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The Spouter-Inn

           keptitavertedforsometimewhileemployedinunlacingthebag’smouth.Thisaccomplished,however,heturnedround—when,goodheavens;whatasight!Suchaface!Itwasofadark,purplish,yellowcolor,hereandtherestuckoverwithlargeblackishlookingsquares.Yes,it’sjustasIthought,he’saterriblebedfellow;he’sbeeninafight,gotdreadfullycut,andhereheis,justfromthesurgeon.Butatthatmomenthechancedtoturnhisfacesotowardsthelight,thatIplainlysawtheycouldnotbesticking-plastersatall,thoseblacksquaresonhischeeks.Theywerestainsofsomesortorother.AtfirstIknewnotwhattomakeofthis;butsoonaninklingofthetruthoccurredtome.Irememberedastoryofawhiteman—awhalemantoo—who,fallingamongthecannibals,hadbeentattooedbythem.Iconcludedthatthisharpooneer,inthecourseofhisdistantvoyages,musthavemetwithasimilaradventure.Andwhatisit,thoughtI,afterall!It’sonlyhisoutside;amancanbehonestinanysortofskin.Butthen,whattomakeofhisunearthlycomplexion,thatpartofit,Imean,lyingroundabout,andcompletelyindependentofthesquaresoftattooing.Tobesure,itmightbenothingbutagoodcoatoftropicaltanning;butIneverheardofahotsun’stanningawhitemanintoapurplishyellowone.However,IhadneverbeenintheSouthSeas;andperhapsthesunthereproducedtheseextraordinaryeffectsupontheskin.Now,whilealltheseideaswerepassingthroughmelikelightning,thisharpooneernevernoticedmeatall.But,aftersomedifficultyhavingopenedhisbag,hecommencedfumblinginit,andpresentlypulledoutasortoftomahawk,andaseal-skinwalletwiththehairon.Placingtheseontheoldchestinthemiddleofaroom,hethentooktheNewZealandhead—aghastlythingenough—andcrammeditdownintothebag.Henowtookoffhishat—anewbeaverhat—whenIcamenighsingingoutwithfreshsurprise.Therewasnohaironhishead—nonetospeakofatleast—nothingbutasmallscalp-knottwisteduponhisforehead.Hisbaldpurplishheadnowlookedforalltheworldlikeamildewedskull.Hadnotthestrangerstoodbetweenmeandthedoor,Iwouldhave

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