“Kind o’ foggy, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” replied Tod, scrutinizing the man’s face and figure, particularly his clothes, which were queerly cut and with a foreign air about them.  He saw, too, that he was strong and well built, and not over thirty years of age.

“You work here?” continued the stranger, mounting the steps and coming closer, his eyes taking in Tod, the porch, and the view of the sitting-room through the open window.

“I do,” answered Tod in the same tone, his eyes still on the man’s face.

“Good job, is it?” he asked, unbuttoning his coat.

“I get enough to eat,” answered Tod curtly, “and enough to do.”  He had resumed his position against the jamb of the door and stood perfectly impassive, without offering any courtesy of any kind.  Strangers who asked questions were never very welcome.  Then, again, the inquiry about his private life nettled him.

The man, without noticing the slight rebuff, looked about for a seat, settled down on the top step of the porch, pulled his cap from his head, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand.  Then he said slowly, as if to himself: 

“I took the wrong road and got consid’able het up.”

Tod watched him while he mopped his head with a red cotton handkerchief, but made no reply.  Curiosity is not the leading characteristic of men who follow the sea.

“Is the head man around?  His name’s Holt, ain’t it?” continued the stranger, replacing his cap and stuffing his handkerchief into the side-pocket of his coat.

As the words fell from his lips Tod’s quick eye caught a sudden gleam like that of a search-light flashed from beneath the heavy eyebrows of the speaker.

“That’s his name,” answered Tod.  “Want to see him?  He’s inside.”  The surfman had not yet changed his position nor moved a muscle of his body.  Tiger cats are often like this.

Captain Holt’s burly form stepped from the door.  He had overheard the conversation, and not recognizing the voice had come to find out what the man wanted.

“You lookin’ for me?  I’m Captain Holt.  What kin I do for ye?” asked the captain in his quick, imperious way.

“That’s what he said, sir,” rejoined Tod, bringing himself to an erect position in deference to his chief.

The stranger rose from his seat and took his cap from his head.

“I’m out o’ work, sir, and want a job, and I thought you might take me on.”

Tod was now convinced that the stranger was a foreigner.  No man of Tod’s class ever took his hat off to his superior officer.  They had other ways of showing their respect for his authority—­instant obedience, before and behind his back, for instance.

The captain’s eyes absorbed the man from his thick shoes to his perspiring hair.

“Norwegian, ain’t ye?”

“No, sir; Swede.”

“Not much difference.  When did ye leave
Sweden?  You talk purty good.”