The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

from his nose.

      “I scarce know what part to give you, yet,” says he. “To be honest, you are not wanted at all in the play.”

      “Nay, but you must write him a part,” says Dawson, stoutly; “if it be but to bring in a letter—that I am determined on. Kit stood by us in ill fortune, and he shall share better, or I’ll have none of it, nor Moll neither. I’ll answer for her.”

      “There must be no discontent among us,” says the Don, meaning thereby, as I think, that he had included me in his stratagem for fear I might mar it from envy. “The girl’s part is that which gives me most concern—and had I not faith in my own judgment—”

      “Set your mind at ease on that score,” cried Jack. “I warrant our Moll shall learn her part in a couple of days or so.”

      “If she learn it in a twelvemonth, ’twill be time enough.”

      “A twelvemonth,” said Jack, going to his beaker again, for understanding. “Well, all’s as one, so that we can get something in advance of our payment, to keep us through such a prodigious study.”

      “I will charge myself with your expenses,” says Don Sanchez; and then, turning to me, he asks if I have any objection to urge.

      “I take it, Señor, that you speak in metaphor,” says I; “and that this ‘comedy’ is nought but a stratagem for getting hold of a fortune that doesn’t belong to us.”

      Don Sanchez calmly assented, as if this had been the most innocent design in the world.

      “Hang me,” cries Dawson, “if I thought it was anything but a whimsey of your honour’s.”

      “I should like to know if we may carry out this stratagem honestly,” says I.

      “Aye,” cries Jack. “I’ll not agree for cutting of throats or breaking of bones, for any money.”

      “I can tell you no more than this,” says the Don. “The fortune we may take is now in the hands of a man who has no more right to it than we have.”

      “If that’s so,” says Jack, “I’m with you, Señor. For I’d as lief bustle a thief out of his gains as say my prayers, any day, and liefer.”

      “Still,” says I, “the money must of right belong to some one.”

      “We will say that the money belongs to a child of the same age as Moll.”

      “Then it comes to this, Señor,” says I, bluntly. “We are to rob that child of fifty thousand pounds.”

      “When you speak of robbing,” says the Don, drawing himself up with much dignity, “you forget that I am to play a part in this stratagem—I, Don Sanchez del Castillo de Castelaña.”

      “Fie, Kit, han’t you any manners?” cries Dick. “What’s all this talk of a child? Hasn’t the Señor told us we are but to bustle a cheat?”

      “But I would know what is to become of this child, if we take her fortune, though it be withheld from her by another,” says I, being exceeding obstinate and persistent in my liquor.

      “I shall prove to your conviction,” says the Don, “that the child will be no worse off, if we take this money, than if we leave it in the hands of that rascally steward. But I see,” adds he, contemptuously, “that for all your brotherly love, ’tis no such matter to you whether poor little Molly comes to her ruin, as every maid must who goes to the stage, or is set beyond the reach of temptation and the goading of want.”

      “Aye, and be hanged to you, Kit!” cries Dawson.

      “Tell me, Mr. Poet,” continues Don Sanchez, “do you consider this steward who defrauds that child of a fortune is more unfeeling than you who, for a sickly qualm of conscience, would let slip this chance of making Molly an honest woman?”

      “Aye, answer that, Kit,” adds Jack, striking his mug on the table.

      “I’ll answer you tomorrow morning, Señor,” says I. “And whether I fall in with the scheme or not is all as one, since my help is not needed; for if it be to Moll’s good, I’ll bid you farewell, and you shall see me never again.”

      “Spoken like a man!” says Don Sanchez, “and a wise one to boot. An enterprise of this nature is not to be undertaken without reflection, like the smoking of a pipe. If you put your foot forward, it must be with the understanding that you cannot go back. I must have that assurance, for I shall be hundreds of pounds out of pocket ere I can get any return for my venture.”

      “Have no fear of me or of Moll turning tail at a scarecrow,” says Jack, adding with a sneer, “we are no poets.”

      “Reflect upon it. Argue it out with your friend here, whose scruples do not displease me, and let me know your determination when the last word is said. Business carries me to London tomorrow; but you shall meet me at night, and we will close the business—aye or nay—ere supper.”

      With that he opens the door and gives us our congee, the most noble in the world; but not offering to give us a bed, we are forced to go out of doors and grope our way through the snow to the cart-shed, and seek a shelter there from the wind, which was all the keener and more bitter for our leaving a good fire. And I believe the shrewd Spaniard had put us to this pinch as a foretaste of the misery we must endure if we rejected his design, and so to shape our inclinations to his.

      Happily, the landlord, coming out with a lantern, and finding us by the chattering of our teeth, was moved by the consideration shown us by Don Sanchez to relax his severity; and so, unlocking the stable door, he bade us get up into the loft, which we did, blessing him as if he had been the best Christian in the world. And then, having buried ourselves in hay, Jack Dawson and I fell to arguing the matter in question, I sticking to my scruples (partly from vanity), and he stoutly holding t’other side; and I, being warmed by my own eloquence, and he not less heated by liquor (having taken best part of the last bowl to his share), we ran it pretty high, so that at one point Jack was for lighting a candle end he had in his pocket and fighting it out like men. But, little by little, we cooled down, and towards morning, each giving way something, we came to the conclusion that we would have Don Sanchez show us the steward, that we might know the truth of his story (which I misdoubted, seeing that it was but a roguish kind of game at best that he would have us take part in), and that if we found all things as he represented them, then we would accept his offer. And also we resolved to be down betimes and let him know our determination before he set out for London, to the end that we might not be left fasting all the day. But herein we miscalculated the potency of liquor and a comfortable bed of hay, for ’twas nine o’clock before either of us winked an eye, and when we got down, we learnt that Don Sanchez had been gone a full hour, and so no prospect of breaking our fast till nightfall.

      Presently comes Moll, all fresh and pink from the house, and falls to exclaiming upon the joy of sleeping betwixt clean sheets in a feather bed, and could speak of nothing else, saying she would give all the world to sleep so well every day of her life.

      “Eh,” whispers her father in my ear, “you see how luxuries do tempt the poor child, and what kind of a bed she is like to lie in if our hopes miscarry.”

      On which, still holding to my scruples, I says to Moll:

      “’Tis easy to say you would give the world, Moll, but I know full well you would give nothing for all the comfort possible that was not your own.”

      “Nay,” says she, crossing her hands on her breast, and casting up her eyes with the look of a saint, “what are all the fruits of the earth to her who cannot take them with an easy conscience? Honesty is dearer to me than the bread of life.”

      Then, as Jack and I are looking at each other ruefully in the face at this dash to our knavish project, she bursts into a merry peal of laughter, like a set of Christmas bells chiming, whereupon we, turning about to find the cause of her merriment, she pulls another demure face, and, slowly lifting her skirt, shows us a white napkin tied about her waist, stuffed with a dozen delicacies