“Like the baseless fabric of a vision,
    Left not a wreck behind,”

except the wreck of the milk-saucer of the household cat, which sagacious creature had wisely taken to flight at the first symptom of war.

The boy was instantly followed by Henry, but so light was his foot, that the fastest runner in the settlement had to penetrate the woods immediately behind his mother’s house for a quarter of a mile before he succeeded in again laying hold of the refractory lad’s collar.

“What do you mean, Corrie, by such conduct?” said his captor, shaking him vigorously.  “I have half a mind to give you a walloping.”

“Never do anything by halves, Henry,” said the boy, mildly. “I never do.  It’s a bad habit; always go the whole length or none.  Now that we are alone, I’ll give you a reasonable account of what I know, if you’ll remove your hand from my collar.  You forget that I am growing, and that, when I am big enough, the day of reckoning between us will surely come!”

“But why would you not give me the information I want in the house.  The people you saw there are as much interested in it as I am.”

“Oh! are they?” returned Corrie, with a glance of peculiar meaning; “perhaps they are more interested than you are.”

“How so?”

“Why, how do I know, and how do you know, that these fellows are not pirates in disguise?”

“Because,” said Henry, “one of them is an old friend,—­that is, an acquaintance—­at least a sort of intimate, who has been many and many a time at our house before, and my mother knows him well.  I can’t say I like him,—­that is to say, I don’t exactly like some of his ways,—­though I don’t dislike the man himself.”

“A most unsatisfactory style of reply, Henry, for a man—­ah, beg pardon, a boy—­of your straightforward character.  Which o’ the three are you speaking of—­the grampus?”

“No, the other big, handsome-looking fellow.”

“And you’re sure you’ve known him long?” continued the boy, while an expression of perplexity flitted over his face.

“Quite sure;—­why?”

“Because I have seen you often enough, and your house and your mother,—­not to mention your cat and your pigs, and hens; but I’ve never seen him before to-day.”

“That’s because he usually comes at night, and seldom stays more than an hour or two.”

“A most uncomfortable style of acquaintance,” said Corrie, trying to look wise, which was an utterly futile effort, seeing that his countenance was fat and round and rosy, and very much the reverse of philosophical.  “But how do you know that the grampus is not the pirate?”

“Because he is one of Gascoyne’s men.”

“Oh! his name is Gascoyne, is it?—­a most piratical name it is.  However, since he is your friend, Henry, it’s all right; what’s t’other’s name?”

“Bumpus—­John Bumpus.”