“The jolly captain cut it off his coat,” I said. “I remember how he drew his cutlass and cursed it roundly as a clumsy tool for such a service. ‘Take the button,’ he said. 'It’s a high price I pay you, for I value the name that’s scratched on the back. By my soul! If Tommy Tew is ever taken, there’ll be some damning tales in Yorke about the governor when they come to examine the buttons on his coat.'”
“Fletcher was a fool to send him those buttons,” exclaimed Van Volkenberg. “But give me your hand, St. Vincent. You shall be my man. In the morning, if you still desire it, you shall put the red band upon your sleeve.”
With that we shook hands.
“What ails the brute?” cried the patroon, for the dog was growling again and walking about me in sidelong circles.
Small wonder that he showed a strong aversion to me! I supposed that I had left him dead from our struggle in the woods. Doubtless his sides and neck still ached from that encounter.
“Perhaps I can quiet him,” I said, smiling to myself.
But when I put out my hand towards him he bounded back with a yelp of terror. Then he dashed through the door and was gone.
“Humph!” exclaimed the patroon. “Like his mistress half the time.”
“His mistress?” I cried in surprise, for I had thought that the dog belonged to the patroon.
“Yes,” he answered, a frown gathering on his face. “Caesar belongs to a crazy old hag who lives in the hills. Meg of the Hills we call her. Poor Meg!”