ment, it was most fair and attractive to the eyes of young Master
Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge. In the house of Uncle Peter Forbes they
rested at their ease and planned sedate careers for themselves.

Even the treasure ceased to be uppermost in their lively discussions. It
could wait a while. They were no longer under the spell of its
influence. This different world in which they now dwelt so contentedly
made their adventures seem like shadowy figments with precious little
romance in them. And neither lad expressed any great anxiety to go
exploring the noisome Cherokee swamp and to challenge the ghost of
Blackbeard.

Without a sign of rebellion, Jack returned to his books and lessons in
Parson Throckmorton's garden. The learning already acquired he began to
pass on to Joe Hawkridge, who was a zealous pupil and determined to
read and write and cipher without letting the grass grow under his feet.
It was this young pirate's ambition to make a shipping merchant of
himself, and Councilor Forbes found him employment in a warehouse where
the planters traded their rice, resin, and indigo for the varied
merchandise brought out from England. Jack aspired to manage his uncle's
plantation and to acquire lands of his own and some day to sit in the
Governor's Council.

Of a Sunday morning he went to the little English church, dressed in his
best and using a cane, for he limped from the wound in his thigh. Joe
Hawkridge walked with him, careful to banish his grin, and sat in the
Councilor's pew where he paid proper attention to the prayers and
responses. This caused some gossip but the ocean waif was winning his
way to favor by dint of industry, a shrewd wit, and his perennial good
humor.

Frequently they escorted fair Dorothy Stuart home from church. She was
fonder than ever of stalwart Master Cockrell because the colonel had
told her he would have been a dead man had not the lad intervened to
save him from the stroke of a negro pirate. Alas, however, it was not
that sentimental devotion for which the lovelorn Jack yearned, and he
confided to Joe that his existence was blighted. This evoked no sympathy
from the fickle Hawkridge, who was forgetting his black-eyed lass in the
Azores and was already a slave to Dorothy Stuart. She laughed at them
both and was their true friend, tender, and whimsical and anxious for
their welfare. It was a valuable chapter in their education.

One morning while Joe was at work in the warehouse near th