I was about to return and acquaint the others that we might safely start when I heard a trotting horse, and from my place of concealment among the trees, I soon afterwards saw a horseman appear from the direction of Spanish Town and ride by towards the big house two miles or more away.  He was beyond doubt one of Vetch’s gang:  ’twas impossible to mistake the thick ungainly figure, and the exceedingly nautical way he had of sitting his horse.  ’Twas lucky indeed that we had not already begun the crossing, for he must have seen us, the road being straight:  and for that same reason I deemed it well to delay a little, lest he should chance to look back.  And so ’twas a good half hour later when, nothing further having happened to give us pause, we ran in a compact body for the edge of the forest, crossed the road and a long stretch of grass land, and arrived at the clump I have before mentioned, where we stood a little while to recover breath.

And then we were amazed to hear the sound of singing—­amazed, for it was not the uncouth singing of negroes (who in happy circumstances delight to uplift their voices in psalms) nor yet the boisterous untuneable roaring of rough seamen, like Vetch’s buccaneers, but a most melodious and pleasing sound, which put me in mind (and Cludde also) of the madrigal singers of our good town of Shrewsbury.  And as it drew nearer there seemed to be a something familiar in the tone, though being quite without ear for music, as I have confessed, I could not tell whether it was a known tune or not.

With one consent, we had waited, held, I suppose, by the same feeling of wonderment and curiosity.  The sound continually approached; ’twas from the direction of Spanish Town; and from our vantage ground we should soon see the singer as he passed along the road.  But before he came within sight, the words of the song came distinctly to my ears, and though I knew not one tune from another, I started with a thrill of delight.

“What’s that for?” cries out Salem Dick. 
“What for, my jumping beau? 
Why, to give the lubbers one more kick!”
Yo ho, with the rum below.

Thus rang the voice, and there ambled into view Joe Punchard, perched upon a mule, and on mules behind him two negroes, their countenances shining, their teeth flashing, with a happy smile.

“Joe!” I cried, in defiance of all caution.

“Ahoy ho!” he cried in return, pulling up his mule.  “Who be that a-calling of Joe?”

I broke away from Cludde’s detaining arm, and ran to my old friend.

“Ahoy ho!” he shouted jovially when he saw me; but when I put my fingers to my lips he dismounted clumsily, and met me with the whispered question, “What be in the wind, Master Bold?”

I could not have taken ten minutes to possess him with the necessary facts, so rapidly did I tell the gist of my story.