Mr. Simeon Phinney emerged from the side door of his residence and paused a moment to light his pipe in the lee of the lilac bushes.Mr.
　　Phinney was a man of various and sundry occupations, and his sign, nailed to the big silver-leaf in the front yard, enumerated a few of them.“Carpenter, Well Driver, Building Mover, Cranberry Bogs Seen to with Care and Dispatch, etc.，etc.，”so read the sign. The house was situated in“Phinneys Lane，”the crooked little byway off“Cross Street，”between the“Shore Road”at the foot of the slope and the“Hill Boulevard”——formerly“Higginss Roost”——at the top.From the Phinney gate the view was extensive and, for the most part, wet.The hill descended sharply, past the“Shore Road，”over the barren fields and knolls covered with bayberry bushes and“poverty grass，”to the yellow sand of the beach and the gray, weather-beaten fish-houses scattered along it.Beyond was the bay, a glimmer in the sunset light.
　　Mrs. Phinney, in the kitchen, was busy with the supper dishes.Her husband, wheezing comfortably at his musical pipe, drew an ancient silver watch from his pocket and looked at its dial.Quarter past six.