“Joe!” I cried, beyond measure delighted at seeing a familiar face.

Down went the bucket with a clatter upon the stones, and Joe looked around as though scarce trusting his ears.  Then seeing me he waddled across, seized my hand, and shook it with a hearty goodwill that was somewhat over vigorous for my enfeebled condition.

“Ods firkins, sir!” he cried, “my head spins like a whirligig.  How dost come here among these heathen Frenchies, and all the way from Shrewsbury, too?”

Before I was halfway through my story, one of the soldiers ran up and ordered Joe to fill his bucket again and wash out the lower rooms.

“Ay, I’m a swab again, sure enough,” says poor Joe, going off ruefully to his task.

He was soon back, and when he had heard me through my account of what had befallen me since I saw him last, he broke out into vehement denunciation of Cyrus Vetch and all the race of Cluddes.  Vetch himself happening to pass at that moment, wearing the hangdog look habitual to him since fate had made him a prisoner, Joe bursts out: 

“Ay, you may well look ashamed of yourself, you villain!  Where’s that will, rogue?  What have you done wi’ ’t?”

Vetch turned a shade paler, I thought.  I had never said a word to him about the loss of my father’s will, and had no intention of doing so, biding my time, and I was a little vexed that Joe in his impetuous espousal of my cause had let the fellow know of our suspicions.  He halted a moment, then with a “What are you prating about, turnip head?” he turned on his heel and walked away.

Joe, in a great rage, was for springing after him, but I caught him by the arm and begged him to let the matter rest.

“Snatch my bowlines!” he cried, in a tone reminding me of Captain Cawson; “he’d better ’ware of running across my course.  If I come athwart his hawser I’ll turn him keel upwards, I will.”

I diverted the current of his anger by asking him how he had become a prisoner of the French.

“Why, in a deuced unlucky way,” says he.  “Captain Benbow—­he’s now rear admiral, but will always be captain to me—­he had a mind to draw alongside that there place they call St. Malo, and cut out a frigate of Doggy Trang he believed to be there, and he sent me and some more by night to take the bearings of the harbor.  We was in a skiff, and a gale came on and beat us about all night and split our sails and drove us ashore in the very teeth of a crew o’ Frenchies.  There was a tight little scrimmage, I promise you, but they were two to one, and grappled us close, and clapped a stopper on our cable, hang ’em.  They chained us together, the dogs, and marched us into St. Malo with scarce a rag to our backs, and yesterday they sent me and some more here.”

“And right glad I am they did, Joe.  But surely Captain Benbow did not send you in charge of the party?”

“Well, no, if you put it so, he didn’t.  We was in command of Lieutenant Curtis.”