dy to get a death
hold upon a nearby enemy, both wary and using unceasing watchfulness.
This was evident in the crouching gait of his powerful figure. His arms
had the loose forward swing of a gorilla's, indicative of enormous
strength.

"That man a pirate!" you exclaim at the first glance. One who carried
the blackest name along the coasts of the two American continents as a
wrecker and smuggler; who in the days before the Civil War had brought
cargoes of slaves from Africa, and who had enjoyed more marvelous
escapes than any man in the history of piracy, with the exception of
Black Jack Morgan? "Impossible!" you say. "Why, that man is nothing but
an old farmer," you cry in disappointment. "He ought to be peddling
vegetables in a market!" But just wait.

True enough, Skipper Broome had come from a long line of New England
farmers, hard, close-fisted, close-mouthed men. Young Broome had broken
away from the farm, and followed his bent for seafaring, but to the end
of his rope, and his days, he kept his farmer-like appearance, and he
affected many of the traits of the yeoman, which he found to be, on more
than one occasion, a most useful disguise.

Let's take a look at him, as he comes along the deck of the _Sea Eagle_.
The heavy winter cap, which he wore in season and out of season, pulled
well down on his grizzled head, gave him a most Reuben-like appearance.
Corduroy pants are thrust into heavy cowhide boots. The deadly gray
eyes, no softer than granite, have become red-rimmed from spasms of fury
and rendered hard by many scenes of coldly-calculated cruelty.

"Yaw two gents enjying the balmy air for'ard, on your bloomin' pleasure
yacht?" inquired Captain William Broome, who had a turn for broad
sarcasm.

"Jus' smokin' a few peaceful pipes, sir," replied Pete, who was allowed
a certain amount of leeway with his master, as he had been with him in
the African trade, and as boys in New England, they had lived on nearby
farms.

"This ain't no time for peaceful meditation," said the captain; "you git
aft and keep a sharp eye abeam, and if you see any boat creepin' through
the fog, even if it's an innercent looking fishin' boat, you report it
to the mate."

"Aye, aye, sir," replied Pete as he stowed his pipe in his capacious
pocket, and maneuvering a safe distance from the captain's foot, went on
his mission. Then Broome spit carefully around on the deck.

"Here, Cales, you loafer, clean this yere deck up," he grow