Thus thought old Nettles, the tavern-keeper, a few days after the eventful and dreadful conflict between Wildfire Ned and the Skeleton Crew, on the ocean. For many miles around there were wild rumours of the ferocious battle which had taken place. But no two persons had the same tale to tell. Some said that Death-wing had killed young Ned Warbeck. Others swore that Death-wing and most of his crew had been drowned. But old Nettles knew differently. Yes; but how? Through the agency of Sea-Hawk and his smuggler band. For when Sea-Hawk and his party had been decoyed on to, and afterwards beaten away from the Phantom Ship, they rowed rapidly to their cave again. Later in the night, however, the sounds of distant fire-arms, and the booming of cannon over the ocean aroused their curiosity. They took to their boats again, and sallied forth. At a respectful distance from the scene of conflict, the Smuggler Chief had witnessed all, and was not slow to inform his old companion, Nettles, of the particulars. When, therefore, Nettles went into the village-barber’s shop to get shaved, the tonsorial professor was very loquacious, and, at great length, told him all he had heard about the conflict. “Don’t be such an ass, Mr. Barber,” said Nettles, waiting for his turn. “Don’t be such an ass as to tell such idle tales. I tell thee that Ned Warbeck or Wildfire Ned was not killed, nor brave Lieutenant Garnet either, for Ned rescued Lord Walton’s sister from the sinking ship, and she is now safe and sound at the abbey again.” “Thee doesna’ mean that ’ere, Maister Nettles, does thee?” said the astonished barber. “Yes; but I do though, and more nor that I did hear that the king has raised Wildfire Ned to the rank of a lieutenant in the navy, and has given him the command of a rakish, fast-sailing, ten-gun sloop of war, and that at this very moment he is cruising about on the bright look-out for this Skeleton Crew, what remains of ’em, and a pretty overhauling they’ll get, too, if Wildfire Ned should fall foul on ’em.” “But they do say these skeletons are invincible, Maister Nettles,” the barber remarked, “and can’t be hurt by anything.” “All stuff,” said Nettles, contemptuously. “I dare say they don’t like hard knocks no more than common folk, if the truth was known. I don’t fear none on ’em, if they did set fire to my tavern.” “They say they be all charmed, maister?” “So I’ve hearn; but don’t believe it. The Red Man of the Gibbet is worse than all on ’em.” “How so?” “Why he were one o’ the founders on ’em, and the story goes that he gets out of his gibbet at certain times, and plies his trade.” “His trade! Why what does thee mean, Maister Nettles?” “Mean! Why, didn’t thee hear; the Red Man o’ the Gibbet had been—once on a time—a barber.” “A barber! Lor’ bless the man! thee can’t mean that.” “I do, though. He were once a barber, and cut the throat of a nobleman for his money.” “Awful!”