"Adam Penfeather."
"Will this be our Adam Penfeather, Martin?"
"Indeed," says I, "there is methinks but one Adam Penfeather in this world, the which is just as well, mayhap."
"Then he murdered this poor man?"
"Why the fellow had this hatchet in his fist, it hath lain rusting in his grasp all these years, methinks his blow came something too late! Though he must be mighty quick who'd outmatch Penfeather, I guess. No, this man I take it died in fight. Though why Adam must set this placard about the poor rogue's neck is beyond me."
"Let us go away, Martin. This is an evil place."
"It is!" says I, glancing at the great pimento tree that marked the grave of the poor Spanish lady and Black Bartlemy. "Truly we will seek out another habitation and that at once. Howbeit, I have gotten me my hammer." And I showed her the hatchet, the which, unlike the ordinary boarding-axe, was furnished with a flat behind the blade, thus:
(Line drawing of the hatchet.)