A beaker of strong spirits was then rolled into the hut, and cans of grog were circulated freely from hand to hand.  The health of Slit-the-Weazand was proposed in a neat speech by Mark-the-Pinker, and responded to by the former gentleman in a manner that drew tears to the eyes of all present.  To the broker, in his concealment, this momentary diversion from the real business of the meeting occasioned much anxiety.  As yet nothing had been said to indicate the exact locality of the treasure to which they had mysteriously alluded.  Fear restrained him from open inquiry, and curiosity kept him from making good his escape during the orgies which followed.

But his situation was beginning to become critical.  Flash-in-the-Pan, who seemed to have been a man of choleric humor, taking fire during some hotly contested argument, discharged both his pistols at the breast of his opponent.  The balls passed through on each side immediately below his arm-pits, making a clean hole, through which the horrified broker could see the firelight behind him.  The wounded man, without betraying any concern, excited the laughter of the company, by jocosely putting his arms akimbo, and inserting his thumbs into the orifices of the wounds, as if they had been arm-holes.  This having in a measure restored good-humor, the party joined hands and formed a circle preparatory to dancing.  The dance was commenced by some monotonous stanzas hummed in a very high key by one of the party, the rest joining in the following chorus, which seemed to present a familiar sound to the broker’s ear.

     “Her Majestie is very sicke,
     Lord Essex hath ye measles,
     Our Admiral hath licked ye French—­
     Poppe! saith ye weasel!”

At the regular recurrence of the last line, the party discharged their loaded pistols in all directions, rendering the position of the unhappy broker one of extreme peril and perplexity.

When the tumult had partially subsided, Flash-in-the-Pan called the meeting to order, and most of the revellers returned to their places, Malmsey Butt, however, insisting upon another chorus, and singing at the top of his voice:—­

     “I am ycleped J. Keyser—­I was born at Spring, hys Garden,
     My father toe make me ane clerke erst did essaye,
     But a fico for ye offis—­I spurn ye losels offeire;
     For I fain would be ane butcher by’r ladykin alwaye.”

Flash-in-the-Pan drew a pistol from his belt, and bidding some one gag Malmsey Butt with the stock of it, proceeded to read from a portentous roll of parchment that he held in his hand.  It was a semi-legal document, clothed in the quaint phraseology of a bygone period.  After a long preamble, asserting their loyalty as lieges of Her most bountiful Majesty and Sovereign Lady the Queen, the document declared that they then and there took possession of the promontory, and all the treasure trove therein contained, formerly buried by Her Majesty’s most faithful and devoted