“There goes a viper scotched, not killed, and we shall feel his sting yet,” remarked Standish, as he with Peter Browne and John Alden stood on the brow of Cole’s Hill, and watched Lyford’s embarkation in a fishing-boat belonging to Nantucket, where Oldhame had pitched his tent for a while. Here also, or at neighboring Weymouth, Blackstone, Maverick, Walford, and a few other of the Gorges party had succeeded to the houses left empty by Weston’s men after their deliverance by Myles Standish from Pecksuot, Wituwamat, and their horde. In course of time, Blackstone, carrying his clergyman’s coat, removed to Boston Common, Walford to Charlestown, and Maverick to East Boston, each man representing the entire population of each place; but still some settlers remained on the old site, so that from the time of Weston’s arrival in 1622, this neighborhood has been the home of white men. “Scotched, not killed,” repeated Standish, filling his pipe, as he sat and mused in the autumn sunshine outside of his cabin door, while Barbara in her noiseless but competent fashion got ready a savory supper within, and Alick, with a bow made for him by Hobomok, fired not unskillful arrows at a target set upon the hillside. A week later the captain’s words came true, for the same fishing boat that had carried away Lyford put into Plymouth Harbor on an ebb tide, and sent off her boat with four men, one of whom was soon recognized as Oldhame. As the banished man leaped upon the Rock, followed by his comrades, all strangers to Plymouth, some of the older townsmen met him, and one of them gravely inquired his business. “Business quotha!” blustered Oldhame, who was evidently the worse for liquor. “My business is first to tweak Billy Bradford’s nose, and then to kick Myles Standish into a rat-hole, and finally to burn down your wretched kennels, and root up this doghole of a place, where I and my friends have met such scurvy treatment.” “An’ your errand is so large an one, you had better go and seek the governor and his assistants without delay,” replied Francis Cooke, waving his hand up Leyden Street, and restraining by a look some of the younger men, who seemed disposed to dispute the landing. “Why, so I will, Cooke; I’ll go up and speak to your masters, but not my masters, mind you, good Cooke; good Cooke, ha, ha! Come, now, hop into my boat and I’ll carry you home to be my cook, mine own good cook, Francis! Hop in, I say!” And the roysterer, with a roar of drunken laughter, strode up the hill, the strangers, who looked both anxious and ashamed, following slowly after him.