each in antique phraseology, bestowing at the same time some
familiar nickname. Flash-in-the-Pan, Spitter-of-Frogs, Malmsey Butt,
Latheyard-Will, and Mark-the-Pinker, were the few sobriquets the broker
remembered. Whether these titles were given to express some peculiarity
of their owner he could not tell, for a silence followed as they slowly
ranged themselves upon the floor of the cabin in a semicircle around
their cadaverous host.

At length Malmsey Butt, a spherical-bodied man-of-war's-man, with
a rubicund nose, got on his legs somewhat unsteadily, and addressed
himself to the company. They had met that evening, said the speaker, in
accordance with a time-honored custom. This was simply to relieve that
one of their number who for fifty years had kept watch and ward over
the locality where certain treasures had been buried. At this point the
broker pricked up his ears. "If so be, camarados and brothers all,"
he continued, "ye are ready to receive the report of our excellent and
well-beloved brother, Master Slit-the-Weazand, touching his search for
this treasure, why, marry, to 't and begin."

A murmur of assent went around the circle as the speaker resumed his
seat. Master Slit-the-Weazand slowly opened his lantern jaws, and began.
He had spent much of his time in determining the exact location of the
treasure. He believed--nay, he could state positively--that its position
was now settled. It was true he had done some trifling little business
outside. Modesty forbade his mentioning the particulars, but he would
simply state that of the three tenants who had occupied the cabin during
the past ten years, none were now alive. [Applause, and cries of "Go to!
thou wast always a tall fellow!" and the like.]

Mark-the-Pinker next arose. Before proceeding to business he had a duty