“Are you married, might I ask?” said Captain Margaret. “No,” he answered surlily. “No. A single man.” He seemed upset by the question, for he became moody. He glared at the fire, and drummed with one foot against the leg of his chair. “Tell me,” said Captain Margaret. “You don’t think that I could do much among the Indians, do you?” “You mean, if you settled there?” “Yes, if I landed, built a fort, and opened a trading station. And got the Indian chiefs to bring in gold, and cocoa, or whatever else there is.” “You could only do that in among the Samballoes.” “The islands along the Isthmus?” “Yes. That’s your only place.” “Would it be possible?” “I dunno as it would. No, I reckon it wouldn’t.” “Why not?” “You couldn’t. The Dagoes are too strong. They’d send from Porto Bello, or they’d send overland perhaps, from Panama. They’d get yer. Then you’d have ginger, working on the forts in Portobel. Lots of ’em end that way on the Main. Yes, sir, the Main’s a queer place.” “Queer?” “We lost a boat’s crew once, east there, by Tolu or that. A handsome fellow her bow oar was. Bigger’n you he was. Handsome Jim Sanders, that was him. _He_ worked on the forts in Portobel. We rescued him a year later, quite by accident. There was red cuts all over him; and all he could do was sing.” “Sing?” “Just sing. This was what he sung. He sung all the time. No. He didn’t laugh. He just whined a little and sang.” The pirate dropped his voice to a whimper and sang:-- “Tom, Tom, the piper’s son, Learned to pipe when he was young, And all the tunes that he could play Was over the hills and far away. There’s many like handsome Jim. I’ve knowed a many go that way. The Main’s a hard place, the same as the sea is, if you come to that.” “Ah,” said Perrin. “How ghastly.” Captain Margaret said nothing; for in his lively fancy he saw a half-naked man, lying on the deck, surrounded by pirates, who watched him with a sort of hard pity. The sun shone strongly upon the picture, so that the brass cannon gleamed. Out of the wrecked man’s body came a snatch of a nursery rhyme, with a pathetic tune. He felt the horror of it; he saw how the pirates shifted on their feet and looked at each other. He was tempted to ask, “Had one of your men a hare-lip?” for in the picture which his fancy formed a hare-lipped pirate stood out strangely, seemingly stirred by that horror on the deck. “Fancy,” he thought. “Pure fancy.” “Let me fill your glass, Cammock,” he said. He poured another dose into the glass. “Salue,” said the pirate. A red log, burned through, fell with a crash inside the stove. “Sparks,” said the pirate. “Sparks. We give the Dagoes sparks for that lot.” He paused a moment. “Yes, Captain Margaret,” he went on. “And that’s the way you’d best.” “What way is that?” asked the captain.