“I tell you what it is, landlord,” said I quite calmly, “you’d better stop spinning that yarn to me — I’m not green.”

“May be not,” taking out a stick and whittling a toothpick, “but I rayther guess you’ll be done brown if that ere harpooneer hears you a slanderin’ his head.”

“I’ll break it for him,” said I, now flying into a passion again at this unaccountable farrago of the landlord’s.

“It’s broke a’ready,” said he.

“Broke,” said I — “broke, do you mean?”

“Sartain, and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”