Then the door was flung briskly open, and a
man entered the car. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, inclined to
stoutness, wearing a cloth cap with a visor, and a heavy ulster, the
collar of which was turned up. Through the gap between the open ends of
the collar bristled a short, grayish beard. The face above the beard and
below the visor was sunburned, with little wrinkles about the eyes and
curving lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth. The upper
lip was shaved, and the eyebrows were heavy and grayish black. Cap,
face, and ulster were dripping with water.
The newcomer paused in the doorway for an instant, evidently to add the
finishing touch to a conversation previously begun.
"Well, I tell you, Ezra," he called, over his shoulder, "if it's too
deep to wade, maybe I can swim. Fat floats, they tell me, and Abbie says
I'm gettin' fleshier every day. So long."
He closed the door and, smiling broadly, swung down the aisle. The pair
of calamity prophets broke off their lament over the declining fisheries
and greeted him almost jovially.
"Hello, Cap'n!" cried one. "What's the south shore doin' over here in
this flood?"
"What's the matter, Cap'n?" demanded the other. "Broke loose from your
moorin's, have you? Did you ever see such a night in your life?"
The man in the ulster shook hands with each of his questioners, removing
a pair of wet, heavy leather gloves as he did so.
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