"From what you saw yourself, Mr. Forbes," said she, "when Blackbeard boarded the Plymouth Adventure with his dreadful men, our Jack won his fancy."
"So it appeared, Dorothy. The boy boasted of knocking a tall pirate on the head, and he read this monster of a pirate more shrewdly than I. Yes, Blackbeard took it with rough good humor. But Jack would ne'er consent to sail with him. 'Twas that confounded Stede Bonnet with his gallant air that turned the lad's head. He cast a glamor over this trade of murder and pillage."
"Be that as it may," returned Dorothy, with a sigh and a smile, "I confess to a romantic admiration for this bold Captain Bonnet. He wears an air of mystery which is most becoming. We must not blame poor Jack."
"No, no, I am done with all that," hastily exclaimed Uncle Peter. "All I dare hope is that when Blackbeard is captured, we may learn what fate befell the boy. It makes the torture worse to have him vanish without trace."
"And yet I have faith the sea will give him back to us, Mr. Forbes. He will find you a chastened guardian, not so apt to box his ears."
Uncle Peter was so distressed by this gentle raillery that the girl begged pardon and vowed that she would never again offend. It so happened that they were sitting together in Parson Throckmorton's garden a day or so after this when a friend came running in with tidings the most unexpected and incredible. A negro slave had come from a plantation a few miles inland and he bore a letter written by none other than Captain Jonathan Wellsby of the Plymouth Adventure. It narrated how he and the survivors of his ship had journeyed that far after weeks of suffering and frequent skirmishes with Indians. They were compelled to rest and take shelter before undertaking the last stage of the journey.
Councilor Peter Forbes was magically changed. He shed his dignity and threw his hat in air. Clasping Miss Dorothy's slender waist, he planted a kiss on her damask cheek. Parson Throckmorton was ramming snuff into his nostrils, his wig all awry, while he sneezed trumpet blasts of rejoicing.
"Survivors? Kerchooh! God bless me, that lusty stripling will be amongst them,—kerchooh,—he can survive anything but Greek and Latin,—kerchooh,—I will spare the rod in future."
"I told you so, Uncle Peter Forbes," laughed Dorothy.
"Not so fast," quoth he, in a mood suddenly sobered. "Captain Wellsby includes no list of those in his party."