Darby flared up in a burst of Irish temper that matched his tangled red hair.
"I would I were a pirate and had you at my mercy, you butter-tub!" he raged. "I'll warrant you'd tread the plank!"
Peter gravely unsheathed his hunting-knife, seized Darby's flaming locks and despite his wriggles went through the motions of scalping him.
"If I tread der plank, first I take your hair, ja," he commented.
"Not if I had my growth," snapped Darby.
"T'ree growths you must get to fight me, Darby," rejoined Peter placidly. "You better ask Mr. Ormerod dot he let you come with me into the Iroquois country. We make a forest-runner out of you—ja! Dot's better than a pirate."
Darby contemplated this, drawing a circle on the floor with the toe of one boot.
"No," he decided finally. "I'd rather be a pirate. I know nothing of your forest, but the sea—ah, that's the life for me! And sure, a pirate has more of traveling and adventure than a forest-runner, with none but red savages and wild beasts to combat. No, no, Master Peter, I am for the pirates, and I care not how soon it may be."
"It will be long, not soon, Darby," said I. "Have you done the errands my father set you?"
"Every one," answered he.