But the Cypraeas were beautiful, too, and of every colour, from white or palest amber to deep sullen purples and browns that melted into ebony.  These were the shells with voices, that spoke of the sea; many a child raised them to his ear, and listened with vague delight to the far-away, uncertain murmur; but not to every child is it given to hear the sound of the sea, and it may be doubted whether any boy or girl would have understood what the boy John meant, if he had declared the things that the shell had said to him.

Where was John?  Franci and Rento had charge of the deck exhibition, but the Skipper kept his station at the head of the gang-plank, and while courteously receiving his visitors, with a word of welcome for each, he looked often up the road to see if his little friend was coming.  He thought the gleam of red hair would brighten the landscape; but it came not, and the Skipper was not one to neglect a possible customer.  Now and again he would touch some one on the arm, and murmur gently, “In a few moments presently, other exhibition in the cabin, to which I have the pleasure of invite you.  I attend in person, which is free to visitors.”

He spoke without accent, the Skipper, but his sentences were sometimes framed on foreign models, and it was no wonder if now and then he met a blank stare.  He looked a little bored, possibly; these faces, full of idle wonder, showed no trace of the collector’s eager gaze; yet he was content to wait, it appeared.  Mr. Bill Hen Pike judged, from the way in which everything was trigged up, that the schooner “cal’lated to make some stay hereabouts;” and the Skipper did not contradict him, but bowed gravely, and said, “In a few moments, gentleman, do me the honour to descend to the cabin, where I take the pleasure of exhibit remarkable collection of shells.”

But now the Skipper raised his head, and became in a moment keenly alert; for a new figure was seen making its slow way to the wharf,—­a new figure, and a singular one.

An old man, white-haired and wizen, with a face like a knife-blade, and red, blinking eyes.  The face wore a look of eager yet doleful anticipation, as of a man going to execution and possessed with an intense desire to feel the edge of the axe.  His thin fingers twitched and fumbled about his pockets, his lips moved, and he shook his head from time to time.  This old gentleman was clad in nankeen trousers of ancient cut, a velvet waistcoat and a blue swallow-tail coat, all greatly too large for him.  His scant locks were crowned by a cheap straw hat of the newest make, his shoes and gaiters were of a twenty-year-old pattern.  Altogether, he was not an ordinary-looking old gentleman, nor was his appearance agreeable; but the village people took no special notice of him, being well used to Mr. Endymion Scraper and his little ways.  They knew that he was wearing out the clothes that his extravagant uncle had left behind him at his death, twenty years ago.  They had seen three velvet waistcoats worn out, and one of brocade; there were sixteen left, as any woman in the village could tell you.  As for the nankeen trousers, some people said there were ten dozen of them in the great oak chest, but that might be an exaggeration.