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Maurice, who had listened open mouthed to his chum's narration, sighed deeply. "We had an awful time," he put in, only to receive a harder pinch for his pains. Shipley was a small, wizened man with scant beard and hair. He wheezed a "Hello, Sonny" at Billy, while he packed the tobacco home in his short, black pipe with a claw-like finger. "Oh," she cried miserably, "what haven't you done, Tom Wilson? Didn't you bring me here to this lonesome spot when I was happy with my son, happy an' contented?".
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"Why to be sure," rejoined her neighbor, "come right along in an' I'll get 'em. I want you to see how nice my canned tomaters look." As they turned towards the house, Mrs. Wilson caught sight of Maurice, huddled in the big chair beneath the trailing vine. Captain Weaver sped aft, and in a few moments the English Ensign soared to the mizzen-gaff end and streamed out fair to the sight of the approaching fleet. "No, er the buried money," sighed Cobin. "Joe," he commanded, "go back home," and the collie lay down on the path, head between his forepaws..
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