Here the Boatswain sent round a whisper, and they all cried loyally, “Ay, ay, sir.”

He had now news for them that would warm their hearts like grog.  He had not discovered the Lair, but he had seen Stroke, he had spoken to him!  Disguised as a boy he had tracked the Jacobite and found him skulking in the house of the unhappy Ailie.  After blustering for a little Stroke had gone on his knees and offered not only to cease persecuting this lady but to return to France.  Mr. Sandys had kicked him into a standing posture and then left him.  But this clemency had been ill repaid.  Stroke had not returned to France.  He was staying at the Quharity Arms, a Thrums inn, where he called himself McLean.  It had gone through the town like wildfire that he had written to someone in Redlintie to send him on another suit of clothes and four dickies.  No one suspected his real character, but all noted that he went to the unhappy Ailie’s house daily, and there was a town about it.  Ailie was but a woman, and women could not defend themselves “(Boatswain, put Grizel in irons if she opens her mouth),” and so the poor thing had been forced to speak to him, and even to go walks with him.  Her life was in danger, and before now Mr. Sandys would have taken him prisoner, but the queen had said these words, “Noble Sandys, destroy the Lair,” and the best way to discover this horrid spot was to follow Stroke night and day until he went to it.  Then they would burn it to the ground, put him on board the Ailie, up with the jib-boom sail, and away to the Tower of London.

At the words “Tower of London,” Ben cried “Tumble up there!” which was the signal for three such ringing cheers as only British tars are capable of.  Three?  To be exact only two and a half, for the third stopped in the middle, as if the lid had suddenly been put on.

What so startled them was the unexpected appearance in their midst of the very man Tommy had been talking of.  Taking a stroll through the Den, Mr. McLean had been drawn toward the ruin by the first cheers, and had arrived in time to learn who and what he really was.

“Stroke!” gasped one small voice.

The presumptuous man folded his arms.  “So, Sandys,” he said, in hollow tones, “we meet again!”

Even Grizel got behind Tommy, and perhaps it was this that gave him spunk to say tremulously, “Wh-what are you doing her?”

“I have come,” replied the ruddy Pretender, “to defy you, ay, proud Sandys, to challenge thee to the deed thou pratest of.  I go from here to my Lair.  Follow me, if thou darest!”

He brought his hand down with a bang upon the barrel, laughed disdainfully, and springing over the vessel’s side was at once lost in the darkness.  Instead of following, all stood transfixed, gazing at the barrel, on which lay five shillings.

“He put them there when he slammed it!”

“Losh behears! there’s a shilling to ilka ane o’ us.”