"Beggin' your Reverence's pardon," began the visitor, touching the brim of his hat, and then upon second thoughts uncovering, "but my name's Jope--Ben Jope." "Eh? . . . What can I do for you?" asked Parson Spettigew, a trifle flustered at being caught napping. "--Of the _Vesoovius_ bomb, bo's'n," pursued Mr. Jope, with a smile that disarmed annoyance, so ingenuous it was, so friendly, and withal so respectful: "but paid off at eight this morning. Maybe your Reverence can tell me whereabouts to find an embalmer in these parts?" "A--a _what?_" "Embalmer." Mr. Jope chewed thoughtfully for a moment or two upon a quid of tobacco. "Sort of party you'd go to supposin' as you had a corpse by you and wanted to keep it for a permanency. You take a lot of gums and spices, and first of all you lays out the deceased, and next--" "Yes, yes," the Parson interrupted hurriedly; "I know the process, of course." "What? to _practise_ it?" Hope illumined Mr. Jope's countenance. "No, most certainly not. . . . But, my good man,--an embalmer! and at Botusfleming, of all places!" The sailor's face fell. He sighed patiently. "That's what they said at Saltash, more or less. I got a sister living there--Sarah Treleaven her name is--a widow-woman, and sells fish. When I called on her this morning, 'Embalmer?' she said; 'Go and embalm your grandmother!' Those were her words, and the rest of Saltash wasn't scarcely more helpful. But, as luck would have it, while I was searchin', Bill Adams went for a shave, and inside of the barber's shop what should he see but a fair-sized otter in a glass case? Bill began to admire it, and it turned out the barber had stuffed the thing. Maybe your Reverence knows the man?--'A. Grigg and Son,' he calls hisself." "Grigg? Yes, to be sure: he stuffed a trout for me last summer." "What weight, makin' so bold?" "Seven pounds." Mr. Jope's face fell again. "Well-a-well! I dare say the size don't matter, once you've got the knack. We've brought him along, anyway; and, what's more, we've made him bring all his tools. By his talk, he reckons it to be a shavin' job, and we agreed to wait before we undeceived him." "But--you'll excuse me--I don't quite follow--" Mr. Jope pressed a forefinger mysteriously to his lip, then jerked a thumb in the direction of the river. "If your Reverence wouldn' mind steppin' down to the creek with me?" he suggested respectfully.