On one of those quiet, dreamy days in June, when all thought of alarm is farthest from one, the identical long-boat which barely two months before had turned back with its wounded, was crossing the Bay, and making, too, directly for the landing by the lime-kiln and shell-heap. The schooner this time lay outside the Beach, and the outlaws had made a portage over with their long-boat. Again someone in that boat knew there was a landing near the shell-heap.
They rowed up till the boat touched the sand, but before all landed, two sailors jumped ashore and went around the shell-heap and into the kiln to discover whether any body of men was lying in wait there. Upon their return, the boat was secured, and the oars were put in position for quick launching. Then, adjusting slashed black bands across their faces, the outlaws took their way up across the lot, making straight for the inn on the north side of the old country road. A dozen rods, perhaps, from the shore, there sprang up what always springs up when any group of sailors take to land—what in general may be called rough fooling. It was started by Nate Crosby, the most irrepressible devil of the whole crew, throwing his leg between those of the sailor who walked beside him, and sending him sprawling to the ground, his face tearing into one of the stunted cedars. As he rose, he plucked the cedar up, and began lashing Nate about the neck and face, and not only did he deal blows at Nate, but also upon those who laughed at the way Nate had thrown him. Whereupon some five or six others uprooted cedars and fell to cracking back, and then at each other.
“What in thunder are you thinking of, you devil’s birds?” said the leader, stepping back among them. “Quit this fooling. We’re darn near in sight of the inn, and instead of keeping your eyes skinned for just what some of us got the last time we tried this thing, you’ve taken to rollicking. Spread out, spread out; don’t bunch up, if you’ve got any wit whatever. Nate, cast away that cedar; cast it away, and come with me to the head of the gang.”
They reached the inn and filed into the front room. There was no one at home but Widow Molly and Judy, and both were at work in the kitchen. The noise and boisterous talk brought Widow Molly to the room in an instant, and Judy, taking one peep, scrambled down cellar and hid herself in a bin.
“Ah! Dame Molly,” said the leader very affably, as she entered, “a surprise to you! What of cheer can ye make us?”
“Mek it damn quick, too,” broke in a rough voice.
“Hold your jaw, you ill-trained cur,” spoke the leader, smiting the upstart flat-handed on the mouth.
Such words, the black bands with fierce eyes looking through, the knives and pistols thrust in their belts, told Widow Molly that the gang of outlaws had landed and were in her house. The thought that she was alone came swift, and she stood a moment stricken and dazed. But quite as suddenly she regained her self-possession, stepped past them into an adjoining room, reached a decanter and glasses, and setting these before them, bade them drink their pleasure.
“More, more,” thundered one outlaw, hammering on the table with the butt of his pistol.
She brought another decanter and glasses. The two decanters were emptied, refilled, and emptied again before the outlaws gave heed to anything else.