cellar was pretty well lighted.  Presently, in groups or singly, came old and middle-aged gentlemen, and with the last our friend Schmidt, who wandered off to a corner and sat on a barrel-head watching the effects of the mingling of daylight and candlelight, and amused in his quiet way at the scene and the intense interest of the chief actors in it, which, like other things he did not comprehend, had for him the charm of oddness.  I went over and stood by him while the porter dropped the tester-glass into the cool depths of cask after cask, and solemn counsel was held and grave decisions reached.  I was enchanted with one meagre, little old gentleman of frail and refined figure, who bent over his wine with closed eyes, as if to shut out all the sense-impressions he did not need, while the rest waited to hear what he had to say.

“Needs a milk fining,” muttered the old gentleman, with eyes shut as if in prayer.

“Wants its back broke with a good lot of eggshell,” said a short, stout man with a snuff-colored coat, the collar well up the back of his head.

“Ach!” murmured Schmidt.  “The back to be hurt with eggshell!  What hath he of meaning?”

“Pshaw!” said a third:  “give it a little rest, and then the white of an egg to every five gallons.  Is it bual?”

“Is it gruel?” said our senior sarcastically.

“Wants age.  A good wine for one’s grandchildren,” murmured my old friend with shut eyes.

“What is it he calls gruel?” whispered Schmidt.  “How nice is a picture he makes when he shuts his eyes and the light of the candle comes through the wine, all bright ruby, in the dark here!  And ah, what is that?” for Wholesome, who had been taking his wine in a kindly way, and having his say with that sense of being always sure which an old taster affects, glancing out of one of the little barred cellar-windows which looked out over the wharf, said abruptly, “Ha! ha! that won’t do!”

Turning, I saw under the broad-brimmed hat in the clear gray eyes a sudden sparkle of excitement as he ran hastily up the cellar-stairs.  Seeing that something unusual was afloat, I followed him quickly out on to the wharf, where presently the cause of his movement was made plain.

Beside the wharf was a large ship, with two planks running down from her decks to the wharf.  Just at the top of the farther one from us a large black-haired, swarthy man was brutally kicking an aged negro, who was hastily moving downward, clinging to the hand-rail.  Colored folks were then apt to be old servants—­that is to say, friends—­and this was our pensioned porter, Old Tom.  I was close behind Wholesome at the door of the counting-house.  I am almost sure he said “Damnation!” At all events, he threw down his hat, and in a moment was away up the nearer plank to the ship’s deck, followed by me.  Meanwhile, however, the black, followed by his pursuer, had reached the wharf, where the negro, stumbling and still clinging to the rail, was seized