In the afternoon, Israel, at his station on the tower of Pisa, reported a boat with five men coming off to the Richard from the coast of Fife.

“They have hot oat-cakes for us,” said Paul; “let ’em come.  To encourage them, show them the English ensign, Israel, my lad.”

Soon the boat was alongside.

“Well, my good fellows, what can I do for you this afternoon?” said Paul, leaning over the side with a patronizing air.

“Why, captain, we come from the Laird of Crokarky, who wants some powder and ball for his money.”

“What would you with powder and ball, pray?”

“Oh! haven’t you heard that that bloody pirate, Paul Jones, is somewhere hanging round the coasts?”

“Aye, indeed, but he won’t hurt you.  He’s only going round among the nations, with his old hat, taking up contributions.  So, away with ye; ye don’t want any powder and ball to give him.  He wants contributions of silver, not lead.  Prepare yourselves with silver, I say.”

“Nay, captain, the Laird ordered us not to return without powder and ball.  See, here is the price.  It may be the taking of the bloody pirate, if you let us have what we want.”

“Well, pass ’em over a keg,” said Paul, laughing, but modifying his order by a sly whisper to Israel:  “Oh, put up your price, it’s a gift to ye.”

“But ball, captain; what’s the use of powder without ball?” roared one of the fellows from the boat’s bow, as the keg was lowered in.  “We want ball.”

“Bless my soul, you bawl loud enough as it is.  Away with ye, with what you have.  Look to your keg, and hark ye, if ye catch that villain, Paul Jones, give him no quarter.”

“But, captain, here,” shouted one of the boatmen, “there’s a mistake.  This is a keg of pickles, not powder.  Look,” and poking into the bung-hole, he dragged out a green cucumber dripping with brine.  “Take this back, and give us the powder.”

“Pooh,” said Paul, “the powder is at the bottom, pickled powder, best way to keep it.  Away with ye, now, and after that bloody embezzler, Paul Jones.”

This was Sunday.  The ships held on.  During the afternoon, a long tack of the Richard brought her close towards the shores of Fife, near the thriving little port of Kirkaldy.

“There’s a great crowd on the beach.  Captain Paul,” said Israel, looking through his glass.  “There seems to be an old woman standing on a fish-barrel there, a sort of selling things at auction to the people, but I can’t be certain yet.”

“Let me see,” said Paul, taking the glass as they came nigher.  “Sure enough, it’s an old lady—­an old quack-doctress, seems to me, in a black gown, too.  I must hail her.”

Ordering the ship to be kept on towards the port, he shortened sail within easy distance, so as to glide slowly by, and seizing the trumpet, thus spoke: 

“Old lady, ahoy!  What are you talking about?  What’s your text?”