used to roost in the pigpen nights--wouldn't use the henhouse no more'n you nor I would--and that, naturally, made me think of pigs, and pigs fetched Josiah's uncle's pig to mind and there I was all ready to start on the yarn. It pretty often works out that way. When you want to start a yarn and you can't start--you've forgot it, or somethin'--just begin somewhere, get goin' somehow. Edge around and keep edgin' around and pretty soon you'll fetch up at the right place TO start. See, don't you, Kent?” I saw--that is, I saw enough. I came home and this morning I began the “edging around” process. I don't seem to have “fetched up” anywhere in particular, but I shall keep on with the edging until I do. As Asaph says, I must begin somewhere, so I shall begin with the Saturday morning of last April when Jim Campbell, my publisher and my friend--which is by no means such an unusual combination as many people think--sat on the veranda of my boathouse overlooking Cape Cod Bay and discussed my past, present and, more particularly, my future. CHAPTER II Which Repeats, for the Most Part, What Jim Campbell Said to Me and What I Said to Him “Jim,” said I, “what is the matter with me?” Jim, who was seated in the ancient and dilapidated arm-chair which was the finest piece of furniture in the boathouse and which I always offered to visitors, looked at me over the collar of my sweater. I used the sweater as I did the arm-chair when I did not have visitors. He was using it then because, like an idiot, he had come to Cape Cod in April with nothing warmer than a very natty suit and a light overcoat. Of course one may go clamming and fishing in a light overcoat, but--one doesn't. Jim looked at me over the collar of my sweater. Then he crossed his oilskinned and rubber-booted legs--they were my oilskins and my boots--and answered promptly. “Indigestion,” he said. “You ate nine of those biscuits this morning; I saw you.”