“I say again, what do you want?” demanded the other, advancing upon him.

“Since you’re so good,” said the other.  “I want new clothes, food, and lodging of the best, and my pockets filled with money.”

“You had better go and look for all those things, then,” said Mullet.  “You won’t find them here.”

“Ay!” said the other, rising.  “Well, well—­There was a hundred guineas on the head of my old shipmate Rogers some fifteen years ago.  I’ll see whether it has been earned yet.”

“If I gave you a hundred guineas,” said the innkeeper, repressing his passion by a mighty effort, “you would not be satisfied.”

“Reads like a book,” said the stranger, in tones of pretended delight.  “What a man it is!”

He fell back as he spoke, and thrusting his hand into his pocket, drew forth a long pistol as the innkeeper, a man of huge frame, edged toward him.

“Keep your distance,” he said, in a sharp, quick voice.

The innkeeper, in no wise disturbed at the pistol, turned away calmly, and ringing the bell, ordered some spirits.  Then taking a chair, he motioned to the other to do the same, and they sat in silence until the staring waiter had left the room again.  The stranger raised his glass.

“My old friend Captain Rogers,” he said, solemnly, “and may he never get his deserts!”

“From what jail have you come?” inquired Mullet, sternly.

“’Pon my soul,” said the other, “I have been in so many—­looking for Captain Rogers—­that I almost forget the last, but I have just tramped from London, two hundred and eighty odd miles, for the pleasure of seeing your damned ugly figure-head again; and now I’ve found it, I’m going to stay.  Give me some money.”

The innkeeper, without a word, drew a little gold and silver from his pocket, and placing it on the table, pushed it toward him.

“Enough to go on with,” said the other, pocketing it; “in future it is halves.  D’ye hear me?  Halves!  And I’ll stay here and see I get it.”

He sat back in his chair, and meeting the other’s hatred with a gaze as steady as his own, replaced his pistol.

“A nice snug harbor after our many voyages,” he continued.  “Shipmates we were, shipmates we’ll be; while Nick Gunn is alive you shall never want for company.  Lord!  Do you remember the Dutch brig, and the fat frightened mate?”

“I have forgotten it,” said the other, still eyeing him steadfastly.  “I have forgotten many things.  For fifteen years I have lived a decent, honest life.  Pray God for your own sinful soul, that the devil in me does not wake again.”

“Fifteen years is a long nap,” said Gunn, carelessly; “what a godsend it ’ll be for you to have me by you to remind you of old times!  Why, you’re looking smug, man; the honest innkeeper to the life!  Gad! who’s the girl?”

[Illustration:  Gunn placed A hand, which lacked two fingers on his breast and bowed again.]