. . let me see . . . plague on it . . .
there's something about you that . . . er . . . er . . . but
I've been gone from Bermuda for twenty-seven years, and . . . hum, hum
. . . I don't seem to get at it, somehow, but there's something about
you that is just as familiar to me as--"
"Likely it might be his hat," murmured the Ass, with innocent,
sympathetic interest.
So the Reverend and I had at last arrived at Hamilton, the principal town
in the Bermuda Islands. A wonderfully white town; white as snow itself.
White as marble; white as flour. Yet looking like none of these,
exactly. Never mind, we said; we shall hit upon a figure by and by that
will describe this peculiar white.
It was a town that was compacted together upon the sides and tops of a
cluster of small hills. Its outlying borders fringed off and thinned
away among the cedar forests, and there was no woody distance of curving
coast or leafy islet sleeping upon the dimpled, painted sea, but was
flecked with shining white points--half-concealed houses peeping out of
the foliage.
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