“I’d oughter thought it out before, fer Cal come up ’ere one day an’ asked me if I’d seen ’is dog, but I’d forgot all about ’is gittin in the tar, an’ s’posed ’e’d gone off home when ’e left ’ere.”
Pete’s adventures had been varied and exciting while they lasted. He had added variety and interest to the community in which he lived, and had really done but very little actual harm during his absence from home.
Sipes philosophically remarked that “everythin’ comes to an end in this world, an’ this ’ere dog ’ll come to one, if ’e ever gits this way agin. I s’pose it’s all sweet an’ proper fer me to git a bunch o’ bacon an’ two rabbits stole, an’ I s’pose I’m the only one that cares about them things I lost, but all the same, I ain’t runnin’ no animile restaurant, an’ some day there’ll be some dog tracks on this beach that’ll all point the same way, if that thievin’ quadrypeed ever comes skulpin’ ’round ’ere.”
A lonely abode near the opening of a ravine, about four miles from Sipes’s hut, bore the scars of many winters. It was not over twelve feet square. It had two small windows, a narrow door and a “lean to” roof. On the door was the roughly carved inscription--“J. Ledyard Symington, Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Near this was nailed an old cigar box, with a slit in the cover. Lettered on the box was a request to “Please leave card.”
I often passed this mysterious dwelling without seeing any indications of life, but one chilly rainy day I saw smoke issuing from the bent piece of stove-pipe, protruding through the roof. The fact that it happened to be Thursday helped to overcome my reluctance to disturb the occupant.
A cordial and cheery call to “come in” was the response to my gentle knock.
I found a rather tall, pleasant faced, watery eyed old man, with a gray beard, aquiline nose, and shaggy eyebrows, who rose from a box on which he had been sitting before a small table. There was an unmistakable air of _noblesse oblige_ in his polite offer of another box. His clothes bespoke the “shabby genteel,” which was accentuated by a somewhat battered and much worn plug hat, that hung on a peg near the window back of the table.
I apologized for my intrusion, told him that I had had rather a long walk, and would be glad to rest awhile before his fire. He seemed interested in some sketches made during the morning, which he asked to see. His courtly air did not desert him when he confessed that he “hadn’t had a smoke for a week.” I handed him some tobacco. He fished a disreputable looking big black pipe out of some rubbish on a shelf, and was soon enveloped in the comforting fumes.