TO THE RESCUE.
Somehow I did not care to bother my hand in speculations concerning the pirate, or why he came to see me at this uncanny hour. What did it matter whether his suspicions had been aroused, or a sudden desire to be more congenial had flowed into his icicle heart? He was coming, my little game must be disclosed, and the consequences turn out badly—for me.
I could do nothing to prevent it. Acting under an impulse, I groped around until I found the rough cudgel which I had wrenched loose from my beautiful rustic cot—perchance a foolish freak might tempt the curmudgeon to thrust his shocking head through the inviting hole I had made in his old door, and if I could manage to drop that bit of cypress with more or less emphasis upon his caput, it would be well.
There was little time for suspense.
I could see the light, and hear the jingling of those rusty keys.
Of course, he could immediately discover the grand opening. I listened to hear him exclaim, for as yet I was not certain Cerberus could claim a voice, since he had utterly refused to answer civil questions or acknowledge the age of the musty jokes which I had showered him with.
Sure enough, I did hear a voice, but it gave me a tremendous start; had I been in gross error, and was this black-muzzled Tartar only a renegade Yankee in disguise, after all?
For he had cried out:
“Great Scott!”
Somewhere I had heard that exclamation used many times—why, sure enough, it was my old friend, that heart of oak, Mate Robbins; but poor Robbins was dead, and therefore it could not be he who jangled those keys.