"'Sdeath, man!" exclaimed Burrell, hastily, after a pause of some minutes; "art asleep, or stupid?"
"Neither," replied the Buccaneer. "But I will do your bidding. Now, write your directions,—here are pens, ink, paper, all that you require,—and my reward; write, sir, and then good night." Burrell did so, while Dalton paced up and down his den, as if meditating and arranging some action of importance. All matters being agreed upon, apparently to the satisfaction of both, they were about to separate, when Burrell inquired—
"Did you land any Cavaliers lately?"
"Not I; they are but a bad freight; broad pieces are a scarce commodity with Charlie's friends."
"Very strange. I met a braggart the other night, but I dare say he was one of the Syndercomb gang. His highness imagines you conveyed some of them to their head-quarters."
"Does he?"
"Master Dalton, you are close."
"Master Burrell, I have agreed to do your business."
"Well!"
"I mean it to be well. Consequently, I have not agreed to tell you mine."