heading. There he took up his position, and as soon as they were within

earshot, opened fire on the sailors of the Good Hope.

What! Gossip Arblaster!" he cried. "Why, ye be well met; nay, gossip,

ye be right well met, upon the rood! And is that the Good Hope? Ay, I

would know her among ten thousand!--a sweet shear, a sweet boat! But

marry come up, my gossip, will ye drink? I have come into mine estate

which doubtless ye remember to have heard on. I am now rich; I have left

to sail upon the sea; I do sail now, for the most part, upon spiced ale.

Come, fellow; thy hand upon 't! Come, drink with an old shipfellow!"

Skipper Arblaster, a long-faced, elderly, weather-beaten man, with a

knife hanging about his neck by a plaited cord, and for all the world

like any modern seaman in his gait and bearing, had hung back in obvious

amazement and distrust. But the name of an estate, and a certain air of

tipsified simplicity and good-fellowship which Lawless very well

affected, combined to conquer his suspicious jealousy; his countenance

relaxed, and he at once extended his open hand and squeezed that of the

outlaw in a formidable grasp.

"Nay," he said, "I cannot mind you. But what o' that? I would drink

with any man, gossip, and so would my man Tom. Man Tom," he added,

addressing his follower, "here is my gossip, whose name I cannot mind,

but no doubt a very good seaman. Let's go drink with him and his shore

friend."

Lawless led the way, and they were soon seated in an alehouse, which, as

The Black Arrow