beaker of strong spirits was then rolled into the hut, and cans
of grog were circulated freely from hand to hand. The health of
Slit-the-Weazand was proposed in a neat speech by Mark-the-Pinker, and
responded to by the former gentleman in a manner that drew tears to the
eyes of all present. To the broker, in his concealment, this momentary
diversion from the real business of the meeting occasioned much anxiety.
As yet nothing had been said to indicate the exact locality of the
treasure to which they had mysteriously alluded. Fear restrained him
from open inquiry, and curiosity kept him from making good his escape
during the orgies which followed.

But his situation was beginning to become critical. Flash-in-the-Pan,
who seemed to have been a man of choleric humor, taking fire during some
hotly contested argument, discharged both his pistols at the breast of
his opponent. The balls passed through on each side immediately below
his arm-pits, making a clean hole, through which the horrified broker
could see the firelight behind him. The wounded man, without betraying
any concern, excited the laughter of the company, by jocosely putting
his arms akimbo, and inserting his thumbs into the orifices of the
wounds, as if they had been arm-holes. This having in a measure restored
good-humor, the party joined hands and formed a circle preparatory to
dancing. The dance was commenced by some monotonous stanzas hummed in
a very high key by one of the party, the rest joining in the following
chorus, which seemed to present a familiar sound to the broker's ear.

"Her Majestie is very sicke,
Lord Essex hath ye measles,
Our Admiral hath licked ye French--
Poppe! saith ye weasel!"

At the regular recurrence of the last line, the party discharged their
loaded pistols in all directions, rendering the position of the unhappy
broker one of extreme peril and perplexity.

When the tumult had partially subsided, Flash-in-the-Pan called the
meeting to order, and most of the revellers returned to their places,
Malmsey Butt, however, insisting upon another chorus, and singing at the
top of his voice:--

"I am ycleped J. Keyser--I was born at Spring, hys Garden,
My father toe make me ane clerke erst did essaye,
But a fico for ye offis--I spurn ye losels offeire;
For I fain would be ane butcher by'r ladykin alwaye."

Flash-in-the-Pan drew a pistol from his belt, and bidding some one gag
Malmsey Butt wi