“We’ll walk up into the town,” remarked Pete, “we’ve got to get some grub, anyway.”

We strolled up the wharf, and along a quaint and crooked street.  The sidewalk was so narrow that we had to walk in single file, and the curb-stone, as Mr. Daddles put it, was made of wood.  There were a few shops, but as most of them sold ships’ supplies, we did not go in any of them.  A pleasant smell of tar came from each door.

Presently we reached a square or market place.  Here were more shops, a butcher’s, a grocery, and one that announced “Ice Cream.”  A peanut-stand, sheltered by an umbrella, stood in the middle of the square, and toward this we made our way.  An aged Italian sat behind it, reading a newspaper.  He sold us peanuts, and exchanged facetious remarks with Mr. Daddles.  As we left the peanut man, we heard a far-off shouting.  Down the street came a tall, thin man, ringing a great dinner-bell.  He was very lame and made slow progress.  Now and then he would halt, and shout something at the top of his voice.

“What’s the matter?” Sprague asked a man, who stood in the door of a cigar-shop, “is there a fire?”

The man grinned.

“That’s the town-crier,” said he.

“Town-crier!” exclaimed Mr. Daddles, “I didn’t know there were any of ’em left.”

“There aint,” said the man, “except this one.  He’s the last one of ’em.”

The crier limped slowly down the street toward us.  We all halted to hear his next announcement.  Stopping in the middle of the street he solemnly rang his bell two or three times.  Then he threw back his head, and bellowed in a tremendous voice: 

“Hear—­what—­I—­have—­to—­say!  Stolen! the cat-boat—­Hannah—­J.—­ Pettingell—­from—­Mulliken’s Wharf—­yesterday—­afternoon!  Reward —­will—­be—­paid—­for information!—­Apply—­to—­the—­owner—­at—­ the Eagle—­House!”

CHAPTER VIII

HUNTING THE HOPPERGRASS

“Did you ever hear the like of that?” said Mr. Daddles, in a kind of awed whisper; “don’t move,—­he’s going to do it again!”

But Ed Mason, Jimmy Toppan, and I were not be to restrained.

“That’s the ’Hoppergrass’!” we all burst out, at the same instant.

“What’s the ’Hopper’—?” began Mr. Daddles, but his voice was drowned out by the crier.  Beginning with his “Hear what I have to say!” he repeated the announcement word for word as he had given it the first time.  Then he rang his bell with four, slow, deliberate motions, and started to hobble away.

We were after him in a second.

“Where is it?”

“When was it stolen?”

“Where’s Captain Bannister?”

The crier looked down at us with some air of indignation, and shifted his quid of tobacco.

“Apply at the Eagle House,” said he, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

“Come on! come on!” we begged the other three, “let’s go to the Eagle House!”