"Is this Mr. Potter?"
"I'm the man."
"I live on a little hummock at the east of Mystic Island, off Noank."
"You do?"
"I came up to have a talk with you."
"Will you come inside, or shall we sit out here?"
"Let's sit on the step."
"All right, let's sit on the step."
He waddled out of the gate and sank comfortably on the little low doorstep, with his feet on the cool bricks below. I dropped into the space beside him, and was greeted by as sweet and kind a look as I have ever seen in a man's eyes. It was one of perfect courtesy and good nature—void of all suspicion.
"We were sitting down in the sailboat maker's place at Noank the other day, and I asked a half dozen of the old fellows whether they had ever known a contented man. They all thought a while, and then they said they had. Old Mr. Main and the rest of them agreed that Charlie Potter was a contented man. What I want to know is, are you?"