This story to be acceptable should have been transposed to somewhere in the South Seas.
But it would have been too much trouble to cook it for the consumption of magazine readers.

So here it is raw, so to speak--just as it was told to me--but unfortunately robbed of the striking effect of the narrator; the most imposing old ruffian that ever followed the unromantic trade of master stevedore in the port of London.
* * * * * _Oct._ 1910.
THE INN OF THE TWO WITCHES A FIND This tale, episode, experience--call it how you will--was related in the fifties of the last century by a man who, by his own confession, was sixty years old at the time.

Sixty is not a bad age--unless in perspective, when no doubt it is contemplated by the majority of us with mixed feelings.

It is a calm age; the game is practically over by then; and standing aside one begins to remember with a certain vividness what a fine fellow one used to be.

I have observed that, by an amiable attention of Providence, most people at sixty begin to take a romantic view of themselves.