Black Bartlemys Treasure

One by the knife did part wi' life And three the bullet took O, But three times three died plaguily A-wriggling on a hook O. A hook both strong and bright and long, They died by gash o' hook O.

So cheerly O and cheerly O, Come shake a leg, lads, all O. Wi' a yo-ho-ho and a rumbelow And main-haul, shipmates, haul O.

Some swam in rum to kingdom come, Full many a lusty fellow. And since they're dead I'll lay my head They're flaming now in hell O.

So cheerly O, so cheerly O"-Waiting for no more of the vile rant I strode forward and thus presently came on a small dell or dingle full of the light of a fire that crackled right merrily; at the which most welcome sight I made shift to scramble down the steepy bank forthright and approached the blaze on eager feet. Drawing near, I saw the fire burned within a small cave beneath the bank, and as I came within its radiance the song broke off suddenly and a man rose up, facing me across the fire and with one hand hid under the flap of his side pocket.

"Fibs off your popps, cull!" quoth in the vernacular of the roads. "Here's none but a pal as lacketh warmth and a bite!"

"Aha!" quoth the fellow, peering across the blaze, "And who be you? Stand and give a show o' your figurehead!" Obediently I stood with hands outspread to the flame, warming my shivering body at its grateful heat.

"Well?" says I.

"Why," quoth he, nodding, "You're big enough and wild enough and as likely a cut-throat as another--what's the lay?"

"The high pad!" says I.

"Where away?"

"'Tis no matter!"

"All I asks is," quoth the fellow with a quizzical look, "how you've fobbed the nubbing-cheat so long!"

"And what I ask is," quoth I, "how a sailor-man comes to know the patter o' the flash coves!"

"'Tis no matter," says he, "but since you're o' the Brotherhood sit ye and welcome, 'tis dry enough here in this cave."

Staying for no second bidding I entered the little cave and sat me down in the comforting warmth of the fire. The man was a comely fellow of a hectoring, swashing air, bright of eyes and instant of gesture; close to hand lay a short cutting-sword, pistols bulged his deep coat-pockets, while betwixt his knees was a battered case-bottle.

"Well," says he, eyeing me over, "what's the word?"

"Food!" says I.

"Nary a bite!" he answered, shaking his head. "But here's rum now if you've a mind to sluice the ivories--ha?"