meat pie and the cheese, tarts and pickles, with a will.

"Here--try this," he urged Chris, heaping the boy's plate as lavishly
as his own, and the two ate in silence and gusto while Becky stood by
with roses and feathers bobbing.

"You must keep your strength up, Ned Cilley," she admonished, "for
'tis a hard life that you lead," she warned him.

Ned paused long enough to swallow. "Aye, that it is, that it is!" he
agreed, wagging his head, champing his jaws, and digging into the
food. "A hard life, has a sailor," Ned said with an effort at sorrow,
which failed signally, and he took a great draught of the ale.

After a while Cilley slowed, wiped his mouth with his hand and leaned
back in his chair, rolling a dazed eye at the anxious face of the
waiting Becky Boozer.

"Mistress Boozer," he announced, "I am a new man." He heaved a sigh of
repletion. "You have saved me again. Ah! Mistress Becky, what a
treasure you are!"

Becky curtsied and giggled, her fabulous hat shaking as if with a
secret all its own. Just then a bell tinkled, at the end of the
kitchen passage.

"That will be the master," Becky said, bustling away. Then she turned.
"I shall be back, Master Cilley! I pray you, do not leave!"

Chris seized his opportunity. "Please, Master Cilley," he asked,
leaning across the empty plates in his interest, "Why does she wear
that queer hat?"

Master Cilley cocked an eye at the boy before him, picked comfortably
at his teeth with an iron nail which he took from his pocket, and
loosened his belt buckle.

"Ah!" he said, "So you've not heard? Quick, then, I shall tell you,
for that is truly a tale."

The sailor stretched back in his chair, one hand holding the mug of
ale. His short nose and red, wind-burned cheeks seemed to share the
joke with his eyes as he finally leaned forward across the table with
an air of conspiracy.

CHAPTER 5

"Well now," began Cilley, "that's a tale that not everyone knows,
don't you see. And Mistress Becky would not care to be reminded of it,
mark you, for reasons I shall shortly tell."

His eyes, humorous as they were, took on a shrewdness under their
sandy brows as if judging the character of the boy before him and his
ability to keep a secret.

"First and foremost," he said, "You had best know who I am." He leaned
back and hooked his thumbs under his armpits in a prideful gesture.

"My lad," said Ned Cilley, thrusting out his chin, "I am a member of
the _Mirabelle'