“Oh!” the Spaniard felt the pocket of his coat and pulled out a silver dollar. “Here, mother of sin,” he said as he tossed it to her, “buy thyself rum withal. Almsgiving is a noble virtue,” he added piously to French as they prepared to walk on. Hardly had the words left his lips when his silver dollar hit him on the back of the head with considerable force.
“May you burn, you mange-struck ronyon,” the deep voice grew shrill in its intensity. “All men are villains and you are a king among them.”
With a foreign oath the Spaniard turned about.
“Rum—rum—r-u-m,” the voice faded away and they heard the patter of feet down the road.
Black’erchief Dick laughed sharply.
“It is well for Mother Swayle that she lives in the East,” he said, his eyes glittering. “Were she in the West she would take my bounty, if not——” He laughed unpleasantly.
Big French looked at him anxiously, uncertain how the fiery Spaniard had taken the old woman’s vagaries.
“The old one was ducked as a witch in the merrymaking at the Restoring of the King,” he said at last. “She was not quite drowned,” he continued, “so the folk—wenches mostly—look up to her and as I said, Captain, her wit’s diseased.”
Dick shrugged his silken-coated shoulders.
“’Tis no matter,” he said with a wave of his hand.