write. Therefore to such as would
read of rogues and roguish doings, of desperate fights, encounters and
affrays, I would engage him to pass over these next few chapters, for
he shall find overmuch of these things ere I make an end of this tale
of Black Bartlemy's Treasure. Which very proper advice having duly set
down, I will again to my narrative.

CHAPTER XXVIII

I BECOME A JACK-OF-ALL-TRADES

Early next morning, having bathed me in the pool and breakfasted with
my companion on what remained of our goat's-flesh, I set to work to
build me a fireplace in a fissure of the rock over against the little
valley and close beside a great stone, smooth and flat-topped, that
should make me an anvil, what time my companion collected a pile of
kindling-wood. Soon we had the fire going merrily, and whilst my iron
was heating, I chose a likely piece of wood, and splitting it with the
hatchet, fell to carving it with my knife.

"What do you make now, Martin?"

"Here shall be a spoon for you, 'twill help you in your cooking."

"Indeed it will, Martin! But you are very skilful!"

"Nay, 'tis simple matter!" says I, whittling away but very conscious of
her watchful eyes: "I have outworn many a weary hour carving things
with my knife. Given time and patience a man may make anything."

"Some men!" says she, whereat I grew foolishly pleased with myself.
The wood being soft and dry and my knife sharp the spoon grew apace and
her interest in it; and because it was for her (and she so full of
pleased wonder) I elaborated upon it here and there until, having
shaped it to my fancy, I drew my iron from the fire and with the
glowing end, burned out the bowl, scraping away the charred wood until
I had hollowed it sufficiently, and the spoon was finished. And
because she took such pleasure in it, now and hereafter, I append here
a rough drawing of it.

(Drawing of a spoon.)

"'Tis wonderful!" cries she, turning it this way and that. "'Tis
admirable!"

"It might be better!" says I, wishing I had given more labour to it.

"I want no better, Martin!" And now she would have me make another for
myself.

"Nay, mine can wait. But there is your comb to make."

"How shall you do that, Martin?"

"Of wood, like the Indians, but 'twill take time!"

"Why then, it shall wait with your spoon, first should come
necessities."

"As what?"

"Dear Heaven, they be so many!" says she with rueful laugh. "For one
thing, a cooking-po