“Ay. I’ve heard it said often that it was a most excellent farming section.” “Good strokes of business are to be done thereabouts,” continued Hatfield. “My last visit there,” and he slapped the breast of his coat with a chuckle, “promises to pay me a pretty penny, indeed.” “The luck was with you, then?” cried the pastry cook with innocent interest. “It was,” laughed Hatfield. “It was very much with me, sir.” “He still has the dispatch,” whispered Ethan to Dale. “In his breast pocket,” returned the sailor, in the same low tone. “But he is armed.” “If we take him suddenly we’ll have the advantage for all that.” The pastry cook and the highwayman continued their talk; the two Americans had their heads together, thrashing out the situation. “It’s dark without,” said Ethan at last, guardedly. “We’ll take him unawares when he is about to mount his horse.” Dale now and then glanced with much interest into the street through the glass of the doors. He leaned forward at length and spoke to the proprietor. “Your place,” said he, “appears to attract much attention, sir.” The man seemed greatly pleased and smiled broadly. “I have often marked that,” he said. “It increases business, sir, to make one’s shop bright and attractive.” “You have much custom among the sailors in the district, I suppose?” The pastry cook pursed up his mouth and shook his head doubtfully. [Illustration:_AN ANGRY LOOK CAME INTO HATFIELD’S EYES_] “No,” he said, “I think not. The grog shops attract them most.” “I have noticed,” said Dale calmly, his gaze once more directed toward the street, “that there are many sailors about just now, and they all, somehow, seem to feel much interest in this place.” A number of seamen with cutlasses belted at their sides were to be seen across the way; two or three stood at the window; and as Dale spoke their leader, evidently a boatswain, opened the door and swaggered in. The proprietor advanced with an uneasy smile. “Good-evening, sir,” said he, with a bow. “How do you do?” returned the other. As he said this he glanced at the shop’s three patrons with an air of calm inspection. The powerful figure of Dirk Hatfield seemed to attract him, and he coolly advanced to his side. “Sailor, I think,” he said. “Wrong,” said the gentleman of the road, looking up from his meal. “I think not,” persisted the man-of-war’s-man quietly. An angry look came into Hatfield’s fierce eyes; he laid down his knife and fork, leaned back in his chair and growled out, “Well, my man, you are a pert lad enough: but be careful how you speak to a gentleman. You are in danger of having your face spoiled if you talk like that.” The sailor laughed. He swung one leg over the corner of the table at which the other sat and tapped with one finger tip upon the butt of a pistol. “I’m not much afraid of that--my man,” he said. The pastry cook leaned over Ethan and whispered, “There is a door in the rear that leads through the kitchen and into a small court.”