Black Bartlemys Treasure

"Master Penfeather," cried he, "O Master Penfeather, here's fine doings, love my eyes! Here's your rogues a-fighting and a-murdering of each other, which is no great matter, but here's them a-wrecking o' my house, which is great matter, here's them has broke my head wi' one o' my own pottlepots, which is greater matter, here's me dursen't set of it i' the place and my wife and maids all of a swound--O Master Penfeather, here's doings, love my limbs!"

"Ha," says Penfeather, "fighting, are they, Jerry?"

"Like devils, Captain, your rogues and the rogues as my Lord Dering 'listed and brought here yesterday--O love my liver--look at yon!" As he spoke was a crash of splintered glass and a broken chair hurtled through the wide lattice.

"So!" says Adam, striding towards the inn, and I saw a pistol in his hand. Following hard on his heels I entered the inn with him and so to the scene of the riot.

A long, low room, full of swirling dust, and amid this choking cloud a huddle of men who fought and struggled fiercely, roaring blasphemy and curses. Two or three lay twisted among overturned chairs and tables, others had crawled into corners to look to their hurts, while to and fro the battle raged the fiercer. Leaning in the doorway Penfeather surveyed the combatants with his quick keen glance, and then the hubbub was drowned by the roar of his long pistol; the thunderous report seemed to stun the combatants to silence, who, falling apart, turned one and all to glare at the intruder. And, in this moment of comparative silence while all men panted and stared, from Penfeather's grim lips there burst a string of blistering sea-oaths such as even I had scarce heard till now; for a long minute he reviled them, the smoke curling from his pistol, his black brows knit across glittering eyes, his thin nostrils a-quiver, the scar glowing on his pallid cheek, his face indeed so changed and evil that I scarce knew him.

"... ye filthy scum, ye lousy sons o' dogs!" he ended. "Ha, will ye fight agin my orders, then--mutiny is it?"

"And who a plague are you and be cursed to ye!" panted a great fellow, flourishing a broken chair-leg threateningly and scowling in murderous fashion.

"He'll tell ye--there, behind ye, fool!" snarled Penfeather, pointing sinewy finger. The big man turned, Penfeather sprang with uplifted pistol and smote him, stunned and bleeding, to the floor, then bestriding the prostrate carcass, fronted the rest with head viciously out-thrust.

"And who's next--come!" says he softly, scowling from one to other of the shrinking company. "You, Amos Penarth, and you, Richard Farnaby, aye and half a dozen others o' ye, you've sailed wi' me ere now and you know when I say a thing I mean it. And you'd fight, would ye, my last words to you being 'see to it there be no quarrelling or riot.'"