weight increased until further
struggle was impossible, I was not harmed, and in a few moments found
myself, wrists and ankles tied, beside a roaring fire. While I
collected myself I heard the grate of a boat being shoved off from
the cove, and a few moments later made out lights aboard the _Laughing
Lass_.

The looting party returned very shortly. Their plundering had gone
only as far as liquor and arms. Thrackles let down from the cliff top
a keg at the end of a line. Perdosa and the Nigger each carried an
armful of the 30-40 rifles. The keg was rolled to the fire and
broached.

The men got drunk, wildly drunk, but not helplessly so. A flame
communicated itself to them through the liquor. The ordinary
characteristics of their composition sprung into sharper relief. The
Nigger became more sullen; Perdosa more snake-like; Pulz more
viciously evil; Thrackles more brutal; while Handy Solomon staggering
from his seat to the open keg and back again, roaring fragments of
a chanty, his red headgear contrasting with his smoky black hair and
his swarthy hook-nosed countenance--he needed no further touch.

Their evil passions were all awake, and the plan, so long indefinite,
developed like a photographer's plate.

"That's one," said Thrackles. "One gone to hell."

"And now the diamonds," muttered Pulz.

"There's a ship upon the windward, a wreck upon the lee,
_Down on the coast of the high Barbare-e-e_,"

roared Handy Solomon. "Damn it all, boys, it's the best night's work
we ever did. The stuff's ours. Then it's me for a big stone house in
Frisco O!"

"Frisco, hell," sneered Pulz, "that's all you know. You ought to
travel. Paris for me and a little gal to learn the language from."

"I get heem a fine _caballo_, an' fine saddle, an' fine clo's,"
breathed Perdosa sentimentally. "I ride, and the silver jingle, and
the _senorita_ look----"

Thrackles was for a ship and the China trade.

"What you want, Doctor?" they demanded of the silent Nigger.

But the Nigger only rolled his eyes and shook his head. By and by he
arose and disappeared in the dusk and was no more seen.

"Dam' fool," muttered Handy Solomon. "Well, here's to crime!"

He drank a deep cup of the raw rum, and staggered back to his seat
on the sands.

"'I am not a man-o'-war, nor a privateer,' said he.
_Blow high, blow low! What care we_!
'But I am a jolly pirate and I'm sailing for my fee,'
_Down on the coast of the high Ba