and buttons. And having given his promissory notes for said
merchandise, Bill Saxby proudly hung his own sign-board over the door.

There was a flutter among the ladies. Here was a noteworthy sensation,
to be served by an obsequious pirate with innocent blue eyes who had
sailed the Spanish Main. A few days and it was evident that William
Saxby, late of London, would conduct a thriving trade. He was fairly
enraptured with his good fortune and congenial occupation and took it
most amiably when Jack Cockrell or Joe Hawkridge sauntered in to tease
him. He was a disgrace to Stede Bonnet, said they, and never had a
pirate fallen to such a low estate as this.

Trimble Rogers was in no situation to rant at smug William, the linen
draper. The old sea wolf who had outlived the most glorious era of the
storied buccaneers, had a few gold pieces tucked away in his belt and at
first he was content to loaf about the tavern, with an audience to
listen to his wondrous tales which ranged from Henry Morgan to the great
Captain Edward Davis. But he had never been a sot or an idler and soon
he found himself lending a hand to assist the landlord in this way or
that. And when disorder occurred, a word from this gray, hawk-eyed rover
was enough to quell the wildest roisterers from the plantations.

Children strayed to the tavern green to sit upon his knee and twist
those fierce mustachios of his, and their mothers ceased to snatch them
away when they learned to know him better. Sometimes in his leisure
hours he pored over his tattered little Bible with muttering lips and
found pleasure in the Psalmist's denunciation of his enemies who were
undoubtedly Spaniards in some other guise. He puttered about the flower
beds with spade and rake and kept the bowling green clipped close with a
keen sickle. In short, there was a niche for Trimble Rogers in his old
age and he seemed well satisfied to fill it, just as Admiral Benbow
spent his time among his posies at Deptford when he was not bombarding
or blockading the French fleet off Dunkirk.

Jack Cockrell halted for a chat while passing the tavern and these two
shipmates retired to a quiet corner of the porch. The blind fiddler was
plying a lively bow and a dozen boys and girls danced on the turf.
Trimble Rogers surveyed them with a fatherly aspect as he said:

"They ain't afeard of me, Jack, not one of 'em. Was ever a worn out old
hulk laid up in a fairer berth?"

"None of the sea fever left, Trim