. . wherein shall go no galley with oars,
neither shall gallant ship pass thereby_. . . ." His pipe went out.
The book slipped from his knee to the ground. He slumbered.
The garden gate rattled, and he awoke with a start. In the pathway
below him stood a sailor; a middle-sized, middle-aged man, rigged out
in best shore-going clothes--shiny tarpaulin hat, blue coat and
waistcoat, shirt open at the throat, and white duck trousers with
broad-buckled waistbelt.
"Beggin' your Reverence's pardon," began the visitor, touching the
brim of his hat, and then upon second thoughts uncovering, "but my
name's Jope--Ben Jope."
"Eh? . . . What can I do for you?" asked Parson Spettigew, a trifle
flustered at being caught napping.
"--Of the _Vesoovius_ bomb, bo's'n," pursued Mr. Jope, with a smile
that disarmed annoyance, so ingenuous it was, so friendly, and withal
so respectful: "but paid off at eight this morning. Maybe your
Reverence can tell me whereabouts to find an embalmer in these
parts?"
"A--a _what?_"
"Embalmer." Mr. Jope chewed thoughtfully for a moment or two upon a
quid of tobacco. "Sort of party you'd go to supposin' as you had a
corpse by you and wanted to keep it for a permanency.
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