M. Radisson smiled and poled a length closer.
"A ship without a license! A prize-for the taking! If the rascals
complain--the galleys for life!" and he laughed softly.
"This coast is possessed by the King of France," he shouted. "We have a
strong garrison! We mistook your firing for more French ships!" Shaping
his hands trumpet fashion to his mouth, he called this out again, adding
that our Indian was of a nation in league with the French.
The pirates were dumb as if he had tossed a hand grenade among them.
"The ship is ours now, lads," said Radisson softly, poling nearer. "See,
lads, the bottom has tumbled from their courage! We'll not waste a pound
o' powder in capturing that prize!" He turned suddenly to me--"As I live
by bread, 'tis that bragging young dandy-prat--hop-o'-my-thumb--Ben
Gillam of Boston Town!"
"Ben Gillam!"
I was thinking of my assailant in the woods. "Ben was tall. The pirate,
who came carving at me, was small."
But Ben Gillam it was, turned pirate or privateer--as you choose to call
it--grown to a well-timbered rapscallion with head high in air,
jack-boots half-way to his waist, a clanking sword at heel, and a nose
too red from rum.
As we landed, he sent his men scattering to the fort, and stood twirling
his mustaches till the recognition struck him.
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