“Thee doesna’ mean that ’ere, Maister Nettles, does thee?” said the astonished barber.
“Yes; but I do though, and more nor that I did hear that the king has raised Wildfire Ned to the rank of a lieutenant in the navy, and has given him the command of a rakish, fast-sailing, ten-gun sloop of war, and that at this very moment he is cruising about on the bright look-out for this Skeleton Crew, what remains of ’em, and a pretty overhauling they’ll get, too, if Wildfire Ned should fall foul on ’em.”
“But they do say these skeletons are invincible, Maister Nettles,” the barber remarked, “and can’t be hurt by anything.”
“All stuff,” said Nettles, contemptuously. “I dare say they don’t like hard knocks no more than common folk, if the truth was known. I don’t fear none on ’em, if they did set fire to my tavern.”
“They say they be all charmed, maister?”
“So I’ve hearn; but don’t believe it. The Red Man of the Gibbet is worse than all on ’em.”
“How so?”
“Why he were one o’ the founders on ’em, and the story goes that he gets out of his gibbet at certain times, and plies his trade.”
“His trade! Why what does thee mean, Maister Nettles?”
“Mean! Why, didn’t thee hear; the Red Man o’ the Gibbet had been—once on a time—a barber.”