It was dusk when the Collector departed upon that memorable and solitary expedition, and it was entirely dark before he had reached its conclusion.  He had taken with him a bottle of Extra Reserve rum to drive, as he declared, the chill out of his bones.  Accordingly it seemed to him to be a surprisingly brief interval before he found himself floating in his boat under the impenetrable shadow of the rocky promontory.  The profound and infinite gloom of night overhung him with a portentous darkness, melting only into a liquid obscurity as it touched and dissolved into the stretch of waters across the bay.  But above, on the high and rugged shoulder of the Point, the Collector, with dulled and swimming vision, beheld a row of dim and lurid lights, whereupon, collecting his faculties, he opined that the radiance he beheld was emitted from the windows of the Old Free Grace Meeting-House.

Having made fast his boat with a drunken gravity, the Collector walked directly, though with uncertain steps, up the steep and rugged path towards that mysterious illumination.  Now and then he stumbled over the stones and cobbles that lay in his way, but he never quite lost his balance, neither did he for a moment remit his drunken gravity.  So with a befuddled and obstinate perseverance he reached at last to the conclusion of his adventure and of his fate.

The old meeting-house was two stories in height, the lower story having been formerly used by the Free Grace Believers as a place wherein to celebrate certain obscure mysteries appertaining to their belief.  The upper story, devoted to the more ordinary worship of their Sunday meetings, was reached by a tall, steep flight of steps that led from the ground to a covered porch which sheltered the doorway.

The Collector paused only long enough to observe that the shutters of the lower story were tight shut and barred, and that the dull and lurid light shone from the windows above.  Then he directly mounted the steps with a courage and a perfect assurance that can only be entirely enjoyed by one in his peculiar condition of inebriety.

He paused to knock at the door, and it appeared to him that his knuckles had hardly fallen upon the panel before the valve was flung suddenly open.  An indescribable and heavy odor fell upon him and for the moment overpowered his senses, and he found himself standing face to face with a figure prodigiously and portentously tall.

Even at this unexpected apparition the Collector lost possession of no part of his courage.  Rather he stiffened himself to a more stubborn and obstinate resolution.  Steadying himself for his address, “I know very well,” quoth he, “who you are.  You are the Divil, I dare say, but damme if you shall do business here without paying your duties to King George.  I may drink a drop too much,” he cried, “but I collect my duties—­every farthing of ’em.”  Then drawing forth his snuffbox, he thrust it under the nose of the being to whom he spake.  “Take a pinch and read that,” he roared, “but don’t handle it, for I wouldn’t take all hell to let it out of my hand.”