Water Street
was almost its duplicate, save that there were great seaward gaps
where wharves had been. Not a living thing did I see, except for the
scattered fishermen on the distant breakwater, and not a sound did I
hear save the lapping of the harbor tides and the roar of the falls in
the Manuxet. I kept north along Main to Martin, then turning inland, crossing
Federal Street safely north of the Green, and entering the decayed
patrician neighborhood of northern Broad, Washington, Lafayette, and
Adams Streets. Following Washington Street toward the river, I now
faced a zone of former industry and commerce; noting the ruins of a
factory ahead, and seeing others, with the traces of an old railway
station and covered railway bridge beyond up the gorge on my right. The uncertain bridge now before me was posted with a warning sign,
but I took the risk and crossed again to the south bank where traces
of life reappeared. Furtive, shambling creatures stared cryptically
in my direction, and more normal faces eyed me coldly and curiously. Innsmouth was rapidly becoming intolerable, and I turned down Paine
Street toward the Square in the hope of getting some vehicle to take me
to Arkham before the still-distant starting time of that sinister bus. It was then that I saw the tumbledown fire station on my left,
and noticed the red-faced, bushy-bearded, watery-eyed old man in
nondescript rags who sat on a bench in front of it talking with a pair
of unkempt but not abnormal-looking firemen. This, of course, must be
Zadok Allen, the half-crazed, liquorish non-agenarian whose tales of
old Innsmouth and its shadow were so hideous and incredible. III


I had been assured that the old man could do nothing but hint at wild,
disjointed, and incredible legends, and I had been warned that the
natives made it unsafe to be seen talking with him; yet the thought
of this aged witness to the town's decay, with memories going back to
the early days of ships and factories, was a _lure_ that no amount
of reason could make me resist. Curiosity flared up beyond sense and
caution, and in my youthful egotism I fancied I might be able to sift
a nucleus of real history from the confused, extravagant outpouring I
would probably extract with the aid of whiskey. A quart bottle of such was easily, though not cheaply, obtained in the
rear of a dingy variety-store just off the Square in Eliot Street. Re-entering the Square I saw that luck was with me; for--shuffling
out of Paine Street around the corner of the Gilman House--I glimpsed
nothing less than the tall, lean, tattered form of old Zadok Allen
himself. In accordance with my plan, I attracted his attention by
brandishing my newly-purchased bottle; and soon realized that he had
begun to shuffle wistfully after me as I turned into Waite Street on my
way to the most deserted region I could think of. Before I reached Main
Street I could hear a faint and wheezy "Hey, Mister!" behind me, and I
presently allowed the old man to catch up and take copious pulls from
the quart bottle. I began putting out feelers as we walked along to Water Street and
turned southward amidst the omnipresent desolation and crazily tilted
ruins, but found that the aged tongue did not loosen as quickly
as I had expected. At length I saw a grass-grown opening toward
the sea between crumbling brick walls, with the weedy length of an
earth-and-masonry wharf projecting beyond. Piles of moss-covered stones
near the water promised tolerable seats, and the scene was sheltered
from all possible view by a ruined warehouse on the north. About four hours remained for conversation if I were to catch the eight
o'clock coach for Arkham, and I began to dole out more liquor to the
ancient tippler; meanwhile eating my own frugal lunch. In my donations
I was careful not to overshoot the mark, for I did not wish Zadok's
vinous garrulousness to pass into a stupor. After an hour his furtive
taciturnity showed signs of disappearing, and something or other had
caused his wandering gaze to light on the low, distant line of Devil
Reef, then showing plainly and almost fascinatingly above the waves. He
bent toward me, took hold of my coat lapel, and hissed out some hints
that could not be mistaken. "Thar's whar it all begun--that cursed place of all wickedness whar
the deep water starts. Gate o' hell--sheer drop daown to a bottom no
saoundin'-line kin tech. Ol' Cap'n Obed done it--him that faound aout
more'n was good fer him in the Saouth Sea islands. "Never was nobody like Cap'n Obed--old limb o' Satan! Heh, heh! I kin
mind him a-tellin' abaout furren parts, an' callin' all the folks
stupid fer goin' to Christian meetin' an' bearin' their burdens meek
an' lowly. Says they'd orter git better gods like some o' the folks
in the Injies--gods as ud bring 'em good fishin' in return fer their
sacrifices, an' ud reely answer folks's prayers. "Matt Eliot, his fust mate, talked a lot, too, only he was agin'
folks's doin' any heathen things. Told abaout an island east of
Othaheite whar they was a lot o' stone ruins older'n anybody knew
anything abaout, kind o' like them on Ponape, in the Carolines, but
with carvin's of faces that looked like the big statues on Easter
Island. They was a little volcanic island near thar, too, whar they was
other ruins with diff'rent carvin's--ruins all wore away like they'd
ben under the sea onct, an' with picters of awful monsters all over 'em. "Wal, Sir, Matt he says the natives araound thar had all the fish they
cud ketch, an' sported bracelets an' armlets an' head rigs made aout
of a queer kind o' gold an' covered with picters o' monsters jest like
the ones carved over the ruins on the little island--sorter fishlike
frogs or froglike fishes that was drawed in all kinds o' positions
like they was human bein's. Nobody cud git aout o' them whar they got
all the stuff, an' all the other natives wondered haow they managed to
find fish in plenty even when the very next islands had lean pickin's. Matt he got to wonderin' too, an' so did Cap'n Obed. Obed, he notices,
besides, that lots of the han'some young folks ud drop aout o' sight
fer good from year to year, an' that they wan't many old folk araound. Also, he thinks some of the folks looks durned queer even fer Kanakys. "It took Obed to git the truth aout o' them heathens. I dun't know haow
he done it, but he begun by tradin' fer the gold-like things they wore. Ast 'em whar they come from, an' ef they cud git more, an' finally
wormed the story aout o' the old chief--Walakea, they called him. Nobody but Obed ud ever a believed the old yeller devil, but the Cap'n
cud read folks like they was books. Heh, heh! Nobody never believes me
naow when I tell 'em, an I dun't s'pose you will, young feller--though
come to look at ye, ye hev kind o' got them sharp-readin' eyes like
Obed had."