At sunset the breeze died down and the mosquitoes became troublesome once more. So they built up the fire and smudged it with green branches and damp wood and sat to leeward――when there was any leeward――and watched the light fade in the west and the river turn from copper to steel and finally become lost to sight in the darkness. By request Harmon pulled his mouth-organ out of his trousers pocket and played his entire programme. The music cheered them up somewhat. Harmon could certainly make the instrument behave, as Pud phrased it! After that Pud introduced the subject of pirates and, his memory still fresh from his reading, told them weird and blood-thirsty tales that made even the narrator himself glance uneasily over his shoulder at intervals. Oddly enough, Harmon seemed utterly unaffected as to nerves. When Pud paused, the darky, staring round-eyed across the fire, begged for more. The more sanguinary the tales the better Harmon liked them, and when the cutlasses flew fastest and blood filled the scuppers, he voiced awed applause in murmured ‘Lawsies!’ or ‘My gollies!’ It was plain to be seen that Harmon was a born pirate! Indeed, it seemed regrettable that Morgan had lived too early to have the services of such a boon companion and kindred soul as Harmon Johnson! ‘When we-all goin’ start this here piratin’, Mister Pud?’ he asked finally. ‘Oh, maybe to-morrow,’ replied Pud, suppressing a yawn. ‘Uh-huh. Reckon we’s goin’ sack a town, ain’ we?’ ‘Well, we’ve got to find the town first,’ chuckled Tim. ‘Sure has,’ agreed Harmon cheerfully. ‘I goin’ sharpen up ’at ol’ carvin’ knife to-morrow. Yes, sir, I goin’ put a aidge on ’at ol’ knife for sure! I ain’ needin’ no cutluss, Mister Tim, if I got me a good knife!’ And Harmon swished an imaginary blade in a startlingly realistic manner. ‘Guess you’d better go to bed,’ growled Pud. ‘And if I catch you sharpening any knives around here I’ll skin you!’ Harmon accepted the rebuke meekly, although he was possibly slightly puzzled by it, and flashlights were snapped on and they sought their couches. Tim wanted to light the carbide lamp, but Pud said it would attract the mosquitoes, and so they did without it. After they were in bed and the two cots had ceased creaking, Tim heard a chuckle from across the darkness. ‘What you laughing at?’ he inquired. ‘Harmon,’ answered Pud. ‘Bet you that boy’s good and scared, eh? Bet you he’s got his head under the blanket all right!’ Tim murmured assent. But a few minutes later, Pud changed his mind. From the direction of Harmon’s lowly couch came loud, measured, and unmistakable evidences of slumber! It might have been hours later or only minutes that Pud awoke startledly. From close by the tent a frightened voice was exclaiming, ‘Oh, my golly! Oh, my golly! Where at’s this here door? Oh, my――’ ‘What’s the matter?’ cried Tim, flouncing out of his cot.