He could ship himself in any ship in the harbour, and go to any part of the world which pleased his fancy. If chance flung him down in a tropical forest, on an island in the sea, in a battle, in a shipwreck, at a wedding, he would know what to do, what to say, what to propose. The world had no terrors for such a man. Captain Margaret forgot, when he thought thus enviously, that he himself was one of the few who had escaped from the world, escaped from that necessity for tooth and claw which is nature; and that by being no longer “natural,” instinctive, common, he had risen to something higher, to a point from which he could regard the pirate as an interesting work of art. He never pursued his fancy far enough to ask himself if he would willingly imitate or possess that work; because the pirate, passing him by with a hard, shrewd glance, would stride into the booth, taking off his hat to thrust back his long hair. He would listen then to the conversation. If the man was known to Cammock, the talk began promptly. “Any Don Peraltoes, this trip?” “What? Peraltoes? You weren’t there?” “Ain’t you Ned?” “And you’re Lion. I’d never have known you. Any of ’em with you?” “No, I quit the trade. Come and have something.” Then they would mix some rum and sugar, and sprinkle the mixture with a squeeze of a scrap of lemon-peel. They would drink together, calling their curious toasts of “Salue,” “Here’s How,” “Happy Days,” and “Plenty Dollars.” Then, over the trade as the men haggled-- “Got any powder, Lion?” “I can only sell powder if you’ve a license from the Governor.” “Any small arms?” “The same there.” “Them’s a nice lot of macheats. How do they come?” “An ounce apiece. Or fifty pound of leaf.” “Steep. Let’s see one. A good trade knife.” “What are you doing now?” “I got about fifty acres burned off. That’s the grant here, Lion, fifty acres. Tobacco, you know. I do a bit of fishing, whiles. A nice handy sloop, I got. Small, of course.” “Crops good?” “A sight too good, if you ask me. This black soil’ll sprout a coffin. But tobacco’s away down. We burn half our crops, trying to keep up prices. It’s only worth about ninepence.” “Are you going to stick at it?” “It’s a bit quiet. I lie out in the woods whiles.” “Anything else doing?” “You were here yourself?” “I come here with Crawfot’s party. I was here. Yes. Sure.” “Crawfot’s dead, if you mean Tom. Did you ever try any running?” “Running rum from Jamaica?” “Yes. I do a bit that way. Other things, too. I’m in with some of Ned’s lot.” “Ned Davis?” “Yes. We run blacks sometimes, too. Run ’em into Carolina. New York sometimes.” “Ah. How did Tom die?” “Indians. I done a bit that way, too, Lion. You catch two or three squaws. They fetch as much as a white woman down to Campeachy. Two or three of them; it runs into money.” “I’ve known that done,” said Cammock. “The man done it was Robert Jolly. He come to a jolly end, what’s more. The braves got him.”