had made acquaintance with the tavern sawdust. Next to his
drunkenness, perhaps, the most remarkable thing about him was his
stick--of ebony, very curiously carved in rings from knob to ferrule,
where it ended in an iron spike; an ugly weapon, of which his
tormentors stood in dread, and small blame to them.

While he stood hesitating, they swarmed close and began to bay him
afresh.

"Captain Coffin, Captain Coffin!" "Who killed the Portugee?"
"Who hid the treasure and got so drunk he couldn't find it?"
"Where's your ship, Cap'n Danny?" These were some of the taunts
flung; and as the urchins danced about him, yelling them, the passion
blazed up again in his red-rimmed eyes.

Amongst the crowd capered Ted Bates. "Hallo, Brooks!" he shouted,
and, catching at another boy's elbow, pointed towards me.
Beyond noting that the other boy had a bullet-shaped head with ears
that stood out from it at something like right angles, I had time to
take very little stock of him; for just then, us Captain Coffin
turned about to smite, a stone came flying and struck him smartly on
the funny-bone. His hand opened with the pain of it, but the stick
hung by a loop to his wrist, and, gripping it again, he charged among
his tormentors, lashing out to right and left.

So savagely he charged that I looked for nothing short of murder; and
just then, while I stood at gaze, a boy stepped up to me--the same
that Ted Bates had plucked by the arm.

"Look here!" said he, frowning, with his legs a-straddle.