“’Pon my word I ain’t,” said Tim. “I wasn’t born at all; leastways, not as I knows on, for old Sir Richard Warbeck found me in his stables one morning bright and early, and in them there stables I’ve been all my life since.” “Sir Richard Warbeck, eh?” “Yes. Do you know him?” “I should think I do,” said the unknown; “and a nice old fellow he is, too. He has two adopted nephews, hasn’t he?” “Yes, young Wildfire Ned, and Charley Warbeck, who’s in the East India House in London.” “Just so.” “And what brought you up that cypress tree?” “Why, you see, Master Ned and I attacked the Skeleton Crew, and, as they were too many for us, I hooked it up the tree out of the way, and fell through the hollow trunk, and——” “Found yourself here, eh? Just so. But who told you there was any secret way into this cavern through that tree?” “No one.” “You lie, knave!” “On my word, no living soul told me.” “Not old Nettles, the landlord of the public-house?” “No, he never breathed a word; but fought with the Skeleton Crew like a warrior.” “That’s just what _you_ should have done, and then I wouldn’t have made up my mind to hang you, as I may do yet. Are you sure that old Nettles never said a word?” “I’m positive, and will swear it!” “’Tis well, for if he had done so I should be under the necessity of cutting his throat to-night so as to stop his mouth.” “What a bloodthirsty villain!” thought Tim. “As you will, perhaps, be a dead man shortly, and as dead men don’t tell any tales, I don’t mind letting you know a thing or two as to who and what old Nettles is.” “What is he?” “Why, a tavern-keeper; and something more at times,” said the unknown. “You have taken notice, of course, what a fine stock of wines, spirits, tobacco, and other things he has?” “Yes,” said Tim, “it has been the talk of the whole country wide, as long as I can remember.” “Quite true; but he owes all his prosperity to _me_, young man,” said the gruff voice. “I could have blown him and his house up into the air many a time if I had thought proper. If he had divulged anything about our secret I would do so even now.” Tim groaned. “This place where you are now in is a cave,” said the voice; “a smuggler’s cave, mind you.” “Oh, lors!” “And I am chief of the gang. From this spot there is a long, dry passage, which runs out into the beach at low tide.” “Is the mouth of the cavern filled with water, then, at high tide?” “Yes, nearly so; but there is sufficient room for an eight-oared boat to float in if the rowers duck their heads.” “How jolly convenient,” said Tim, who now began to like the chattiness of his unknown captor.