Pirate Waistcoat

Squinty Jim tipped up the tankard, swallowed the last drops and set it back on the table. He surveyed the grog shop with a mournful eye—the one without the squint. “I dunno,” he said, with a sigh. “I draws me pistol, I shouts, Stand and deliver, I squints like the very devil—and do I get so much as a shilling? Hah! They laughs and waves their hankies in me face. Best I ever got was a silk hanky—and that was dropped accidental. I’m a flat failure; that’s plain.” Bob Smallclothes replied, “No wonder, mate. Look at Ratline Rob, there, drinkin’ up his pirate’s loot like there ain’t no Final Account. What’s he got that you ain’t? A waistcoat.” “A waistcoat?” said Jim. “Aye. An’ there’s old Tom Trot, the highwayman, a-spendin’ the loot he took off that stagecoach, wearin’ a gent’s second-best waistcoat. Without a waistcoat, you won’t never be no more’n a rascal, let alone a rake or a rogue.” Jim stood and shook Bob’s hand. “Mate, you’ve opened me eye. I’ll pinch a waistcoat off a washin’ lin