"Chunk," says I, as the concert ends and the folks begin to applaud, "there's only one thing to be done in a case like this. Lemme take that lid of yours." "Certainly," says he, and drops a fiver into it before he passes it over. That wa'n't the only green money I collects, either, and by the time I've made the entire round I must have gathered up more'n a quart of spendin' currency. "Hold on there, Shorty," says Chunk, as I starts out to deliver the collection. "I'd like to go with you." "Come along, then," says I. "I guess some of these sailormen will row us out." What we had framed up was one of these husky, rugged, old hearts of oak, who would choke up some on receivin' the tribute and give us his blessin' in a sort of "Shore Acres" curtain speech. Part of that description he lives up to. He's some old, all right; but he ain't handsome or rugged. He's a lean, dyspeptic lookin' old party, with a wrinkled face colored up like a pair of yellow shoes at the end of a hard season. His hair is long and matted, and he ain't overly clean in any detail. He don't receive us real hearty, either. "Hey, keep your hands off that rail!" he sings out, reachin' for a boathook as we come alongside. "It's all right, Cap," says I. "We're friends." "Git out!" says he. "I ain't got any friends." "Sure you have, old scout," says I. "Anyway, there's a lot of people ashore that was mighty pleased with the way you tickled that accordion. Here's proof of it too," and I holds up the hat. "Huh!" says he, gettin' his eye on the contents. "Come aboard, then. Here, I guess you can stow that stuff in there," and blamed if he don't shove out an empty lard pail for me to dump the money in. That's as excited as he gets about it too. Say, I'd have indulged in about two more minutes of dialogue with that ugly faced old pirate, and then I'd beat it for shore good and disgusted, if it hadn't been for Chunk Tracey. But he jumps in, as enthusiastic as if he was interviewin' some foreign Prince, presses a twenty-five-cent perfecto on the Cap'n, and begins pumpin' out of him the story of his life. And when Chunk really enthuses it's got to be a mighty cold proposition that don't thaw some. Ten to one, too, if this had been a nice, easy talkin', gentle old party, willin' to tell all he knew in the first five minutes, Chunk wouldn't have bothered with him; but, because he don't show any gratitude, mushy or otherwise, and acts like he had a permanent, ingrowin' grouch, Chunk is right there with the persistence. He drags out of him that he's Cap'n Todd Spiller, hailin' originally from Castine, Maine, and that the name of his old tub is the Queen of the Seas. He says his chief business is clammin'; but he does a little fishin' and freightin' on the side. He don't work much, though, because it don't take a lot to keep him. "But you have a wife somewhere ashore, I suppose," suggests Chunk, "a dear old soul who waits anxiously for you to come back?"