“You’re warm,” says I.  “I’m a friend of Ira Higgins of Boothbay Harbor.”

“Sho!” says he, removin’ his pipe and beginnin’ to act human.

“Happen to know Ira?” says I.

“Ought to,” says he.  “First cousins.  You from Boston?”

“Why, Cap!” says I.  “What have I ever done to you?  Now, honest, do I look like I—­but I’ll forgive you this time.  New York, Cap:  not Brooklyn, or Staten Island or the Bronx, you know, but straight New York, West 17th-st.  And I’ve come all this way just to see Mr. Higgins.”

“Gosh!” says he.  “Ira always did have all the luck.”

Next crack he calls me Sorrel Top, and inside of five minutes we was joshin’ away chummy, me up on a tall stool alongside, and him pointin’ out all the sights.  And, believe me, the State of Maine’s got some scenery scattered along the wet edge of it!  Honest, it’s nothin’ but scenery,—­rocks and trees and water, and water and trees and rocks, and then a few more rocks.

“How about when you hit one of them sharp ones?” says I.

“Government files a new edge on it,” says he.  “They keep a gang that does nothin’ else.”

“Think of that!” says I.  “I don’t see any lobsters floatin’ around, though.”

“Too late in the day,” says he. “‘Fraid of gittin’ sunburned.  You want to watch for ’em about daybreak.  Millions then.  Travel in flocks.”

“Ye-e-es?” says I.  “All hangin’ onto a string, I expect.  But why the painted posts stickin’ up out of the water?”

“Hitchin’ posts,” says he, “for sea hosses.”

Oh, I got a bunch of valuable marine information from him, and when the second mate came up he added a lot more.  If I hadn’t thought to tell ’em how there was always snow on the Singer and Woolworth towers, and how the East Side gunmen was on strike to raise the homicide price to three dollars and seventy-five cents, they’d had me well Sweeneyed.  As it was, I guess we split about even.

Him findin’ Boothbay Harbor among all that snarl of islands and channels wasn’t any bluff, though.  That was the real sleight of hand.  As we’re comin’ up to the dock he points out Ira’s boatworks, just on the edge of the town.  Half an hour later I’ve left my baggage at the hotel and am interviewin’ Mr. Higgins.

He’s the same old Ira; only he’s wearin’ blue overalls and a boiled shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Roarin’ Rocks, eh?” says he.  “Why, that’s the Hollister place on Cunner Point, about three miles up.”

“Can I get a trolley?” says I.

“Trolley!” says he.  “Why, Son, there ain’t any ’lectric cars nearer’n Bath.”

“Gee, what a jay burg!” says I.  “How about a ferry, then?”

Ira shakes his head.  Seems Roarin’ Rocks is a private joint, the summer place of this Mr. Hollister who’s described by Ira as “richer’n Croesus”—­whatever that might mean.  Anyway, they’re exclusive parties that don’t encourage callers; for the only way of gettin’ there is over a private road around the head of the bay, or by hirin’ a launch to take you up.