Bligh began to foam. "The longer you keep up this farce, my fine
fellows, the worse you'll smart for it! There's a Magistrate in this
parish, as I happen to know."
"There _was_," said my grandfather; "but we've strong reasons to
believe he's been made away with."
"The only thing we could find of 'en," put in Arch'laus Spry, "was a
shin-bone and a pint of ashes. I don't know if the others noticed
it, but to my notion there was a sniff of brimstone about the
premises; and I've always been remarkable for my sense of smell."
"You won't deny," my grandfather went on, "that you've been making a
map of this here river; for here it is in your tail-coat pocket."
"You insolent ruffian, put that down at once! I tell you that I'm a
British officer and a gentleman!"
"_And_ a Papist," went on my grandfather, holding up a ribbon with a
bullet threaded to it. ('Twas the bullet Bligh used to weigh out
allowances with on his voyage in the open boat after the mutineers
had turned him adrift from the _Bounty_, and he wore it ever after.)
"See here, friends: did you ever know an honest Protestant to wear
such a thing about him inside his clothes?"
"Whether you're a joker or a numskull is more than I can fathom,"
says Bligh; "but for the last time I warn you I'm a British officer,
and you'll go to jail for this as sure as eggs.
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