snuffy Parson Throckmorton had not been wasted. Standing in
an open space, clear of the crowd, he addressed the chief in loud and
impressive language. The gist of it was that he and his friends were the
sworn foes of all pirates and especially anxious to rid the world of
such vermin as those that had come into the Cherokee swamp in the great
ship's boat and were encamped on the bank of the creek.

This other peaceful party entrenched on the knoll were honest,
law-abiding men of Charles Town who would harm no one. They had come in
search of pirates' gold. If the chief of the Yemassees would join forces
with them and smoke the pipe of peace, they would drive those foul
pirates out of the Cherokee swamp. And should the gold be found, it
would be fairly divided between the godly men of Charles Town and their
Indian allies. To bind this bargain Master Cockrell and Master Hawkridge
were ready to pledge their honor and their lives.

It was a most eloquent effort delivered with much gesticulation. The
Yemassee braves set in a circle and grunted approval. They liked the
sound and fury of it. Jack hurled scraps of Homer and Virgil at them
when at a loss for resounding periods. The chief nodded his
understanding of such words as _pirates_ and _gold_ and actually smiled
when Jack's pantomime depicted the death of Blackbeard on the deck of
his ship. _Gold_ was a magic word to these Indians. It would purchase
muskets and powder and ball, cloth and ironmongery and strong liquors
from the white men of the settlements.

The chief discussed it with his followers. During the lull Joe
Hawkridge said, with a long sigh of relief:

"My scalp itches not so much, Jack. The notion of having it twisted off
with a dull blade vexed me. Ye did wondrous well. The mouth of Secretary
Peter Forbes would ha' gaped wide open."

"Much sound and little sense, Joe, but methinks it hit the target. I
took care to sprinkle it with such words as yonder savage could bite
on."

"If we find no gold, the fat may be in the fire again, but it gives us
time to draw breath."

They rubbed their chafed wrists and sat on the ground while the savages
held a long pow-wow. The chief was explaining the purport of Master
Cockrell's impressive declamation. There was no enmity in the glances
aimed at the English lads. It was more a matter of deliberation, of
passing judgment on the truth or the falsity of the story. It was plain
to read that the Yemassees desired to lay