's the leastwise respectable is me."

Here was a terrible misgiving which clouded the bright anticipations.
They were, indeed, an unlovely cargo for the little trading vessel to
take on board. One of them whipped out a pair of scissors and hastily
sawed at his unkempt whiskers while his comrades stood in line and
waited their turn. Others discarded gaudy kerchiefs and pistol-belts, or
kicked off Spanish jack-boots. Scraps of gold lace were also unpopular.
But they could not get rid of scarred faces and rum-reddened noses and
the other hall-marks of their trade.

To their immense relief, the snow displayed no signs of alarm but sailed
as close as the shoaling water permitted and dipped her colors. The
pirates flattered themselves that they were not as frightful as the
carpenter's mate had painted them. And this New England shipmaster was
a merciful man who would not leave his fellow mortals to perish. They
saw a boat lowered from the snow and into it jumped half a dozen
sailors, soberly clad in dungaree, with round straw hats on their heads.
With a gush of gratitude, the pirates swore to deal courteously by these
noble merchant mariners and to repay them in whatever manner possible.

Out into the murmuring surf rushed the mild-mannered rascals, eager to
grasp the boat and haul it up. It was Joe Hawkridge, hovering in the
background, who raised the first cry of astonishment. His voice was so
affrighted that it quavered. Before the boat was half-way from the
vessel, he perceived that these were no sedate seamen from the
Massachusetts Colony, even though they were in dungaree and round straw
hats. He was gazing at some of Ned Rackham's evil pirates whom he had
last beheld on the shattered deck of the _Plymouth Adventure_ where they
had been left to build a raft for themselves!

The devil had looked after his own. They had floated away from the
stranded ship and instead of landing on the beach had been rescued by
this unfortunate snow whose crew had been disposed of in some violent
manner. This much Joe Hawkridge comprehended, although his mind was
awhirl. He was better off marooned. He had helped to turn the guns of
the _Plymouth Adventure_ against these very same men when they had been
blown out of the after cabin and the ship retaken by Captain Jonathan
Wellsby.

Whatever other plans they had in store, the first business would be to
kill Joe Hawkridge. This was painfully obvious. He retreated still
farther behind his