The innkeeper, without a word, drew a little gold and silver from his
pocket, and placing it on the table, pushed it toward him.

"Enough to go on with," said the other, pocketing it; "in future it is
halves. D'ye hear me? Halves! And I'll stay here and see I get it."

He sat back in his chair, and meeting the other's hatred with a gaze as
steady as his own, replaced his pistol.

"A nice snug harbor after our many voyages," he continued. "Shipmates we
were, shipmates we'll be; while Nick Gunn is alive you shall never want
for company. Lord! Do you remember the Dutch brig, and the fat
frightened mate?"

"I have forgotten it," said the other, still eyeing him steadfastly.
"I have forgotten many things. For fifteen years I have lived a decent,
honest life. Pray God for your own sinful soul, that the devil in me
does not wake again."

"Fifteen years is a long nap," said Gunn, carelessly; "what a godsend it
'll be for you to have me by you to remind you of old times! Why, you're
looking smug, man; the honest innkeeper to the life! Gad! who's the
girl?"

[Illustration: GUNN PLACED A HAND, WHICH LACKED TWO FINGERS ON HIS BREAST
AND BOWED AGAIN.]

He rose and made a clumsy bow as a girl of eighteen, after a moment's
hesitation at the door, crossed over to the innkeeper.