hite as snow and his bright, black eyes and
            pleasant manners, made with the coltish country folk, and above all,
            with that filthy, heavy, bleared scarecrow of a pirate of ours, sitting,
            far gone in rum, with his arms on the table. Suddenly he—the captain,
            that is—began to pipe up his eternal song:</p>
            <p><a name="id380509"><!--anchor--></a>At first I had supposed "the dead man's chest" to be that identical big
            box of his upstairs in