But as I approached the place I found, to my astonishment, that a man was already seated upon the bench. He was doubtless a stranger in Batteraft, for I had never seen him before, so that I moderated my pace and approached him slowly, thinking he might discover he was on private grounds and take his leave. He paid no attention to me, being engaged in whittling a stick with a big jack-knife. In appearance he was short, thick-set, and of middle age. His round face was lined in every direction by deep wrinkles, and the scant hair that showed upon his temples was thin and grey. He wore a blue flannel shirt, with a black kerchief knotted at the throat; but, aside from this, his dress was that of an ordinary civilian; so that at first I was unable to decide whether he was a sailor or a landsman. The chief attraction in the stranger was the expression of his face, which was remarkably humorous. Although I was close by him, now, he paid no attention to my presence, but as he whittled away industriously he gave vent to several half audible chuckles that seemed to indicate that his thoughts were very amusing. I was about to pass him and go down to the beach, where I might find a solitary spot for my musings, when the man turned his eyes up to mine and gave a wink that seemed both mysterious and confidential. “It’s Sam, ain’t it?” he asked, with another silent chuckle. “Yes, sir,” I replied, resenting his familiarity while I wondered how he should know me. “Cap’n Steele’s son, I’m guessin’?” he continued. “The same, sir,” and I made a movement to pass on. “Sit down, Sam; there’s no hurry,” and he pointed to the bench beside him. I obeyed, wondering what he could want with me. Half turning toward me, he gave another of those curious winks and then suddenly turned grave and resumed his whittling. “May I ask who you are, sir?” I enquired. “No harm in that,” he replied, with a smile that lighted his wrinkled face most comically. “No harm in the world. I’m Naboth Perkins.” “Oh,” said I, without much interest. “Never heard that name before, I take it?” “No, sir.” “Do you remember your mother?” “Not very well, sir,” I answered, wondering more and more. “I was little more than a baby when she died, you know.” “I know,” and he nodded, and gave an odd sort of grunt. “Did you ever hear what her name was, afore she married the Cap’n?” “Oh, yes!” I cried, suddenly enlightened. “It was Mary Perkins.” Then, my heart fluttering wildly, I turned an intent and appealing gaze upon the little man beside me. Naboth Perkins was seized with another of those queer fits of silent merriment, and his shoulders bobbed up and down until a cough caught him, and for a time I feared he would choke to death before he could control the convulsions. But at last he recovered and wiped the tears from his eyes with a brilliant red handkerchief. “I’m your uncle, lad,” he said, as soon as he could speak. This was news, indeed, but news that puzzled me exceedingly.