No word was exchanged, but Crawford was by this time perfectly aware of the profession, if not the identity, of his visitors. During the past forty years the whole American coast, even into Hudson Bay, had been swept by pirates; small fry, most of them, fur-pirates, rum pirates, reckless sailormen who would land to sack a town or would lay a ship aboard and count it all in the day’s work. Others followed the freebooting trade more seriously and made of it a profession. Of this latter class, thought Crawford, were the visitors. He had somewhere heard the name of Frontin--and presently placed it. Within five minutes the pasty, among three famished men, had been scraped to the last crumb, and the bottle of wine was empty. Crawford leaned back, refilled his pipe, and surveyed the other two men with a whimsical air. “Help yourselves to pipes, gentlemen! This house, as the Spanish say, is yours.” Frontin, the thin man, grinned in his saturnine way. “That is well. May I introduce you to my captain, Vanderberg the valiant?” “The honor is mine,” said Crawford, nodding. “I already recognized Captain Vanderberg. I believe Frontenac has offered five thousand livres for his head? Come, Lieutenant Frontin, you have a chance at fortune! Deliver him to Quebec and me to Boston----” Vanderberg, who was a jolly rascal of Dutch extraction, bellowed a laugh at this. “Ho! I like you, Crawford. Finding you here, the baron gone, the house ours for the looting, means our luck has changed. And, damme, we need the change! We were battered by a French corvette, storm-wracked, short of men and shorter of food. We bore up for Boston but were warned off; we had absent-mindedly sacked a Bostonnais off Jamaica, and the good folk had heard of it, so the port was closed to us. We started for New York, but were blown offshore by the gale which has only just abated. So, if Frontin had not known of this place and its chances of loot, food and wine----” Vanderberg expressively waved one huge paw and went to the fireplace. He took down the white stone calumet. Frontin, his saturnine gaze on Crawford, spoke. “So you are also on the account?” “Not at all,” said Crawford coolly. Vanderberg swung around with a heavy stare. “What? But we heard of you in Boston as a pirate----” “Exactly, in Boston,” said Crawford. “Having once been a Jacobite in opinion, I took refuge in Massachusetts. There, some months ago, I was recognized, apprehended, and sent to the Barbados as a slave. I got away with the help of some buccaneers, but having convictions against the life of a pirate, I made my way to New York. It was my intention to reach the Iroquois country, certain Mohawk chiefs being my friends. I failed to bribe old Fletcher, however, so he sent me in chains to Boston. I escaped, headed for Acadia and New France, and reached this spot half an hour before you.” Vanderberg exploded a volley of admiring oaths at this tale. “You have money?” “I need none.”