The Ferry Bells

WHEN I joined our local historical association something like six months ago, I did it not so much because I cared for the association and its one yearly meeting in the library rooms, as because my friend Captain Barnabas Crosby counted it a prime honor to win new adherents to the society, and by joining I could bring much peace and satisfaction to his kindly soul. At the time I consented it was still some days before the meeting, but we went up to the room and I signed the book. I had hardly done so when the captain was called away, and, much to his regret, I was left to look through the collection alone.

Since ours is a seaport town, where nearly every family once boasted from one to six captains of the purest deepwater variety, I was not surprised to find that the collection contained quite as many South Sea weapons, whale’s teeth, and lily irons, as sedate warming-pans, tin kitchens, and kindred on-shore implements.

It was in the midst of these and other trinkets that I came across two heavy bronze bells, hung in a stout oak frame before one of the windows. A card, done in a strong but scrawly hand, stated that they were the Ferry Bells, said to have been cast by Paul Revere and bought and erected by the towns and the county above the two landings of the present ferry; that they were at one time lost but later were returned to their places. Their weights were given as eighty and sixty pounds. Below, and in the fine handwriting of a woman, was inscribed, “It was considered by all that their tones were particularly sweet and beautiful.”

So these were the Ferry Bells! Put in place shortly after the visitation by the British in 1812, — a fact no doubt accounting for their presence on the river, — they had done duty through nearly all the intervening years, until steam drove out the picturesque old ferryman and took away their usefulness. Whether it was my memory of them when, as a boy, I used to hear them, or their age and the inscription that attracted me, I do not know, but at any rate I soon found myself deeply interested, and wished more than once that the Captain were back again to tell me about them.

It was not, however, until the meeting, that I found him in the mood, and even then he was so taken up with affairs, he being still much of a ladies’ man and this one of the great days, that after three times asking him I gave him up. But when we were coming away and I had all but decided to let the matter drop, he unexpectedly began to talk.

“ Ye can’t do nuthin’ ’bout tellin’ a story when there’s women around ye; they’re the wust things when a man’s tellin’ a story that ever was, he don’ know — he don’ know what to say.”

Meanwhile we were walking rapidly. “ But about those bells,” he began suddenly, “ you just wait till we git to the shop an’ then we’ll see! ”

I should have mentioned before that the Captain, although no longer actively engaged on the deep, is still the master of a large and at times a very busy sail-loft, — a place where he and I have had some of our longest and pleasantest talks, — and it was to this that we repaired.

“ Now let’s us see,” said he, after we had climbed the two flights of stairs and had got comfortably planted, each in an old chair, among the ruins of blackened cordage and of what had once been white sails, and the Captain had begun to fill his pipe. “ Let’s us see! ” he remarked again, while he fumbled for a match. “ I don’t know as I know just where to begin about them bells; seem’s if they did n’t do much of anything till quite a spell — not till I got to be quite a lad, anyway. Of course the town an’ the county gut ’em an’ hung ’em there, an’ that was about all I can remember ’bout ’em. Seem’s if it all beginned with Tom Darby. Did ye ever hear of him, ? Well, sir, your Uncle Ithal brought him here in the ship Masterman — the E. P. Masterman. He was the greatest regular sailor man, this Darby, with a regular sailor name, that you ever see. An’ smart! He was about the smartest critter ever was. He’d a face that looked jus’ as if it had been rubbed in tar, an’ he’d climb anythin’ short of a rainbow. An’ comical, too! I ’member I was just a lad an’ tryin’ to saw some wood. The saw was pinchin’ an’ she stuck on me. ’Long be comes, — he might ha’ been nineteen or twenty, but he looked a man to me — folks seemed to grow up quicker in them days, too. He comes along, an’ ' Guess she needs to be set some,’ says he; ‘ ain’t wide enough fer ye! ’ An’ he yanks her out’n the scarf, an’ what does he do but he tuk out his key to his sea-chist an’ he turns up the ring of it an’ sets her with that! Then he starts in to try her.

“ ‘ How does she go ? ’ says I. — ' Go! Goes like a hog to war! ’ says he. That’s the first time I ever heard anybody say that!

“ Well, sir, him an’ my cousin Ben got to goin’ together while the vessel was dischargin’. Ben he was n’t the same then as he was after, bless you, no! he wan’t ’tall the same; he had a change of heart arterwards, an’ he wan’t never agin like he was; got converted an’ turned right around; but them days he was considable of a boy. He done his full sheer to lots o’ things, an’ this here Tom Darby was a reg’lar black jack to most any kind o’ deviltry.

“ Well, sir, both of ’em signed to go with your uncle. An’ the night before the Masterman sailed them two went over ’crost the river together. What high jinks they done over there I don’t know, but comin’ back they missed the bo’t, an’ while they was waitin’ there this Tom Darby he says, ' Ben, what let’s steal ? ’ Says he, ‘ I ’most allays steals somethin’ ’most ev’ry port I go.’ He was standin’ right under the old oak cross-beam, an’ ’ginst Ben could think of anything to say, he looked up an’ he seen that bell. ‘ By God! ’ says he, ' that’s what I’ll steal! ’ An’ mos’ ’fore no time he was up an’ had the fid out’n the shackles.

“ She weighed sixty pound, that bell, but he was an ox for stren’th, an’ he got her down an’ wropped his co’t all up rounst her, an’ started to take her over.

“’What you got in your co’t ? ’ says ol’ Heath, what run the ferry.

“ ' Got my pet cat,’ says Darby; ' darn her, she kicks so I’m most ’fraid she’ll leave me yet! ’

“ They gut her ’crost this side an’ just up abreast our bell, when somehow ’nother, I don’t know how, she come some kind of a roll on him an’ ‘ ker-lank ! ’ goes her ol’ tongue. Ben he tol’ me after he was just about scart to death.

“ ‘ Who rung my bell ? ’ says ol’ Heath. — ‘ I did,’ says Tom; ‘ she ain’t so goodtoned as the other one.’ That was jus’ like him, awful quick he was. ’Fore ol’ Heath was half-way crost the river agin, he had down the eighty-pounder, an’ him an’ Ben was makin’ for the ship with ’em.

“ She laid jus’ below the ferry with her jibboom stickin’ right up over it same’s they do nowadays. Ben he said there wa’n’t nobody on deck, an’ they gut ’em onto the rail, an’ then I remember jus’ as plain as can be what he said Tom told him. ' Ben,’ says he, ' you git fer home,’ says he; ' ten men can steal a church, but the Devil himself dars n’t hev no extry hands helpin’ hide it.’

“ I ’member next mornin’ jus’ as well. There was the grettest time ever you did see. Some folks was runnin’ an’ others was a-lookin’ at them cross-bars, an’ ol’ Heath he got a gret extry long pict-pole an’ he was jobbin’ away off the ferry-slip like his life depended on it. He ’lowed they was throwed overboard.

“ Whiles he was doin’ that an’ they was all runnin’ around wild, they s’picioned somehow that Tom Darby he done it, an’ first thing we knowed they hed the police down there an’ they ketched him. An’ then they begun to hunt. I don’ know as ever I see a full-growed ship so everlastingly an’ ’tarnally over-rid with downright clod-hoppers as that one was. I was there same’s the rest of ’em, youngster fashion, divin’ round water-butts an’ stickin’ my head in everywhere I’d no business. So was the parson an’ the doctor an’ seem’s ’ough every livin’ bein’ in the place. Your uncle he tolt ’em to do their damnedest, only he give ’em jus’ so long a time, ’cause he was goin’ out with the tide — an’ I swear they done it. The E. P. Masterman come the nighest to bein’ a total wreck that day that ever she did in all her life. They even digged the cables out’n their places, an’ they clum half-way up the masts, an’ some o’ ’em they did say they tried to scrape her bottom, but I don’ know ’bout that. They busted open sea-chists an’ tea-chists an’ unskewered the hatches, an’ I swear ’fore night’t was wuth a week’s wages to have red of ’em. But ne’er a bell did they find! So fin’ly they damned her an’ they guv her up, an’ they had to give up Tom Darby too!

“ Ben he tolt me they had n’t gut much more’n out into mid-stream, ’fore Tom he says to the Cap’n, ' Cap’n,’ says he, ‘you’ll hear them bells ringin’ ’fore we git out to sea.’

“ An’ where do you s’pose them bells was hid ? ”

Captain Barnabas leaned forward with his hand raised.

“ I guess I give it up,” I said.

“ ‘Well, you’d better,” said he. “ One of ’em — one of ’em ” (lifting his voice) “ was hid in the r’yal, in the fore-r’ yal — furled in ! Yes, sir, furled in ! an’ almost clearn to the mast-head! Sixty pound in weight — an’ in the night! An’ the other was headed up in the middle of a berril of pork! God! man, but he was a terror!” And Captain Barnabas relaxed, and rubbed his hand where he had struck it on his chair.

“ Well, sir, them bells went to sea. An’ when they got to Havana your uncle he said how them bells had gut to go back, back home where they belonged; for, s’z ’e, ' I’ve gut chartered to go some further south an’ there’s no tellin’ when I’ll be gittin’ along or what’ll happen to me, an’ I’m a-goin’ to take them bells an’ box ’em an’ send ’em home by Cap’n Silas Bartram.’ Cap’n Silas he was on the old brig Traveler — went in her for years, until he died, I guess, an’ he happened to be layin’ right ’long side of ’em an’ homeward bound. So they gut a box an’ packed ’em an’ bound it with strap iron, an’ ’fore the Cap’n sailed they boated it over an’ put ’em aboard of ’im.

“ After that your uncle he went south; but he wan’t gone so long as he expected to be; guess he made fair weather of it or something; but Cap’n Silas he run the ol’ Traveler right into one of the cussedest gales o’ wind down there some’eres that ever you did see; an’ he used her all up. He lost most of his foremast an’ tore his sails off’n him an’ I don’t know what he did n’t do. He was more ’n three weeks to a month gittin’ into one o’ them Gulf ports. Then he had to refit an’ patch up, an’ what with havin’ trouble about his cargo, the upshot of it was that we never seen him up here till the E. P. Masterman was clean home ahead of him, an’ at work dischargin’!

“ Well, sir, when they warped Uncle Silas into the dock they all of ’em come a-runnin’ to see them bells. It seemed ’s if I never seed sech a crowd. I thought they’d break the wharft down. But they did n’t. They fetched a taycle an’ Silas he opened her up fas’ ’s he could, an’ bimeby they gut a hitch, an’ ’bout more’n four time’s many’s could git fair holt tried to help h’ist her out ont’ the landin’. I made up my mind I was goin’ to see them bells soon’s anybody ef I had to let one land on top o’ me, an’ they pretty nigh did. I gut my head out between two men’s legs an’ I seen ’em bust her open with a pick-handspike an’ an axe, an’ when they took the covers off, what do you s’pose she was lined with ? Tobacco! Yes, sir, gret, long yeller-brown leaves, an’ pretty, too. They begun to dig down an’ they kep’ diggin’ down, an’ says I, ‘Looks like rocks more’n anything else to me.’ But they kep’ diggin’ an’ diggin’. An’ what do you s’pose they found? Stones, man! stones! nothin’ but just black rocks! That damn Tom Darby he’d stole them bells the secont time!

“ An’ then was n’t there a time though! They went to your uncle an’ he said that the last he knew of Tom he left the ship at some southern port. So all anybody got out of it was the tobacco. I saved some of it for years, an’ t was good too, I guess, only I wan’t smokin’ them days.

“ Well, sir, I never see Tom Darby agin. Ben he gut converted, an’ though he kep’ on goin’ to sea, he was lots diff’rent after that. It must have been ten or a dozen years afterwards, an’ I was goin’ to sea myself, ’fore anybody ever heerd more about them bells. My first trip I went south on the Masterman ’long o’ your uncle, an’ Ben he went first mate. He gut me the chance, you see. We was tied up in Baltimore when Ben come down aboard. ‘ Lud! ’ says he, — he alwers used to say that, — ' My Lud! ’ he says, ‘ I’ve just seen Tom Darby, an’ he was drunker ’n a fool! ’

“ ‘ Did he say anything about them bells ? ’ says your uncle.

“ ‘ Well, he said somethin’ ’bout ’em,’ says he, ‘ but’t won’t do no good.’

“He said he stole ’em durin’ his watch in the night an’ hid ’em ’way up forrards, an’ when he got ’em into port (he would n’t no ways tell what one, though I guess Ben pressed him pretty hard), he rows ashore somewheres abreast of the anchorage an’ hides ’em both. Drunk as he was, he would n’t tell the name of the port, but for the rest he’d laugh an’ tell it all as straight as H. He said he seen up ashore there a big whitewashed buildin’ of some manner or ’nother, what looked to him ’s if it might be a fact’ry. Every now an’ then he see folks, quite a lot o’ folks, walkin’ round, an’ then he’d be hearin’ bells ring like sixty, an’ er course he dassent ask nobody, but he made out to hisself somehow ’t was an anchor fact’ry, er a bell foundry, er some dod-blasted thing er ’nother. P’raps’t wa ’n’t nothin’ more ’n a schoolhouse, but anyway like’s not they might buy old junk, an’ havin’ bells they might want some more.

“So he planned first time he got shore leave to sack them bells up there an’ sell ’em, since that was the most likeliest-lookin’ place he could make out handy. Bimeby he gits ashore in the place, an’ first thing he doos is, he gits a jug o’ rum an’ starts right out in the heat o’ the day, like any cussed Yankee, a-bilin’ up one o’ them milk-white, eye-blindin’ ro’ds, makin’ fer them bells an’ drinkin’ rum to stop his thirst at ev’ry ten rods. He had ’em hid, it seems, under a thick bush with briers all over it, right alongside this ro’d an’ runnin’ up to what he struck out to be his foundry o’ some sort.

“Well, between the heat an’ the sun an’ the ro’d an’ the rum, poor Tom he gut worse an’ worse, till bimeby he was clearn seas over, an’ there ’s not much doubts about that. He tol’ Ben that he most suttenly believed he crawled under more’n four hundred diff’rent brier bushes ’fore he found the right one; but he finds ’em at last, an’ he gits ’em out onto the ro’d an’ starts a-luggin’ of ’em along, givin’ ’em turns like, fust one, then t’other, up the hill. Bimeby he gut ’em both in one place where it was in the shade for a while, an’ he takes an extry big drink o’ rum an’ down he lays between the two of ’em, an’ he never knowed nothin’ more for he did n’t know how long.

“ Bimeby he waked up. An’ first thing he see was a great big man with a great gol-darn big petticoat co’t on that come clearn down to the ground all round, an’ with one of these ere furrin bell-cord torsel fixin’s hitched round his middle, balder’n a badger, an’ lookin’ right down in his face, standin’ right fair an’ square in front o’ him.

“ ' “ Cripes! ” says I,’ says he; ‘ “ ’e may be the police an’ he may be the Devil, I do’ know which,” an’ I grabbed my jug an’ run to beat hell!

“ ‘ I never seen them bells sence,’ says he, ‘an’ that’s the God’s honest truth; hope to die ef ’t aint! ’ says he.

“ An’ he says to Ben, ' Ef ye find ’em ye c’n hev ’em, but I won’t tell ye where I lost ’em, damned ef I will! ’

“ Nothin’ more could Ben git out ’n him. We went ashore twice to try to find him, but I think’s likely he’d shipped aboard some vessel an’ was gone off. He was an awful smart feller, that Tom, but he would drink rum.”

Captain Barnabas stopped and reflected.

“ But how did you come to get the bells finally?” said I.

“I’m comin’ to it,” said he, drawing a match along the floor; “ gut to light my pipe first.”

“ Ye see,” said he, " we went south with the old Masterman an’ yer uncle. First we went to Martinique, an’ then we sorter banged round till we come to a porr — I could tell ye the name’s well’s not, only I promised onct I would n’t an’ I might’s well stick it out I s’pose — but anyways it don’t make no diffunce. We gut down to this here port, an’ just ’bout sundown Ben an’ I was out on deck washin’ up fer supper. ’T was a nice pleasant night an’ mostly calm, with just a little shore air, an’ right off abreast of us was quite big hills runnin’ up with buildin’s on ’em. All of a sudden we heard bells a-ringin’. Up on that highest hill was a big white sort of buildin’ ’t I had n’t noticed much afore; an’ it seems they had a kinder piece o’ wall set up with holes in it, reg’lar arches, an’ in them arches was lots o’ bells. An’ there was fellers stood there an’ hit ’em. Seems by the sound that they begun on the big ones low down at first, but bimeby they commenced on the little ones up top. We was so near land you could hear ’em jus’ ’s if they was aboard.

“ Fust thing I knew Ben he Avent int’ the air ’bout two feet. ‘ Lud! ’ he says, ‘ my Lud! do you listen — listen! ’ he says. ‘ Do you hear that ? ’

“ ' I hear ’em; I ain’t deef! ’ I says.

” ' Shut up ! Listen ! ’ says he. ' Them’s my bells! Lud! but they are! ’

“ Ben he was a great hand for music, but I ain’t, an’ I ’xpect he could hear better’n I could; but I put my ear right down to it an’ by thunder! seemed to me I could ketch somethin’ that sounded like home. I swan I could make her out! Ben he was wild.

“ ‘ For Heaven’s sake, hold onto yourself,’ says I; ‘ we got to go slow.’

“ ' Let’s tell the cap’n an’ we’ll go up an’ git ’em,’ says he.

“ I’d never been south, but I knowed some things aforetime, an’ I wan’t for jumpin’ int’ the fire so suddent.

“ ' No, you don’t tell nobody, not yit,’ says I.

“ ‘ That’s the very place,’ says Ben, puttin’ his glass on it, ‘ an’ them’s the very fellers, like Tom Darby saw!

“ ‘ But it ain’t no anchor fact’ry up there on that hill,’ says I, ' an’ it ain’t no bell foundry way up so fur from the water an’ ’thouten no chimbley! ’

“ Bimeby it seemed to strike the two of us all to onct — darned, if it wan’t a church! an’ all chock-a-block rambang-spanging full o’ them priests! — monks, that’s what they call ’em! Part of it was covered sort of with trees, you know, an’ we never got wind of it before. Well, sir, they lived there, an’ slep’ there, an’ they had their meals there, jus’ same’s you would aboard ship — I’ve seen lots of ’em sence down round the Med’terranean.

“ Ben he was all took aback. ' Ef them’s priests,’ he says, ' we can’t do nothin’ with ’em; I guess we lost our bells,’ says he.

“ ' Why not go take ’em ? ’ says I.

“ ' Could n’t do that,’ says he; ' that ’ould be stealin’! ’

“ ' But they don’t belong to them,’ says I. But he would n’t hev it no other way. Ben he was awful square-rigged. He felt bad as anythin’ ’cause he had a hand in losin’ ’em, but he could n’t steal ’em back agin.

“ Well, sir, that night it shut in dark as anythin’, but’t was nice an’ warm. Mine was the middle watch an’ I was all alone, ’cause we was in port, you see. Right after mine come Swain Pendleton’s watch. Swain he was the ship’s clock; he could wake up any hour in the night he sot. I went to Swain an’ I says to him, ' Swain, can you make out to wake up when your watch comes? ’ — ' Guess I kin! ’ says he. — ' Well,’ I says, ' ef you miss me an’ the dinghy when you come on deck, don’t you sing out.’ Swain he knew I was young, an’ he just spit an’ grinned an’ did n’t make no remarks.

“ When it come time fer my watch I jus’ come up an’ took a look around an’ seen all was well, an’ then I slips over the side an’ int’ the dinghy an’ starts scullin’ ’er fer the shore. There was one of them big blanket clouds movin’ back, an’ ’t was gittin’ fair starlight, least so’st shapes they made themselves out quite a ways. I rowed me into a little cove an’ fixed the dinghy so’st she would ’n’ git ketched ner grind, an’ then I clim up. It seemed to be just dead grass an’ brier bushes mostly, but bimeby I struck a reg’lar garden-place, an’ after that a nice gravel walk. I gut my shoes off so’s I could go quiet an’ not make no noise, an’ that path took me right where I wanted to be. There was the church an’ all the fixin’s round it, an’ that wall with the bells on it right side the walk — walk run all around it! I was scart for fear they had a dog, but seems mos’ likely they did n’t hev none. I crep’ up to the wall, an’ ’t was built with sort o’ steps at the ends, sorter like the end o’ a Dutch house, only they was diffrent. I know I thinks, ' Now, Barney, you got to make out whether them bells is yourn before you goes to takin’ ’em.’ I remembered that onct Ben tolt me that both on ’em had somethin’ on ’em, dates an’ bein’ cast by P. Revere an’ Mason’s signs on the big one. ’Bout the fust thing I gut. my hand on was one of them little lizards, but I gut up there easy enough an’ bimeby I felt round, an’ by gracious! them was our bells! I could make out a P an’ a R, an’ down unnerneath on the big one suthin’ dimon’wise, like the square an’ compasses. I want you to know that I felt good then!

“ Then come the trick o’ gittin’ them down. Seems they had sort o’ leather lanyards to them top bells to ring ’em by, an’ when I went to git int’ the arch ’long with ’em, — sort o’ double arch, seems like, — I come the nighest to trippin’ over one o’ those an’ settin’ her goin’ ever you see. I grabbed holt the tongue just in time. But I meneged with them leetle leather ropes to tie my co’t round one clapper, an’ my shirt’ round t’other, an’ then I starts in to git ’em loose. An’ what do you think they was made fast with ? What do you s’pose now ? ”

“ Chains ? ” said I.

“ No, sir! Raw hog’s hide with the brustles on, an’ dried! Yes, sir. I brought some of it clearn home with me to show. ’T would take the aidge right off’n a knife.

“ Thinks I, ‘ I’ll take the biggest one first, an’ then if anythin’ should happen, why, I’ll save that much, anyway.’ It was strainin’ work, but I coopered him after awhile an’ gut him clearn down an’ int’ the bo’t.

“ Then I gut holt o’ the small one and fetched him down ont’ the ground an’ was just startin’ to put my shoes on ag’in, ’cause I could walk on the grass aidge jus’ ’s well an’ not make no noise, — an’ when a man was lo’ded them pebbles they cut in somethin’ devilish, — I was jus’ a beginnin’, when I heard somebody a-comin’, scrunch — scrunch — scrunch; you could hear him comin’ on them gravels, an’ slow, too.

“ ‘ What fer Huldy’s sake did I do to start him out? ’ thinks I.

“I squeezed all up close ’ginst that wall, but he kep’ comin’ right down that path t’words me. He gut clearn to the end of the wall, an’ then all of a sudden be went the other side. I felt better some then, an’ I jus’ started to take a long breath, when round he comes, right round my end of it an’ up ag’in me. ' It’s now or never,’ thinks I, an’ I jus’ drawed off an’ hit him the gol-darnedest bing in the head prob’ly he’ll ever git in this world. He went over like he was shot, an’ I grabbed my other shoe an’ gafted onto the ol’ bell quick’s I could, an’ then I put her for heaven’s sake, one shoe off, an’ one shoe on, down the hill. Seems’s if ev’ry step I punched a post-hole, an’ I was clean blowed for two hours after; but I gut alongside at last, an’ Swain he helped me to take ’em aboard. We hid ’em under some ol’ sail an’ then I turned in an’ went to sleep.

“ Come to git up, there was a pretty how-de-do. Somebody had moved that sail an’ found my bells, an’ Cap’n he gut after Ben, an’ Ben he tolt all he knowed, an’ Swain he would n’t tell but he might jus’ as well hev, an’ it was a pretty mess. Cap’n said it wan’t right an’ he would n’t hev no sech doin’s aboard a vessel o’ hisn, an’ Ben he was faced right around an’ beggin’ fer to hev ’em stay. When I come aft I ’spected to git hell. Cap’n he never says a word more ’n Good-mornin’. Bimeby he says, ‘ Barney, you go git shaved, an’ tell Ben to.’ An’ then I see trouble all right.

“ Well, sir, ’fore nine o’clock he had me an’ Ben an’ Swain an’ himself — we all bein’ from home, you know — all ashore an’ up to the consul’s office. Consul he turned out to be a man your uncle knowed, named Hill, born an’ brought up right on our river; awful nice man he was, too, son of old Judson Hill. He gut a perlice off’cer, or some sort what had power, an’ we drove off for that monersterry, as they called it. I could n’t help goin’, an’ thinks I, ‘ Barney, your jig’s up. When they hears about that feller you basten in the eye, you’ll be an awful brown goose sure pop.’ I had n’t said a single word about that. Your uncle an’ the consul an’ the perlice off’cer they talked Spanish all right ’mongst ’em, but Ben an’ Swain an’ me we had to git along same’s we allers did.

“ There was a fat little priest met us at the door an’ invited us in through a long hall — buildin’ all stone, you know, an’ jus’ as clean an’ cool. I tell ye it was fine. Ef I had n’t ben so scart I should ha’ enj’yed it lots more’n I did. We went through this hall an’ into a gret, big, high-studded, han’some room, seats all along each side an’ a table at the end. ’T was one of the nicest rooms seems to me I ever see. We set down in there an’ then we see picters all up on the wall, an’ on the ceilin’, too — saints, an’ them things. I was so uncomferble though that bimeby I goes to the cap’n an’ begins to tell him. Seems he knowed all ’bout it from the perlice; they’d been talkin’ ’bout it, only I could n’t understand.

“ At last two old priests come in — fine-lookin’ men they was, too, an’ moved ’bout jus’ ’s still, an’ the perlice he interduced them to the consul an’ your uncle. They talked Spanish, an’ then they all went out an’ left me an’ Ben an’ Swain. We looked at the picters, an’ a little priest come in an’ tried to tell us about ’em; but it was a sort o’ one-sided game. I wisht most damnably I could ask him ef the feller was dead, ’cause I was worried most to death; an’ ev’ry new one I see, I’d keep lookin’ to see if his eye was all blacked up or like that. I ’member, thinks I, ' I swear I’ll never hit another man’s long as I live,’ an’ I don’ know as I hev since.

“After a while a bell rung, an’ pretty soon the cap’n an’ the others come back, an’ right in after them come much as a dozen priests, all dressed just alike an’ ev’ry one shaved on top, an’ they all set down as solemn as could be ag’inst the wall over abreast of us. ’Bout the last one of ’em had his head all done up in a cloth, one of the meekest-lookin’ little critters ever I did see. I swear I felt sorry fer him, I certingly did.

“ Well, sir, we had a reg’lar council o’ war. First your uncle he’d git up an’ talk Spanish, just as polite an’ quiet, you know, as he could be. He was a gentleman— I allers said that; cert’nly he was if there ever was one. And then the old head-father, a gret, tall, splendid-lookin’ man, he would git up, an’ first he talked Spanish an’ then he talked some English. He said he had n’t a doubt but the bells belonged to us; he found ’em there in the ro’d with the drunken sailor beside ’em, an’ when he run away, not knowin’ what to do with ’em, an’ havin’ a good an’ godly use for ’em, — a godly use for ’em, he said, — he took ’em an’ had his arches enlarged an’ added ’em to his bells. Had he a known who was the rightful owner, he would er been pleased to have given ’em up at any time. He was sorry he could n’t have been of assistance before. An’ finally he hoped that the manner in which they went might not be the beginnin’ of any ways of lastin’ harm to any one of us. I shall always remember the look on his face when he said that last. ’Fore he got through he thanked us for the use of them durin’ the years he had had ’em. He was a fine man; they can talk to me all they want, but he was fine, yes, sir, he was fine all the way through.

“ And how do you suppose it turned out?” asked Captain Barnabas, raising his voice. “ Well, sir, it seems that poor little feller wan’t after me at all. No, sir! It seemed he had the stomick-ache, or some such thing, an’ he got up an’ was walkin’ round an’ sayin’ his prayers there in the dark, to kinder ease hisself o’ the pain, an’ I believe he did n’t even know what hit him, an’ I guess they’d never found out if they had n’t missed them bells. ’Fore they gut through, the Cap’n he come over an’ said he’d like to have me shake hands with the little feller an’ tell him I was sorry. So I gut up there an’ took holt o’ his hand before the whole of ’em, an’ I says, says I, ‘ Mister, I’m awful sorry I punched your head.’ I wan’t so very old then, you know; but your uncle he plagued me for more’n twenty years afterward about that speech; but that’s just what I said, the very words.

“ Well, sir, they made us stay to dinner and we had some wine an’ they give us some to take back aboard of ship with us, an’ I believe, — I believe,” repeated Captain Barnabas, “ that I had one of the best times I ever had in my life. When we come away your uncle asked the priest that did the talkin’ if we could n’t give them somethin’ for the church, an’ he said we might. So he took out an’ give him ten dollars in gold. An’ I ’member I had just two five-dollar gold pieces, an’ I took one of them, an’ I give him that, too.”

” And you brought the bells back with you ? ”

“ Yes, sir! safe an’ sound, an’ everybody tickled to death to see ’em. They hung there more’n twenty year longer, an’ just as good to-day as ever they was.”

“ And about that card? ”

“ Well, Ben put that on when he was alive. You see when they went out of use, he an’ I, we bought ’em, an’ we presented ’em to the s’ciety, an’ he felt so kinder bad to think he was mixed up with losin’ ’em an’ the like that he never wanted to say much at all about ’em, never anything about the past or nothin’; but there’s some folks I take it he would n’t mind knowin’.

“ And now,” said Captain Barnabas, slowly striking out his pipe, “ let’s us go up to the house an’ see what ma’s got fer supper.”