The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

at dusk to Edmonton, and finding a fine new inn there, called the “Bell,” Jack Dawson leads the cart into the yard, we following without a word of demur, and, after putting up our trap, into the warm parlour we go, and call for supper as boldly as you please. Then, when we had eaten and drunk till we could no more, all to bed like princes, which, after a night in the cage and a day in the stocks, did seem like a very paradise. But how we were to pay for this entertainment not one of us knew, nor did we greatly care, being made quite reckless by our necessities. It was the next morning, when we met together at breakfast, that our faces betrayed some compunctions; but these did not prevent us eating prodigiously. “For,” whispers Ned Herring, “if we are to be hanged, it may as well be for a sheep as a lamb.” However, Jack Dawson, getting on the right side of the landlord, who seemed a very honest, decent man for an innkeeper, agreed with him that we should give a performance that night in a cart-shed very proper to our purpose, giving him half of our taking in payment of our entertainment. This did Jack, thinking from our late ill-luck we should get at the most a dozen people in the sixpenny benches, and a score standing at twopence a head. But it turned out, as the cunning landlord had foreseen, that our hanger was packed close to the very door, in consequence of great numbers coming to the town in the afternoon to see a bull baited, so that when Jack Dawson closed the doors and came behind our scene to dress for his part, he told us he had as good as five pounds in his pocket. With that to cheer us we played our tragedy of “The Broken Heart” very merrily, and after that, changing our dresses in a twinkling, Jack Dawson, disguised as a wild man, and Moll as a wood nymph, came on to the stage to dance a pastoral, whilst I, in the fashion of a satyr, stood on one side plying the fiddle to their footing. Then, all being done, Jack thanks the company for their indulgence, and bids ’em good-night.

      And now, before all the company are yet out of the place, and while Jack Dawson is wiping the sweat from his face, comes the landlord, and asks pretty bluntly to be paid his share of our earnings.

      “Well,” says Jack, in a huff, “I see no reason for any such haste; but if you will give me time to put on my breeches, you shall be paid all the same.” And therewith he takes down his trunks from the nail where they hung. And first giving them a doubtful shake, as seeming lighter than he expected, and hearing no chink of money, he thrusts his hand into one pocket, and then into the other, and cries in dismay: “Heaven’s mercy upon us; we are robbed! Every penny of our money is gone!”

      “Can you think of nothing better than such an idle story as that?” says the landlord. “There hath been none behind this sheet but yourselves all the night.”

      We could make no reply to this, but stood gaping at each other in a maze for some seconds; then Jack Dawson, recovering his wits, turns him round, and looking about, cries: “Why, where’s Ned Herring?”

      “If you mean him as was killed in your play,” says the landlord, “I’ll answer for it he’s not far off; for, to my knowledge, he was in the house drinking with a man while you were a-dancing of your antics like a fool. And I only hope you may be as honest a man as he, for he paid for his liquor like a gentleman.”

      That settled the question, for we knew the constable had left never a penny in his pocket when he clapt us in the stocks.

      “Well,” says Jack, “he has our money, as you may prove by searching us, and if you have faith in him ’tis all as one, and you may rest easy for your reckoning being paid against his return.”

      The landlord went off, vowing he would take the law of us if he were not paid by the morning; and we, as soon as we had shuffled on our clothes, away to hunt for Ned, thinking that maybe he had made off with the money to avoid paying half to the landlord, and hoping always that, though he might play the rogue with him, he would deal honestly by us. But we could find no trace of him, though we visited every alehouse in the town, and so back we go, crestfallen, to the Bell, to beg the innkeeper to give us a night’s lodging and a crust of bread on the speculation that Ned would come back and settle our accounts; but he would not listen to our prayers, and so, hungry and thirsty, and miserable beyond expression, we were fain to make up with a loft over the stables, where, thanks to a good store of sweet hay, we soon forgot our troubles in sleep, but not before we had concerted to get away in the morning betimes to escape another day in the stocks.

      Accordingly, before the break of day, we were afoot, and after noiselessly packing our effects in the cart in the misty grey light, Jack Dawson goes in the stable to harness our nag, while I as silently take down the heavy bar that fastened the yard gate. But while I was yet fumbling at the bolts, and all of a shake for fear of being caught in the act, Jack Dawson comes to me, with Moll holding of his hand, as she would when our troubles were great, and says in a tone of despair:

      “Give over, Kit. We are all undone again. For our harness is stole, and there’s never another I can take in its place.”

      While we were at this stumble, out comes our landlord to make sport of us. “Have you found your money yet, friends?” says he, with a sneer.

      “No,” says Jack, savagely, “and our money is not all that we have lost, for some villain has filched our nag’s harness, and I warrant you know who he is.”

      “Why, to be sure,” returns the other, “the same friend may have taken it who has gone astray with your other belongings; but, be that as it may, I’ll answer for it when your money is found your harness will be forthcoming, and not before.”

      “Come, Master,” says I, “have you no more heart than to make merry at the mischances of three poor wretches such as we?”

      “Aye,” says he, “when you can show that you deserve better treatment.”

      “Done,” says Jack. “I’ll show you that as quickly as you please.” With that he whips off his cap, and flinging it on the ground, cries: “Off with your jacket, man, and let us prove by such means as Heaven has given all which is the honester of us two.” And so he squares himself up to fight; but the innkeeper, though as big a man as he, being of a spongy constitution, showed no relish for this mode of argument, and turning his back on us with a shake of the head, said he was very well satisfied of his own honesty, and if we doubted it we could seek what satisfaction the law would give us, adding slyly, as he turned at the door, that he could recommend us a magistrate of his acquaintance, naming him who had set us in the stocks at Tottenham Cross.

      The very hint of this put us again in a quake, and now, the snow beginning to fall pretty heavily, we went into the shed to cast about as to what on earth we should do next. There we sat, glum and silent, watching idly the big flakes of snow fluttering down from the leaden sky, for not one of us could imagine a way out of this hobble.

      “Holy Mother!” cries Jack at length, springing up in a passion, “we cannot sit here and starve of cold and hunger. Cuddle up to my arm, Moll, and do you bring your fiddle, Kit, and let us try our luck a-begging in alehouses.”

      And so we trudged out into the driving snow, that blinded us as we walked, bow our heads as we might, and tried one alehouse after the other, but all to no purpose, the parlours being empty because of the early hour, and the snow keeping folks within doors; only, about midday, some carters, who had pulled up at an inn, took pity on us, and gave us a mug of penny ale and half a loaf, and that was all the food we had the whole miserable day. Then at dusk, wet-footed and fagged out in mind and body, we trudged back to the Bell, thinking to get back into the loft and bury ourselves in the sweet hay for warmth and comfort. But coming hither, we found our nag turned out of the stable and the door locked, so that we were thrown quite into despair by the loss of this last poor hope, and poor Moll, turning her face away from us, burst out a-crying—she who all day had set us a brave example by her cheerful merry spirit.

      CHAPTER II.

      Of our first acquaintance with the Señor Don Sanchez del Castillo de Castelaña, and his brave entertaining of us.

      I was taking a turn or two outside the shed—for the sight of Jack Dawson hugging poor Moll to his breast and trying to soothe her bodily misery with gentle words was more than I could bear—when a drawer coming across from the inn told me that a gentleman in the Cherry room would have us come