Part 17 (1/2)

”English,” they called back doubtfully.

”What have you come for?” insisted Radisson, with a great swelling of his chest.

”The beaver trade,” came a faint voice.

Where had I heard it before? Did it rise from the ground in the woods, or from a far memory of children throwing a bully into the sea?

”I demand to see your license,” boldly challenged Radisson.

At that the fellows ash.o.r.e put their heads together.

”In the name of the king, I demand to see your license instantly,”

repeated Sieur de Radisson, with louder authority.

”We have no license,” explained one of the men, who was dressed with slashed boots, red doublet, and c.o.c.ked hat.

M. Radisson smiled and poled a length closer.

”A s.h.i.+p without a license! A prize-for the taking! If the rascals complain--the galleys for life!” and he laughed softly.

”This coast is possessed by the King of France,” he shouted. ”We have a strong garrison! We mistook your firing for more French s.h.i.+ps!” Shaping his hands trumpet fas.h.i.+on to his mouth, he called this out again, adding that our Indian was of a nation in league with the French.

The pirates were dumb as if he had tossed a hand grenade among them.

”The s.h.i.+p is ours now, lads,” said Radisson softly, poling nearer. ”See, lads, the bottom has tumbled from their courage! We'll not waste a pound o' powder in capturing that prize!” He turned suddenly to me--”As I live by bread, 'tis that bragging young dandy-prat--hop-o'-my-thumb--Ben Gillam of Boston Town!”

”Ben Gillam!”

I was thinking of my a.s.sailant in the woods. ”Ben was tall. The pirate, who came carving at me, was small.”

But Ben Gillam it was, turned pirate or privateer--as you choose to call it--grown to a well-timbered rapscallion with head high in air, jack-boots half-way to his waist, a clanking sword at heel, and a nose too red from rum.

As we landed, he sent his men scattering to the fort, and stood twirling his mustaches till the recognition struck him.

”By Jericho--Radisson!” he gasped.

Then he tossed his chin defiantly in air like an unbroken colt disposed to try odds with a master.

”Don't be afraid to land,” he called down out of sheer impudence.

”Don't be afraid to have us land,” Radisson shouted up to him. ”We'll not harm you!”

Ben swore a big oath, fleered a laugh, and kicked the sand with his heels. Raising a hand, he signalled the watchers on the s.h.i.+p.

”Sorry to welcome you in this warlike fas.h.i.+on,” said he.

”Glad to welcome you to the domain of His Most Christian Majesty, the King of France,” retorted Radisson, leaping ash.o.r.e.

Ben blinked to catch the drift of that.

”Devil take their majesties!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. ”He's king who conquers!”