Creeping out of the creek in their boat, Tom and Dave caught sight of the new moon hung like a silver horn in the dusky western sky.

“Hold on,” said Tom, “till I turn me money.”

“I’ve got fourpence,” replied Dave, drawing in his oar also; “I reckon I’ll turn it, too.”

And just at that moment a thought struck Tom.

“Good Lord!” he cried, “we’ve forgot all about them bags o’ sovereigns that was stole and hid.”

“I didn’t,” replied Dave; “I thought about ’em this mornin’, an’ I been thinkin’ about ’em all day, but we took a oath not to talk about it, didn’t we?”

“That wuz only about the—the—you know what wuz done,” replied Tom; “the money’s different; we kin talk about that.”

“Well, it’s hid,” said Dave.

“Yes; it’s hid again the myrtle tree.”

“I clean forgot till this mornin’, and then when you wuz talkin’ about pirate hoards I thought of it.”

“I never thought of it till now,” said Tom, passing his hand across his forehead in an anguished way.[74] “Seein’ that—that—you know the thing we ain’t got to talk about must a sent me ratty.”

“What are you goin’ to do about it?” asked Dave.

“I dunno,” replied Tom, doubtfully; “onless we go back there by night an’ dig it up.”

Dave shuddered.

“I wouldn’t go near that place at night,” he said; “not for all the money in Australia.”

“Neither would I,” said Tom, “but I’d go an’ get it in the daylight.”

“We can’t go nosing round there in the daytime,” remarked Dave; “we might get ketched.”

“Well, if we don’t go an’ get it soon,” pronounced Tom, “it won’t be there long. That cove won’t leave it there. Soon as he’s ready to git away, he’ll go an’ dig it up. An’ he won’t stay round no longer than he kin help, you take yor oath.”

“It’s a bit rough,” said Dave, “after all we’ve went through.”

“Pirate’s luck,” sighed Tom. “It wuz always that way. Jist when a pirate wuz gettin’ up to a ship loaded chokker-block with gold-dust an’ dubloons an’ things, a gale of wind u’d come an’ she’d get away. Or supposin’ they’d bin firin’ their cannons an’ fightin’ ’er fer a whole day, she’d sink an’ take all er’ cargo down with ’er jist as they got alongside. It’s pirates’ luck, an’ you got to put up with it.”

“I dunno,” mused Dave; “we mightn’t get ketched if we was careful. Suppose we did go there in the daytime? We could sneak up near in the night, and camp in the scrub, an’ go acrost an’ get the sovereigns, and[75] wait till the next night to come down the river again.”

“You leave it to me,” said Tom, after some thought; “I’ll fix up a scheme. You can’t organise a piratin’ expedition like that in ten minutes. It wants thinkin’ out.”

The boat’s nose ran into the mud on the opposite side, and the boys landed.

Having climbed the bank they found themselves in a field of maize.

Presently Dave stooped down and felt something with an affectionate touch.

“Melons!” he said in a glad, soft voice.

“Good shot!” ejaculated Tom; “we’ll load some into the boat, and take ’em acrost to the pirate’s camp. We’ll gammon they’re chests of gold and plate and ingots of silver.”

They loaded half a dozen large water melons into their pirate barque on this principle, and it added to their joy.

“That’ll do for the ballast,” said Tom, when the cargo was aboard. “Now, we’re got to go and make a raid for provisions.”

“How will we?” queried Dave.

“We’ll sneak up through this corn patch, and storm the fowlhouse,” said the older pirate grimly. “We got to get meat to eat.”

They approached the farmhouse cautiously, sneaking round between the tall rows of rustling maize till they located the chicken roost at the rear.

“You stay on watch,” whispered Tom, “an’ I’ll nick in an’ cop a couple o’ young hens. I’ll ketch ’em by[76] the necks so they can’t sing out. If you hear any noise, whistle three times loud an’ cut to the boat.”

The first mate hid behind the fence, and the pirate captain crept softly upon his prey.

It was pretty dark inside the fowl-shed and the feathered occupants stirred uneasily, and made some enquiring remarks, when Tom fell over a box which had been left for the hens to lay in. The chief pirate waited for the row to subside, and then put out his hand quietly and grabbed a likely-looking rooster tightly by the neck.

The bird uttered a gutteral cry, which the adventurer stilled by revolving his quarry round on its own axis several times with great rapidity.

He was just preparing to commandeer further poultry when three shrill whistles echoed through the night, followed by the sound of voices and a noise of somebody running through the maize.

A second later, Tom, beating a retreat through the fowlhouse door, ran right into the arms of a burly figure.

A strong hand grabbed him by the collar, and a strong voice remarked, with vengeful satisfaction:

“I’ve ketched ye, ye varmint.”

Tom dropped the birds and endeavoured to wriggle out of his captor’s clutch.

“Lemme go,” he whined; “I ain’t done nothink to you.”

“Ain’t you,” cried the enraged farmer; “ain’t done nothink, eh?”

[77]

“No,” replied Tom, endeavouring to kick the captor’s shins. “I wuz just comin’ up to the house to ask you about somethink.”

“An’ you thought you’d wring a couple of my fowls’ necks an’ bring ’em with ye, to make you welcome.”

“I never wrung ’em,” replied the Pirate Captain.

“Well, I’m struck!” exclaimed the farmer; “after I ketched ye with a fowl in each hand.”

“I heard a noise in the fowlhouse,” said Tom, speciously, “jist as I wuz comin’ along. I knowed it wuz a native cat after the fowls. So I went in——”

“An’ you found the cat ’ad killed two of ’em,” interrupted the farmer.

“Yes,” said Tom; “I did.”

“An’ you thought you’d bring ’em along an’ show ’em to me.”

“That’s jist what I did think.”

“So you picked ’em up, an’ wuz goin’ out when I stopped yer?”

“Yes, I wuz goin’ straight up to your house with ’em.”

“Maria!” cried the farmer, loudly; “fetch a lantern; I’ve ketched somethink!”

“What have you ketched, Jacob?” called back a woman’s voice from the kitchen of the farmhouse; “a tiger cat?”

“No!” hollered the farmer; “I’ve ketched the infernallest liar thet ever wuz on the Clarence River! I doubt if there’s sich another infernal liar in the world.”

The farmer’s wife, shading a candle with her hand, peered out into the dark.

[78]

“Where is it?” asked the woman, who was hard of hearing.

“It’s here! You needn’t be frightened, Maria; he can’t get away.”

“What is it, Jacob?” asked Maria, bringing the light carefully.

“I dunno rightly,” replied Jacob, “what breed it is; but I kin see it’s death on fowls.”

“How many has he took?”

“Two. One of ’em’s your best Spanish rooster!”

“Why didn’t you shoot the thing?” asked Maria.

“Fetch the light an’ I’ll show you,” cried Jacob, who was pleased with his catch. “This is where our laying hens an’ pullets has been goin’ lately.”

“Why,” exclaimed the woman, “it’s a man! No, it’s a boy!”

“Yes,” agreed the farmer, screwing Tom round to the light; “it’s a boy all right.”

“Ow!” yelled Tom. “Leggo, yer ’urtin’ me.”

“I’ll ’urt ye a dashed sight more afore I’m done with ye,” observed the farmer; “ye thievin’ young varmint.”

“I ain’t,” whined the chief pirate; “I ain’t a thief!”

“Poor child!” said the farmer’s wife. “Don’t hurt him, Jacob!—ah, don’t hurt him!”

“The varmint’s done his best to hurt me!” cried Jacob. “He kicked a few inches of bark off my shins!”

“Well,” howled Tom, “you nearly choked me!”

“Whose boy is he?” asked the farmer’s wife.

“He’s got a ugly face,” replied the burly farmer, holding Tom up to the candle light; “a ugly face that[79] a cove ought to know anywhere; but I don’t recognise ’im.”

“Do you think he really was at the fowls, Jacob?”

“I dunno,” replied Jacob, “what kinder evidence you’d want to prove it; but I ketched him with a Leghorn hen in one hand an’ yer Spanish rooster in the other, coming’ outer the fowlhouse, an’ I reckon that’s strong enough for me; I reckon it’s strong enough to ’ang the varmint on.”

“Whose boy are you?” asked the farmer’s wife. “Where do you come from?”

“I can’t speak,” growled Tom, “he’s chokin’ me.”

“Don’t hurt him, Jacob!” pleaded the good wife, in a sympathetic voice. “He’s only a child.”

“He’s a derned old-fashioned child,” observed the farmer, taking a fresh grip of his prize. “There, now, let’s hear what you got to say for yourself. Who are you? What is your name?”

“Robinson,” replied Tom, tearfully, “Will Robinson.”

“Robinson!” repeated the man. “There ain’t any Robinsons round here. Where did you come from?”

“I came from the Richmond,” replied Tom, readily.

“What were you doin’ up there?”

“Workin’ on a farm.”

“Has your people got a farm?”

“No; me father and mother’s dead.”

“You was with your relations, eh?”

“No; I got no relatives; I’m a orphan.”

“Poor child!” cried the farmer’s wife softly. “Remember, Jacob, the Lord hasn’t blessed us.”

“Yes, I’m a orphan,” cried Tom, tearfully. “I got[80] no father an’ no mother, an’ nobody in the world. I wuz put to work for a cove up there milkin’ cows an’ pullin’ maize an’ ploughin’——”

“Ploughin’!” interrupted the farmer. “Mean to say he put you ploughin’?”

“Yes,” sobbed Tom; “an’ he treated me bad, too—uster knock me about an’ larrup me with a cartwhip. I never hardly got enough to eat—never—so I couldn’t stand it no longer, an’ I run away.”

“What was the cove’s name you was workin’ with?” asked the farmer.

“Smith,” said Tom, “Mr. Smith.”

“What Smith?”

“I dunno his other name,” replied the captured pirate, suspecting a trap; “I never heard ’im called anythink except Mister Smith.”

“Hum,” said the farmer. “An’ how long is it since you run away?”

“’Bout two weeks,” replied Tom. “I bin hidin’ in the bush so’s they wouldn’t ketch me. I didn’t want to be ketched an’ took back an’ knocked about. I’d a rather died. I nearly did die, too! I got starved—I’m starved now. I ain’t ’ad nothink to eat all day, nor yesterday ’ardly. I wouldn’t ’a come ’ere to take them fowls only I wuz ’ungry, an’ that’s the truth. I never stole nothink in me life before.”

“Poor child!” murmured the woman; “perhaps he couldn’t help it, Jacob.”

“Um,” said Jacob. “I thought you said it wuz a native cat arter the fowls?”

“Yes,” replied Tom; “I did say it.”

[81]

“An’ now you admit you did it?”

“Well, I wuz frightened, an’ I thought you wuz goin’ to whale me.”

“How were you goin’ to cook them chickens?”

“I wusn’t goin’ to cook ’em.”

“You wasn’t! What, then, goin’ to sell ’em?”

“No, I wuz goin’ to eat ’em raw!”

“My God, Jacob,” exclaimed the farmer’s wife, “the poor boy’s starving! Can’t you see the wolfish look in his eye?”

Tom glared and looked as famished as he could.

“Look ’ere,” cried the farmer, “where is this cove Smith’s place on the Richmond?”

“It’s about Lismore,” said Tom, readily, “at the beginning of the Big Scrub. Ain’t you ever been there?”

“No,” said the farmer, still keeping a firm grip of the pirate’s coat collar, “an’ I doubt if you ’ave either. How did you get down to Lismore?”

“Tramped it,” said Tom.

“How long did it take you?”

“’Bout two days.”

“Two days? What did you have to eat?”

“I got lilly-pillys outer the bush, an’ berries, an’ I uster pull corn cobs an’ roast ’em over a fire an’ uster get a drink of milk at the dairy farms in the mornin’.”

“Ah! Weren’t the police looking for you in Lismore?”

“I dunno. I never went into the town. I stayed in the scrub till it was dark an’ then I got acrost the bridge an’ sneaked on to a boat that wuz goin’ out to Sydney. I meant to go right down in ’er, but they found me out[82] an’ put me off at Woodburn, an’ I walked acrost an’ sneaked on the punt at Chatsworth, an’ kem on this side of the Clarence. I been prowlin’ about the bush ever since.”

“Why didn’t you go into the towns and look for work or something?”

“Because I wuz waitin’ for it to blow over. I thought my boss up there above Lismore might put an advertisement in the paper or set the police onter me.”

“Hum,” said the farmer. “It’s either a true bill, or your the cleverest voting liar outer gaol at the present moment.”

“I ain’t no liar,” protested the pirate: “I ain’t. An’ its true, every word.”

“Hum,” said the farmer; “We’ll see.”

“You ain’t goin’ to give me up?” asked Tom, anxiously. “I say, mister, don’t give a cove up.”

“We’ll see; we’ll see.”

“Don’t!” pleaded Tom; “please don’t. Look, I won’t never shake any more fowls, I won’t. Only I don’t want to ’ave to go back to that Smith up there above Lismore, an’ get knocked about.”

The farmer’s wife was regarding the culprit with pity.

“Are you hungry now?” she asked.

Tom rubbed his stomach.

“I’m nearly dead,” he murmured woefully; “I’m empty as a ’oller log.”

“Let him come inside, Jacob,” pleaded the wife. “Let me give him a feed first before you do anything with him.”

The man relaxed his grip on Tom’s collar.

[83]

“Look ’ere,” he said, “if what you say turns out to be true, I won’t give you in charge to the police, like I meant to do.”

“It is true, every word,” said Tom solemnly. “Every bloomin’ word of it.”

“What did you say your name was again?” asked the farmer’s wife.

“Stevenson,” replied Tom; “Joe Stevenson.”

“Why you said Robinson first,” exclaimed the farmer.

“No, I never,” protested Tom; “I said Stevenson.”

“I think it was Stevenson, Jacob,” said the wife.

“I’ll swear he said Robinson,” muttered the farmer. “Anyway Stevenson or Robinson, it don’t matter which, for now, you go straight up to the house there in front o’ me. If you try to get away, I’ll give you a good hidin’ first an’ give you in charge to the police afterwards. D’yer hear?”

“Yes,” replied Tom, meekly. “I hear. I won’t try to run away. I wish I could get a good home,” he added on a second inspiration.

“If yer honest about that, meybe I’ll find a home for you,” said the man. “I want a good lad about the place.”

“You give me a show, an’ don’t whale me like that man Smith did, an’ I’ll work,” said Tom, throwing as much eagerness into his voice as he could.

“I’ll make some enquiries about you in the mornin’,” said the farmer as they entered the kitchen door; “an’ the missus’ll give you a feed for now.”

[84]

The good-hearted woman set down a loaf of bread and the best part of a leg of mutton before Tom.

Then she asked him if he would have tea or milk, and he said he’d take milk so as not to put her to any trouble and he was so polite and softspoken, and looked so penitent, that her heart went out to him still more.

Tom rolled his eyes about when he saw the food, and put out his hand and seized a piece of bread and wolfed at it.

Then he grabbed the piece of meat which she had just cut off the joint and tore it as if he were famished.

“Poor thing, poor thing!” said the woman. “Don’t eat so quickly. You’ll be ill. There now, take your time; don’t gulp it. There’s plenty more. You can have as much as you want.”

The pirate chief slowed down, and went steadily to work on the bread and meat. It was not much trouble to him to act the part, because his appetite was good, and the fruit he had eaten on the island that day had not proved too staying. All the time he was eating, he thought and thought.

He ate on in a sort of reverie, taking slice after slice of bread and meat as the farmer’s wife cut them off.

The woman watched him with tears in her eyes. “Poor boy” she murmured from time to time. “Poor boy; he must have been starving!”

The loaf of bread disappeared. The last of the leg of mutton disappeared. The good wife went to the cupboard and got a great piece of seed cake and cut it in slices.

[85]

Tom dealt with it slice by slice. The woman’s face became soft and more pitiful. She went to the cupboard again and brought out half a roly-poly.

Tom put his hand secretly down under the table cloth and let go the top button of his trousers.

“Poor boy,” reiterated the farmer’s wife; “poor boy.”

Two great womanly tears gathered in her eyes and slowly overflowed.

Tom, conscious that he was playing a star part, choked down a few more morsels of food; then he laid aside his knife and fork, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and sat staring into vacancy with bulging eyes.

“Could you eat a piece of pineapple?” asked the woman.

Her intentions were kind, but she did not know.

Tom Pagdin groaned. He felt that any refusal of food might be a weakening of the evidence in his favour. He tried to display as much appetite as possible, and furtively letting go another trouser button, replied that he could.

The woman went to a case in the corner, and selected a fair-sized pineapple from it.

It was freshly cut from the pineapple patch in the garden in front, but its fragrance failed to awake any enthusiasm in Tom. He stowed away a couple of slices as a matter of form, and then he pleaded, in a thick voice, that he couldn’t eat any more.

“Well,” said the farmer, “I reckon if ye did, you’d be like that cow o’ mine that got into the lucerne patch yisterday.”

[86]

“Why,” asked Tom, in an anxious voice. He was not feeling well within.

“Good enough reason why,” said Jacob Cayley; “the blamed animal’s dead as a dern door-nail.”

“What happened to ’er?” queried the inflated pirate.

“Busted!” replied Jacob, grimly.

Tom turned pale.

“I ain’t feeling none too well,” he murmured, placing a band on his lower deck. “Do you think a cove ’ud bust like—like a cow?”

“I dunno,” replied the farmer. “If ’e’d et too much he might.”

“Ob, Lord!” groaned Tom.

“How do you feel?” asked Mrs. Cayley.

“I got a pain,” he said, “’ere, an’ ’ere—all over me stummick.”

“’E’s over-et ’imself, Maria,” remarked Cayley. “’E’d better go to bed.”

“I’ll put him in the spare room,” said Maria, regarding Tom with a motherly eye.

“Yes,” replied Jacob, “an’ I’ll lock the door an’ padlock the winder on the outside till we find out whether his yarn is true or not.”

Tom’s face fell. He forgot everything—even the untimely end of Cayley’s cow. While he had been feeding he had thought over a plan of escape. It was simple enough. As soon as the farmer and his wife had gone to bed he would slip out, get quietly down to the river bank, and if Dave had taken the boat across to the Pirate’s Camp, swim over and rejoin him.

But now this scheme was baulked. He was to be[87] locked up for the night like a prisoner in a cell, perhaps only liberated on the morrow under strict surveillance, and his chance of escape reduced to a minimum. Meanwhile enquiries were to be made about him. He was not far away from home. Somebody would know of him, and he would be found out and ignominiously dragged back.

Then again, if he did not succeed in escaping quickly, Dave would probably find solitary pirating too lonesome, and give it up.

The farmer marched Tom off to bunk while he was reflecting over these things, and having seen him undress, gave him good-night, and told him to make himself comfortable. He turned the key as he went, taking the candle and Tom’s clothes with him. A few minutes after the prisoner heard the wooden shutters, with which the window, as in old-fashioned country houses, was provided, bang together, and the sounds which followed told him that they were being secured from the outside.

Tom sat on the bed-side in his shirt, the only garment which the farmer had left him, and pondered. It was an awkward fix.