“He is too splendid a character to hang,” said my aunt mildly.
“Junked if I wouldn’t make dog’s meat of him,” cried Uncle Joe.
“They should have hanged him,” said I.
“They have hanged a better man instead,” exclaimed my cousin Bess.
“A king?”
“No, Bill, he was not a king,” said my uncle, “he was the master of a ship and part owner, a young chap, too—a mighty pity. They had him up at Sandwich on a charge of casting the vessel away. He was found guilty and hanged, and he’s hanging now.”
“Where does he hang?” said I.
“Down on the Sandhills.”
“A time will come, I hope,” said I, “when this beastly trick of beaconing the sea-coast, and the river’s bank, and the high-ways with gibbets will have been mended. Spalding was telling me that up in his part of the country traveling has grown twice as far as it used to be, by the gibbets forcing people to go out of their way to avoid the sight of them.”
“I am sorry for the hanged man,” said my uncle, “but willfully casting a ship away, Bill, is a fearful thing—so fearful that the gibbet at which I’d dangle the fellow that did it should be as high as the royal mast head of the craft he foundered! What d’ye think of that drop of rum?”