inside of three years—or five, anyway."

"One year that I’ll be at work—steady work—and five that I’m married. You’re shipped, both ways. And I wear a seven and a quarter, soft hat, black preferred."

"If I don’t win the first bet I will the second, sure," he says, confident. "’Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands,’ you know. Well, good-by, and good luck. Come in and see us whenever you get to New York."

We shook hands, and I walked out of that office, the office that had been my home port ever since I graduated from fust mate to skipper. And on the way to the Fall River boat I vowed my vow over and over again.

"Zebulon Snow," I says to myself—not out loud, you understand; for, accordin’ to Scriptur’ or the Old Farmers’ Almanac or somethin’, a feller who talks to himself is either rich or crazy and, though I was well enough fixed to keep the wolf from the door, I wa’n’t by no means so crazy as to leave the door open and take chances—"Zebulon Snow," says I, "you’re forty-eight year old and blessedly single. All your life you’ve been haulin’ ropes, or bossin’ fo’mast hands, or tryin’ to make harbor in a fog. Now that you’ve got an anchor to wind’ard—now that the one talent you put under the stock exchange napkin has spread out so that you have to have a tablecloth to tote it home in, don’t you be a fool. Don’t plant it again, cal’latin’ to fill a mains’l next time, ’cause you won’t do it. Take what you’ve got and be thankful—and careful. You go ashore at Ostable, where you was born, and settle down and be somebody."

That’s about what I said to myself, and that’s what I started to do. I made Ostable on the next mornin’s train. The town had changed a whole lot since I left it, mainly on account of so many summer folks buyin’ and buildin’ everywhere, especially along the water front. The few reg’lar inhabitants that I knew seemed to be glad to see me, which I took as a sort of compliment, for it don’t always foller by a consider’ble sight. I got into the depot wagon—the same horse was drawin’ it, I judged, that Eben Hendricks had bought when I was a boy—and asked to be carted to the Travelers’ Inn. It appeared that there wa’n’t any Travelers’ Inn now, that is to say, the name of it had been changed to the Poquit House; "Poquit" bein’ Injun or Portygee or somethin’ foreign.

But the name was the only thing about that hotel that was changed. The grub was the same and the wallpaper on the rooms they showed to me looked about the same age as I was, and wa’n’t enough 

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