I was thinking of my assailant 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 ship.
"Sorry to welcome you in this warlike fashion," said he.
"Glad to welcome you to the domain of His Most Christian Majesty, the King of France," retorted Radisson, leaping ashore.