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Billy found Croaker just where he thought he would be—clinging to the latch of the menagerie door and peering with one black eye through the chink above it at the owls, the while he hurled guttural insults at them. The sails of these vessels had been furled, and the bright April breeze blowing from the sea sang in their clean rigging. A couple of planks communicated between the Minorca's gangway and the wharf, and at the wharf-end of these planks stood a man of a seafaring aspect, apparently belonging to the barque. "Why I read it in Anson's book, 'Trigger-Finger Tim er Dead er Alive.' Oh, it's all hunky, I tell you.".
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The deacon, a florid, full-whiskered man of about sixty, glowered about him. No one present thought of disputing his assertion. The deacon was a power in the community. It was Billy Wilson who acted promptly. Running to the stove he opened the door and lifted out the blazing wood and, at the risk of scorching himself badly, ran with it from the room. Suddenly those eyes opened wide. Was he dreaming again or did he hear the low croak of a crow? He twisted his head. There at his feet sat Croaker. The crow's beady eyes were fastened on him. Suspended from its neck was a cord and attached to the cord was a piece of yellow wrapping paper. "'I'm not sure that I'll go back to the States,' he said, 'it all depends; besides,' says he, 'my boy and girl like this place and the people and I reckon I've got enough money to live wherever I like.'.
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