“I’ll larn ye!” he roared.

Three of them, all husky fellows, stood their ground; but the fourth turned and dashed clear of the field of instruction.  He was a small man, was Corny Quinn, and lacked the courage of his convictions.

The skipper struck the group of three with both feet off the ground.  They staggered, clutched at him, aimed blows and curses at him.  A terrible kick delivered by Dan Keen missed its intended object and brought Pat Lynch writhing to the floor, and before Dan fully realized his mistake something as hard as the side of a house struck him on the jaw and laid him across the victim of his error.  Dick Lynch was more fortunate than his fellow-mutineers—­for half a minute.  He closed with the furious skipper and clung tightly to him, thus avoiding punishment for the moment.  The two were well matched in height and weight; but the skipper was the stronger in both body and heart.  Also, he seemed now to be possessed of the nerve-strength of a madman.  He lifted his clinging antagonist clear of the floor, shook him and wrenched at him, and at last broke his hold and flung him against the wall.  Dick landed on his feet, steadied himself for a moment and then dashed back to the encounter; but he was met by the skipper’s fist—­and that was the end of the fight.

Black Dennis Nolan returned to the table and sat down behind the smoky lamp.  There was a red spot on his forehead from a chance blow, and the knuckles of both big hands were raw.  He breathed heavily for a full minute, and glared around him in silence.

“Pick ’em up,” he said, at last.  “The lesson I larned ’em seems to lay cold on their bellies.  Give ’em rum, Burky Nolan—­ye’ll find a case of bottles behind the stove.  Drink up, all o’ ye.  T’row some water in their faces, too.”

His orders were promptly obeyed.  He took the pistols from Bill Brennen and Nick Leary, and laid them on the table, and then picked up his coat and put it on.

“Now, men, maybe ye know who bes master of this harbor,” he said.  “If any one o’ ye, or any four o’ ye, bain’t sure, say the word an’ I’ll pull off me coat again an’ show ye.  Well now, we’ll git back to business.  The jewels bes still hid in the swamp.  They bain’t no manner o’ use to us till we sells ’em.  I’ll do that, men, bit by bit, in St. John’s.  The grub an’ liquor we took bes all in the pit under this floor.  Ye kin come every day an’ tote away what ye wants of it.  The wines and brandy bes for them who has sick folks an’ old folks to feed.  Lift the trap, Bill, an’ let them help theirselves.”

Bill Brennen stooped and hoisted a trap-door in the middle of the floor.  The skipper left the table, lamp in hand.

“Help yourselves, men,” he invited.  “Take whatever ye fancies.”

They came up meekly.  Even the three who had so lately been disabled obeyed the invitation, leaning upon their companions.  The water and rum had revived them physically, but their spirits were thoroughly cowed.  The skipper held the lamp over the square hole in the floor.