Two men composed its crew. One was a squat, broad-shouldered
fellow with remarkably long and gorilla-like arms, while the other
was tall and well proportioned, with clear blue eyes and a mat of
straight black hair. So unusual and striking was this combination
of hair and eyes that Charley and I remained somewhat longer than
we intended.

And it was well that we did. A stout, elderly man, with the dress
and carriage of a successful merchant, came up and stood beside us,
looking down upon the deck of the Ghost. He appeared angry, and
the longer he looked the angrier he grew.

"Those are my oysters," he said at last. "I know they are my
oysters. You raided my beds last night and robbed me of them."

The tall man and the short man on the Ghost looked up.

"Hello, Taft," the short man said, with insolent familiarity.
(Among the bayfarers he had gained the nickname of "The Centipede"
on account of his long arms.) "Hello, Taft," he repeated, with the
same touch of insolence. "Wot 'r you growling about now?"

"Those are my oysters--that's what I said. You've stolen them from
my beds."

"Yer mighty wise, ain't ye?" was the Centipede's sneering reply.
"S'pose you can tell your oysters wherever you see 'em?"

"Now, in my experience," broke in the tall man, "oysters is oysters
wherever you find 'em, an' they're pretty much alike all the Bay