Then came the visitor. He silently opened the door, closed it swiftly behind him and stood with his back to it shrewdly eyeing us each one in turn. The man’s stature was quite short and he was of slight build. His hair, coarse in texture, sprinkled with gray and cropped close, stood straight up on his forehead like a scrubbing brush. His eyes were black and piercing in expression; his nose rather too fat; his chin square and firm; his face long and lean, and his skin of the dusky olive hue peculiar to natives of southern climes. His apparel was magnificent. The velvet coat had gold buttons; he sported a loud checked vest of purple and orange, and his cravat was a broad bow of soft white ribbon with gold fringe at the edges. At once I began speculating whether he was a vaudeville actor or a circus barker; but either idea was dispelled when I noticed his diamonds. These were enormous, and had a luster that defied imitation. His shirt buttons were diamonds as big around as my little finger nail; he had another monster in the center of his bow tie and his fingers fairly glittered with gems of the same character. Every link of a huge watch guard was set with diamonds, and his cuff buttons were evidently worth a small fortune. The appearance of this small but gorgeous individual in our dingy sitting-room produced an incongruous effect. The air was fogged with tobacco smoke; my father still lazily rested his legs across the table-top; the rest of us lounged in unconventional attitudes. However, being Americans we were more astonished than impressed by the vision that burst upon us and did not rise nor alter our positions in any way. “Which it is the gentleman who the ship _Seagull_ owns?” demanded the stranger, mixing his English in his agitation, although he spoke it very clearly for a foreigner. Uncle Naboth became our spokesman. “There are three owners,” said he. “Ah! where they are?” “All in this room,” replied my uncle. “Excellent!” exclaimed our visitor, evidently pleased. He glanced around him, drew a chair to the table and sat down. My father moved his wooden leg a bit to give the stranger more room. “What is price?” he inquired, looking at Mr. Perkins, whom he faced. “Price for what, sir?” “Ship,” said the man. “Oh, you want to buy the ship?” gasped my uncle, fairly staggered by the suggestion. “If you please, if you like; if it is rais—rais—raison—_a_—ble.” Uncle Naboth stared at him. My father coolly filled his pipe again. The man’s quick eye caught Joe and I exchanging smiling glances, and he frowned slightly. “At what price you hold your ship?” he persisted, turning again to my uncle. “My dear sir,” was the perplexed reply, “we’ve never figured on selling the _Seagull_. We built it to keep—to have for our own use. We’re seamen, and it’s our home. If you’d ask us offhand what we’d sell our ears for, we’d know just as well what to answer.” The man nodded, looking thoughtful. “What the ship cost?” he asked.