Old Ben's hand crept along his belt, slipped around behind his back to the ugly seaman's dirk on his hip. "Master Blythe, I sailed in your father's ship 'afore I signed with you! He were a man! He wouldn't have left his best friend—not Peter Hemp—"
Old Ben stopped suddenly. His eyes bunged. He closed his mouth soundlessly. He jabbed a blunt forefinger at the open door. His jaw worked and he screamed:
"Press-men!"
Master Blythe pivoted: every man in the taproom bounced to his feet and faced the doorway. A score of British tars raced down the cobbled street, swarmed around the tavern. An ensign brought up the rear. He sauntered through the door with cool insolence. He could afford to be cool. A hairy chested bos'n swishing a cat-o-nine-tails, and two hunch shouldered jack-tars with cutlasses trailed after him respectfully. They did the dirty work while the rest of the press-gang outside blocked escape!
Master Blythe stiffened, his chin came up, his shoulders went back. He looked like a bantam rooster with his feathers ruffled—it was the same ensign who had boarded Master Blythe's brig!
The ensign bowed and smirked. "Well, my fine fellows, who among ye would sign with the king?" The ensign lifted his brows at the silence. "No volunteers?"
Anger seethed through Master Blythe. These poor able-bodied seamen were at the mercy of the press-gang! With the minute-men gone to Boston and the town practically empty the press-gang could do as they pleased.
"Hmm," murmured the ensign, disdainfully looking over the taproom. "A sorry looking lot, by Jove!" He shook his head and his eye fell on Master Blythe. He pointed his slender walking stick. "You would make a dam' fine cabin-boy! We need a cabin-boy."
The burly bos'n blurted a gruff gaw-faw. He flicked the cat-o-nine-tails suggestively. For a painfully long moment Master Blythe did not fully realize the significance of that flirting cat-o-nine-tails.
Then Master Blythe felt very hot. Blood rushed to his face. His breath was constricted. He was a small man and that he granted—but he was master and owner of his own ship! The anger that had seethed through Master Blythe boiled.
They meant to press him into service as a cabin-boy!
Master Blythe was surprised to hear his own voice say as coolly as a New England breeze: "I am a ship's master, young sir, and I warn you not to lay a hand on my person!"
A dead silence smothered the taproom. Master Blythe heard Old Ben gasp. Even the huge bos'n was startled. The ensign was furious. His lips rolled apart. "Damn your impertinence! When the king wants a man—high or low—he gets him! Bos'n, give him a taste of the cat!"
Master Blythe's sea-won muscles became as taut as a ship's line in a gale. His right hand clenched. His stiff fingers opened again.
The bos'n lunged forward. The cat-o-nine-tails unwound; the skin-splitting lash reached for Master Blythe.
But Master Blythe had not waited for the whip. His hand flashed like a train of lighted powder to his sword hilt.
"Cabin-boy!" he spat the word like a mouthful of sand. Then, with small-
