to get back the neat little town of Guayaquil."

Crestfallen and abashed, the city fathers were soon brought before the
privateer.

"Senor," said they, "your men can fight like devils. Senor, you are
the first man to have taken our town, and many a Buccaneer has
endeavored to do so!"

Captain Rogers smiled.

"Tut! Tut!" said he. "The English can always battle. But--Fathers--you
must pay me well for this affair. I demand thirty thousand pieces of
eight ($35,000 or about L6,750) as ransom for your fair city. I will
give you two days in which to collect it."

The worthy _Padres_ hung their heads.

"You English," said they, "are cruel extortioners."

Yet--in two day's time--the British marched to their boats with colors
flying, bugles blowing, and drums beating a rollicking tattoo. Captain
Rogers brought up the rear with a few men. He had secured the ransom
and fairly smiled with exuberant joy. "Our sailors," says he, "kept
continually dropping their pistols, cutlasses, and pole-axes; which
shows they had grown careless and very weak--weary of being
soldiers--and it was high time that we should be gone from hence to
the shores of Merrie England."

Thus, on April 28th, when the _Duke_ and the _Duchess_ weighed anchor
and stood out to sea: guns roared: trumpets blew: the men cheered.

"And so," writes the gallant Rogers, "we took leave of the Spaniards
very cheerfully, but not half so well pleased as we should have been
if we had taken 'em by surprise; for I was well assured from all
hands, that at least we should then have got about two hundred
thousand pieces of eight in money (L45,000 or $225,000); and in
jewels, diamonds, and wrought and unwrought gold and silver."

* * * * *

The owners of the two privateers: the _Duke_ and the _Duchess_, sat in
solemn meeting at the good town of Bristol. It was the month of
October, 1711.

The fat Quakers were smiling, for Captain Rogers had brought them
back equally fat moneys.

The rugged merchants laughed, for the venture had been a howling
success.

"And you were wounded?" said a stockholder, turning to the bronzed
sea-rover who stood before them, giving account and reckoning of his
journey to the Spanish Main.

"A scratch," replied the stout sea-dog, smiling. "When we tackled a
Manila ship on the way home from Guayaquil, I got a ball through the
jaw, and a splinter in the left foot. It laid me up for full three
weeks, but, gentlem