Dick treated me kind as a lad. He’d give me a guinea when you’d have no more for me than a fine word.”

“And you’d stand a friend to his bastard, eh?”

p. 86“I’m none too sure as the lad’s base-born,” said Roger, stoutly. “He’s something of the look of Mary Howe about him, as well as the looks of you Craikes. And Mary Howe was not the lass to listen to the talk of Dick Craike, or any man, unless a ring and a book went with it. No, it’s because the boy’s born a Craike you’ll not have him meet old Edward.”

p. 86

“Silence!” Mr. Craike’s command cut through the air like a whip. “I’m accountable to no man, Galt, for what I do. You presume to preach to me—you, my hang-dog; you’ve threatened me a while since. Threatened! Would any take your word for aught?”

“Any knowing you, Mr. Craike.”

“Have it so, then! Match yourself against me. At least this is assured your hanging for a highwayman; are you so confident that you will lay me by the heels? Come! Are you so confident—knowing me?”

But Roger Galt answered only with a string of oaths.

“You’re not so confident,” my uncle said, coolly. “You bluster only, Roger, when the drink’s in you. And when you’re sober—seldom, Roger—you’re no fool; you’re ready to serve me, knowing I pay. Your interests are mine, friend Roger.”

p. 87“Ay, that’s well enough. But what of the boy, now you’ve got him in this ken?”

p. 87

“The boy,” said Mr. Craike, “will come to no hurt at my hands. Have it so, if you will! He does not come yet to my father’s house; have that so! He goes overseas with Ezra Blunt, when the rogue makes port. He’ll go overseas and be set ashore to work his way home as he may. He’ll suffer no worse; but he’ll not make Rogues’ Haven in these two years to be. And till Blunt is here, Mother Mag and you, Martin, look to it that the fellow lie snugly at the Stone House. And if Bradbury live,—God rest him, body and soul—and raise the hue and cry, look to it that no one find the fellow here. Keep him fast, keep him hidden—d’ye hear me?—fast and hidden! I’ve your wage with me, Roger, though not yours yet, Martin, or yours, Mother Mag. Hark to the chink of the coin, Roger! Did you ever empty such saddle-bags?—Why, what the devil—?” for the hag had screeched out shrilly.

“What’s 

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