“Eh? What’s this? No one about----” “Come in and shut the door!” said Crawford, and laid down his book. “I’m cursed glad of company. The baron is away, with all his people--gone to visit his father-in-law, Madockawando. Up the Penobscot, I suppose. Where the devil did you come from?” “From the devil,” said the other, and laughed. Then he whistled shrilly. Two other men joined him. All three advanced into the room, closed the door, stood staring over pistols at the seated figure of Crawford, whose calm attitude puzzled them. From outside came a shout, then a burst of voices, the stamp of running feet, a sudden flicker of torches. Surveying his visitors, Crawford perceived that the first was obviously in command--his dominant air was beyond mistake. The second man was a burly ruffian, brutish, reeking of rum. The third man was tall and thin, saturnine, hawk-nosed, with a certain air of down-at-heel gentility; his darting black eyes were very intelligent. “This is not the baron,” said this last rogue, blinking at Crawford. “Not our man at all, cap’n!” “Correct,” said Crawford amiably. “If one of you gentlemen will set that venison pasty on the table, I’d be obliged. I reached here half an hour ago, have not eaten for two days, and am more interested in the venison than in you. If you want the baron, go up the Penobscot and look for him.” “Cool one!” observed the massive leader, and suddenly laughed. “We’ve lost the quarry, lads! Saint-Castin’s away with all his people. Bose, go out and take charge of the looting. Have everything taken to the boats; no eating or drinking until the men are aboard. When you’ve had your fill, come ashore with one boat and join us here. No one is to loot this part of the establishment until I’m ready. Frontin and I will join our friend here over the pasty--if he hasn’t eaten for two days, we’ve not eaten for three. Go!” The burly ruffian departed. The saturnine man stooped to the pasty and lifted it to the table, shoving aside the body of the Micmac. The commander, thrusting away his pistol, stepped forward to Crawford and grinned widely. “Well! Your name?” “Harry Crawford, at your service.” The two men stopped dead still, staring at him. Crawford, faintly amused, smiled. “Why, zounds!” broke out the leader. “Hal Crawford, the pirate! Two hundred pound on his head in Boston!” “This is not Boston,” said Crawford, though his eyes narrowed. “Plague take you, stare! I’m for the pasty.” He whipped out his knife and attacked the contents of the battered silver dish. The two men exchanged a glance, then without more ado pulled forward a couple of stools and joined in the assault, knives and fingers ravenously at work.