When, therefore, Scootsy Mulligan, aged nine, son of a ship-caulker who worked in Martin Farguson’s ship-yard, and Sandy Plummer, eldest of three, and their mother a widow—­plain washing and ironing, two doors from the cake-shop—­heard that that French “spad,” Arch Cobden what lived up to Yardley, and that red-headed Irish cub, Tod Fogarty—­ Tod’s hair had turned very red—­had pre-empted the Black Tub, as the wreck was irreverently called, claiming it as their very own, “and-a-sayin’ they wuz pirates and bloody Turks and sich,” these two quarrelsome town rats organized a posse in lower Barnegat for its recapture.

Archie was sweeping the horizon from his perch on the “poop-deck” when his eagle eye detected a strange group of what appeared to be human beings advancing toward the wreck from the direction of Barnegat village.  One, evidently a chief, was in the lead, the others following bunched together.  All were gesticulating wildly.  The trusty henchman immediately gave warning to Tod, who was at work in the lower hold arranging a bundle of bean-poles which had drifted inshore the night before—­part of the deck-load, doubtless, of some passing vessel.

“Ay, ay, sir!” cried the henchman with a hoist of his knee-pants, as a prelude to his announcement.

“Ay, ay, yerself!” rumbled back the reply.  “What’s up?” The commodore had not read as deeply in pirate lore as had Archie, and was not, therefore, so ready with its lingo.

“Band of savages, sir, approaching down the beach.”

“Where away?” thundered back the commodore, his authority now asserting itself in the tones of his voice.

“On the starboard bow, sir—­six or seven of ’em.”

“Armed or peaceable?”

“Armed, sir.  Scootsy Mulligan is leadin’ ’em.”

“Scootsy Mulligan!  Crickety! he’s come to make trouble,” shouted back Tod, climbing the ladder in a hurry—­it was used as a means of descent into the shallow hold when not needed outside.  “Where are they?  Oh, yes!  I see ’em—­lot of ’em, ain’t they?  Saturday, and they ain’t no school.  Say, Arch, what are we goin’ to do?” The terminal vowels softening his henchman’s name were omitted in grave situations; so was the pirate lingo.

“Do!” retorted Archie, his eyes snapping.  “Why, we’ll fight ’em; that’s what we are pirates for.  Fight ’em to the death.  Hurray!  They’re not coming aboard—­no sir-ee!  You go down, Toddy [the same free use of terminals], and get two of the biggest bean-poles and I’ll run up the death flag.  We’ve got stones and shells enough.  Hurry—­big ones, mind you!”

The attacking party, their leader ahead, had now reached the low sand heap marking the grave of the former wreck, but a dozen yards away—­the sand had entombed it the year before.

“You fellers think yer durned smart, don’t ye?” yelled Mr. William Mulligan, surnamed “Scootsy” from his pronounced fleetness of foot.  “We’re goin’ to run ye out o’ that Tub.  ’Tain’t yourn, it’s ourn—­ ain’t it, fellers?”