"Pooh!" said he, harshly. "Do you know who I am?"
"I've asked you once," said I, trying hard to appear calm and sarcastic.
"Well, I almost hate to tell you," he said, throwing off his coat, whereon I was filled with consternation to observe that his belt held four wicked-looking blunderbusses and six cutlasses of razor edge. "You're not a bad fellow, and your hair will turn white when I tell you; but since you ask, so be it. Your hair be upon your own head. I am the ghost of Wouter von Rotterdaam!"
"You?" I cried, clutching wildly at my locks, not to keep them from turning white, of course, but to steady my nerves, for in the name I recognized that of one of the most successful pirates, and the bloodiest in his way.
"Ay, I!" he replied, impressively.
"But—who—what do you here on board the Gretchen B.?" I cried.
"Gretchen nothing," he said. "This is the Dutch Avenger, upon which, after her capture, six months ago, I was hanged, and which, my dear Hammerpestle, I shall haunt till she fills her destiny, which is there!"
The word "there" was pronounced in sepulchral tones, and with Von Rotterdaam's forefinger pointed downward. I shivered from top to toe, but quickly recovered.
"If I cannot have the Dutch Avenger, at least none other shall have her," he added.
"You are mistaken, Mr. von Rotterdaam," I said, politely. "You have taken the wrong boat, sir. This is not the Dutch Avenger, but the Gretchen B., of Bingen."