and it had ceased to
beat. His body would be prepared for Christian burial because of the
esteem in which he was already held by many of the townspeople.

To Jack Cockrell and Joe Hawkridge it was sad news indeed but
tender-hearted Bill Saxby mourned like one who had lost a parent. He
closed the shop for a day and hung black ribbons on the knob. They
agreed that the end had come for Trimble Rogers as he would have wished
it, giving his life in loyal service to a friend and master. And perhaps
it was better thus than for the creeping disabilities of old age to
overtake him.

"He knew he was liable to pop off," said Bill, "with the rheumatism
getting closer to his heart all the time. And he told me, did Trimble,
that his share of the treasure was to go to the poor and needy of the
town. Orphans and such was Trimble's weakness."

CHAPTER XIX

THE QUEST FOR PIRATES' GOLD

A SMALL sloop was making its leisurely way up the Carolina coast with a
crew of a dozen men all told. The skipper was Captain Jonathan Wellsby
who was taking this holiday cruise before sailing for England to command
a fine new ship in the colonial trade. In the cabin were Jack Cockrell
and Joe Hawkridge, Councilor Peter Arbuthnot Forbes, and that brisk
young linen draper William Saxby. In the forecastle were trusty seamen
who had sailed in the _Plymouth Adventure_. The sloop's destination was
Cherokee Inlet and she was equipped with tackle and gear for a peculiar
kind of fishing.

For once they made a voyage without fear of pirates. Safely the sloop
passed in by the outlying cay where the charred bones of Blackbeard's
brig were washed by the surf. An anchorage was found in the bight where
the _Revenge_ had tarried, close by the beach and the greensward of the
pirates' old camp. After diligent preparation all hands manned a boat
which pulled into the mouth of the sluggish creek. With axes to clear
the entanglements and men enough to shove over the muddy shoals the
boat was slowly forced up-stream and then into the smaller creek at the
fork of the waters.

Uncle Peter Forbes was as gay as a truant schoolboy. This was the lark
of a lifetime. The two lads, however, were uneasy and depressed. To them
this sombre region was haunted, if not by ghosts then by memories as
unhappy. They would not have been surprised to see Blackbeard skulking
in the tall grass, his head bound in red calico, his pistols cocked to
ambush them. And, alas, old Trimble R