Black Bartlemys Treasure

In the shadow of the cliff below our hiding-place crept divers of these pirate rogues, and, crouching there cheek by jowl fell to a hoarse mutter of talk yet all too low for us to catch; but presently there brake out a voice high-pitched, the which I knew for that of Smiling Sam.

"We'm done, lads, I tell ye. O love my lights--we'm done! 'Tis the end o' we since Penfeather hath took the ship--and here's us shall lie marooned to perish o' plagues, or Indian-savages, or hunger unless, lads, unless--"

"Unless what, Smiler?" questioned one, eagerly.

"Unless we'm up and doing. Penfeather do lack for men--Mings says he counted but ten at most when they boarded him! Well, mates--what d'ye say?"

"Ha, d'ye mean fight, Smiler? Fall on 'em by surprise and recapture the ship--ha?"

"O bless my guts--no! Penfeather aren't to be caught so--not him! He'll ha' warped out from the anchorage by this! But he be shorthanded to work the vessel overseas, 'tis a-seekin' o' likely lads and prime sailor-men is Penfeather, and we sits on these yere sands. Well, mates, on these yere sands we be but what's took up us on these yere sands? The boats lie yonder! Well?"

"Where be you heading of now, Smiler? Where's the wind? Talk plain!"

"Why look'ee all, if Penfeather wants men, as wants 'em he doth, what's to stay or let us from rowing out to Penfeather soft and quiet and 'listing ourselves along of Penfeather, and watch our chance t' heave Penfeather overboard and go a-roving on our own account? Well?"

At this was sudden silence and thereafter a fierce mutter of whispering lost all at once in the clatter of arms and breathless scuffling as they scrambled to their feet; for there, within a yard of them, stood Tressady, hand grasping the dagger in his belt, his glittering hook tapping softly at his great chin as he stared from one to other of them.

"Ha, my pretty lambs!" says he, coming a pace nearer. "Will ye skulk then, will ye skulk with your fools' heads together? What now, mutiny is it, mutiny? And what's come o' my prisoner Martin, I don't spy him hereabouts?"

Now at this they shuffled, staring about and upon each other and (as I think) missed me for the first time.

"You, Tom Purdy, step forward--so! Now where's the prisoner as I set i' your charge, where, my merry bird, where?"

The fellow shrank away, muttering some sullen rejoinder that ended in a choking scream as Tressady sprang. Then I (knowing what was toward) clasped my lady to me, covering her ears that she might not hear those ghastly bubbling groans, yet felt her sweet body shaking with the horror that shook me.