THE SELKIRK SETTLERS 113

evening snack for her dainty self, I wandered down to the shore and walked along the beach. The sun had just set, and in that dreamy twilight the lapping of the waves was the only lullaby which the shore-line possessed or even wanted.

I was not the only wanderer. Along that lonely shore a figure, half melancholy, half energetic, walked slowly, pausing every few minutes to look around stealthily. Over his shoulder he had flung a deeply hollowed hand-made shovel quite unlike any I had ever seen before. He walked with difficulty, for he was hunchbacked. As I came near him I saw that he had an oblong—shaped livid scar midway between his ear and his nose. It gave him a queer, unearthly look. His shifty eyes roved the shore-line incessantly. His hair hung gray and thin.

“A smuggler, ” I surmised quickly.

” Don’t go up that way, ” said the stranger darkly, “there’s nothing to see.”

“ Perhaps not. But I’d like to see it.”

He moved as if to block my path.

“The water comes in near the shore. You can’t get around. ”

His eyes were menacing. His shovel looked to be a handy weapon, I reflected suddenly.

“I guess I’ll walk down the other way.”

I moved swiftly in that direction, leaving the old man glowering after my retreating figure. A few minutes later I stopped and looked back. The old man was gone—vanished—~completely out of sight. Far above the shore I heard the sound of a shovel digging, digging

I cut through the fields back to our tent. I could not persuade myself to return along that shore.