“Yes,” continued Pirate Jim critically; “I don’t think he was any bigger nor you, Master Chitterlings, if as big, when he stood on the fork’stle of my ship and shot the captain o’ that East Injyman dead. We used to call him little Weevils, he was so young-like. But, bless your hearts, boys! he wa’n’t anything to Little Sammy Barlow, ez once crep’ up inter the captain’s stateroom on a Rooshin frigate, stabbed him to the heart with a jack-knife, then put on the captain’s uniform and his cocked hat, took command of the ship, and fout her hisself.” “Wasn’t the captain’s clothes big for him?” asked B. Franklin Jenkins anxiously. The janitor eyed young Jenkins with pained dignity. “Didn’t I say the Rooshin captain was a small, a very small, man? Rooshins is small, likewise Greeks.” A noble enthusiasm beamed in the faces of the youthful heroes. “Was Barlow as large as me?” asked C. F. Adams Golightly, lifting his curls from his Jove-like brow. “Yes; but, then, he hed hed, so to speak, experiences. It was allowed that he had pizened his schoolmaster afore he went to sea. But it’s dry talking, boys.” Golightly drew a flask from his jacket and handed it to the janitor. It was his father’s best brandy. The heart of the honest old seaman was touched. “Bless ye, my own pirate boy!” he said in a voice suffocating with emotion. “I’ve got some tobacco,” said the youthful Jenkins, “but it’s fine cut; I use only that now.” “I kin buy some plug at the corner grocery,” said Pirate Jim, “only I left my portmoney at home.” “Take this watch,” said young Golightly; “’tis my father’s. Since he became a tyrant and usurper, and forced me to join a corsair’s band, I’ve begun by dividing the property.” “This is idle trifling,” said young Chitterlings wildly. “Every moment is precious. Is this an hour to give to wine and wassail? Ha, we want action—action! We must strike the blow for freedom to-night—ay, this very night. The scow is already anchored in the mill-dam, freighted with provisions for a three months’ voyage. I have a black flag in my pocket. Why, then, this cowardly delay?” The two elder youths turned with a slight feeling of awe and shame to gaze on the glowing cheeks and high, haughty crest of their youngest comrade—the bright, the beautiful Bromley Chitterlings. Alas! that very moment of forgetfulness and mutual admiration was fraught with danger. A thin, dyspeptic, half-starved tutor approached. “It is time to resume your studies, young gentlemen,” he said, with fiendish politeness. They were his last words on earth. “Down, Tyrant!” screamed Chitterlings. “Sic him—I mean, sic semper tyrannis!” said the classical Golightly. A heavy blow on the head from a baseball bat, and the rapid projection of a baseball against his empty stomach, brought the tutor a limp and lifeless mass to the ground. Golightly shuddered. Let not my young readers blame him too rashly. It was his first homicide. “Search his pockets,” said the practical Jenkins.