He made towards the door, and we crept out of the house, and winding in and out the net-work of alleys, we gained my lodging.
II
We set our Hands to a Christian Enterprise
Brandon Pomfrett and I discussed the story of the bottle; it seemed improbable enough; yet the letter of the old pirate captains ran in our minds like a song. I had read the history of the old buccaneers, as recounted by Mr John Esquemeling, the Dutchman, and translated into French and English—each translator causing the heroes of his own nationality to shine predominant over the others—and there was nothing in the records to contradict the sailor’s account. True, it seemed unlikely that the signal cross should remain unremarked for more than twenty years on a coast infested by pirates; but, on the vast and wild shores of Yucatan, the thing was still possible. Brandon swore he would persuade his uncle, the wealthy Brandon Pomfrett, of Bristol, to fit out a privateer, and send him in her to lift the treasure. The nephew had constantly urged the uncle to invest money in the privateering business, which, in those days, was no uncommon speculation; but Uncle Brandon had as constantly refused. The enterprise, said he, was too full of risk; there was no security; and, whereas you might fall across the right sort of merchant bottoms, conversely, you might not; while Frenchman or Spaniard might sink you in the deep sea, or a storm might cast you away. But now, argued Brandon the younger, whose one desire was to escape from his desk, there was something definite to put before the old man; the thing was as safe as going to church; out you went, dug up the silver, and brought it home, picking up any little ships that Providence might think fit to leave in your way. So Brandon, bubbling with expectation, went to tackle his uncle.
It was about a week later that one of those days befell when the schoolmaster flags at his post and the scholars seem possessed of the devil. He wrestles in vain; virtue, for the time, has gone out of him; he knows it, and the boys know it; and all is a steaming welter of cries, tears, gleeful disorder, and ineffectual onslaughts. Suddenly came an ominous hush; every eye was turned upon a burly figure, who stood by the door, hat in hand, surveying the youngsters with an amiable grin. It was Dawkins.
“Master Winter,” says he, in his thundering voice, with a salute, “they told me you was here, and I made so bold as to invade the sanctuary of learning, as you may say. I have the honour to bring you a letter, sir, from Mr Brandon Pomfrett.”
He rolled across the floor, in the dead silence, and handed me a packet.
“Now, if you’ll be so good as to read that there despatch, Master Winter, for I’ve promised to carry the answer to Mr Pomfrett, I’ll take command of the ship in the meanwhile, so’s you can fix your mind on the business, clear and easy.”
He picked up a battered college-cap from the floor where some rascal had flung it, and set it askew on his huge, grizzled head. The boys broke into a shout of laughter. Dawkins stepped up into the master’s desk and rapped it smartly with the cane.
“Si-lence in the ranks!” he roared. You might have heard him at the docks. He stood leaning forward, his hands on the desk, glaring upon them. They subsided on the instant, for the first time that day.
“Now,” said Mr Dawkins, standing upright. “Pay attention! Come! You done a gross dereliction of duty, but perhaps you don’t know that you done it. I’ll give you a chance. What’s the word when the captain steps on the quarterdeck? Not a answer? Well, I’ll tell you, this once. Stand to attention!” he bellowed. “Stand up!”