Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepidation and impatience,
fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a scent of the buried
gold. He determined privately to seek out the black fisherman, and
get him to serve as guide to the place where he had witnessed the
mysterious scene of interment. Sam was easily found, for he was
one of those old habitual beings that live about a neighborhood
until they wear themselves a place in the public mind, and become,
in a manner, public characters. There was not an unlucky urchin
about town that did not know Sam the fisherman, and think that he
had a right to play his tricks upon the old negro. Sam had led an
amphibious life for more than half a century, about the shores of
the bay and the fishing grounds of the Sound. He passed the
greater part of his time on and in the water, particularly about
Hell Gate, and might have been taken, in bad weather, for one of
the hobgoblins that used to haunt that strait. There would he be
seen, at all times and in all weathers, sometimes in his skiff,
anchored among the eddies, or prowling like a shark about some
wreck, where the fish are supposed to be most abundant; sometimes
seated on a rock from hour to hour, looking, in the mist and
drizzle, like a solitary heron watching for its prey.
Pages:
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339