The Tale of Timber Town Part 26

Macaroni followed suit. "Alla right," he said. "I reef in alonga you an'

Rocka Codda. I no spik."

So the compact was made.

Seizing the nearest bag, Tresco cut its fastenings, and emptied its contents on the sand.

"Now, as I pa.s.s them over to you," said he, seating himself beside the heap of letters, "you can open such as you think were meant for you, but got misdirected by mistake to persons of no account. But burn 'em afterwards."

He put a match to the driftwood collected by the Italian. "Those that don't interest you, gentlemen, be good enough to put back into the bag."

His hands were quick, his eyes were quicker. He knew well what to look for. As he glanced at the letters, he threw them over to his accomplices, till in a short time there was in front of them a bigger pile of correspondence than had been delivered to them previously in the course of their conjoint lives.

The goldsmith seldom opened a letter, and then only when he was in doubt as to whether or not it was posted by the Jewish merchant. The fishermen opened at random the missives in front of them, in the hope of finding they knew not what, but always in disappointment and disgust.

At length, however, the Italian gave a cry of joy. "I have heem. Whata zat, Rocka Codda?" He held a bank-note before his mate's eyes. "Zat five pound, my boy. Soon I get some more, eh? Alla right."

Tresco put a letter into the breast-pocket of his coat. It's envelope bore on its back the printed legend, "Joseph Varnhagen, General Merchant, Timber Town."

So the ransacking of the outgoing mail went forward. Now another bag was opened, but, as it contained nothing else but newspapers and small packages, the goldsmith desired to leave it intact. But not so his accomplices. They therein saw the chief source of their payment.

Insisting on their right under the bargain, the sand in front of them was soon strewn with litter.

Tresco, in the meantime, had directed his attention to another bag, which contained nothing but correspondence, and evidently he had found what he was most earnestly in search of, for he frequently expressed his delight as he happened across some doc.u.ment which he thrust into his bosom.

In this way the mail was soon rummaged, and without waiting for the other two men to finish their search, the goldsmith began to reseal the bags. First, he took from his pocket the counterfeit matrix which had cost him so much labour to fashion. Next, he took some string, similar to that which he had previously cut, and with it he retied the necks of the bags he had opened. With the help of a lighted match, he covered the knotted strings, first of one bag and then of another, with melted sealing-wax, which he impressed with the counterfeit seal.

His companions watched the process with such interest that, forgetting for a time their search amongst the chattels of other people, they gave their whole attention to the process of resealing the bags.

"Very 'andy with his fingers, ain't 'e, Macaroni?--even if 'e _is_ a bit un'andy in a boat." Confederacy in crime had bred a familiarity which brought the goldsmith down to the level of his co-operators.

All the bags were now sealed up, excepting the one which the fishermen had last ravaged, and the contents of which lay scattered on the sand.

"This one will be considerably smaller than it useter was," remarked Tresco, as he replaced the unopened packets in the bag.

"Hi! stoppa!" cried Macaroni, "Rocka Codda an' me wanta finish him."

"And leave me to hand in an empty bag? Most sapient Macaroni, under your own guidance you would not keep out of gaol a fortnight: Nature did not equip you for a career in crime."

Tresco deftly sealed up the last bag, and then said, "Chuck all the odds and ends into the fire, and be careful not to leave a sc.r.a.p unburned: then we will drink to our continued success."

The fire blazed up fiercely as the torn packages, envelopes, and letters were thrown upon its embers. The goldsmith groped about, and examined the sand for the least vestige of paper which might form a clue to their crime, but when he was satisfied that everything had been picked up, he returned to the fire, and watched the bright flames as they leapt heavenwards.

His comrades were dividing their spoil.

"I think, boss," said Rock Cod, "the best of the catch must ha' fell to your share: me and my mate don't seem to have mor'n ten pound between us, not countin' truck worth p'r'aps another five."

"So far as _I_ am concerned, my man,"--Tresco used the unction of tone and the dignity of manner that he loved so well--"I am but an agent. _I_ take nothing except a few letters, some of which I have not even opened."

The Italian burst out laughing. "You ze boss? You conducta ze holy show, eh? Alla right. But you take nuzzing. Rocka Codda an' Macaroni get ten pound, fifteen pound; an' you get nuzzing."

"Information is what I get," said Tresco. "But, then, information is the soul of business. Information is sometimes more valuable than a gold-mine. Therefore, in getting, get information: it will help you to untold wealth. My object, you see, is knowledge, for which I hunger and thirst. I search for it by night as well as by day. Therefore, gentlemen, before we quit the scene of our midnight labours, let us drink to the acquisition of knowledge."

Rock Cod and Macaroni did not know what he meant, but they drank rum from the pannikin with the greatest good-will. After which, Benjamin scattered the embers of the fire, which quickly died out, and then the three men shoved the boat off and pulled towards the lights of the steamer.

On board the barque Captain Sartoris paced the p.o.o.p-deck in solitude.

Bored to death with the monotony of life in quarantine, the smallest event was to him a matter of interest. He had marked the fire on the beach, and had even noticed the figures which had moved about it. How many men there were he could not tell, but after the fire went out, and a boat pa.s.sed to starboard of the barque and made for the steamer which lay outside her, he remarked to himself that it was very late at night for a boat to be pulling from the sh.o.r.e. But at that moment a head was put out of the companion, and a voice called him in pidgin English to go down. He went below, and stood beside the sick captain, whose mind was wandering, and whose spirit was restless in its lodging. He watched the gasping form, and marked the nervous fingers as they clutched at the counterpane as hour after hour went by, till just as the dawn was breaking a quietness stole over the attenuated form, and with a slight tremour the spirit broke from its imprisonment, and death lay before Sartoris in the bunk. Then he went on deck, and breathed the pure air of the morning.

CHAPTER XV.

Dealing Mostly with Money.

Pilot Summerhayes stood in his garden, with that look on his face which a guilty schoolboy wears when the eye of his master is upon him.

In his hand he held a letter, at which he glanced furtively, as if he feared to be caught in the act of reading, although the only eyes that possibly could have detected him were those of two sparrows that were discussing the purple berries of the Portuguese laurel which grew near by.

"'I enclose the usual half-yearly allowance of 250.'" The Pilot was reading from the letter. "d.a.m.nation take him and his allowance!"

e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the irascible old sailor, which was a strange anathema to hurl at the giver of so substantial a sum of money. "I suppose he thinks to make me beholden to him: I suppose he thinks me as poor as a church-rat, and, therefore, I'm to be thankful for mercies received--_his_ mercies--and say what a benefactor he is, what a generous brother. Bah! it makes me sicker than ever to think of him."

He glanced at the letter, and read, "'Hoping that this small sum is sufficient for yourself and my very dear niece, to whom I ask to be most kindly remembered, I remain your affectionate brother, Silas Summerhayes.'" A most brotherly epistle, containing filial expressions, and indicating a bountiful spirit; and yet upon reading it the Pilot swore deep and dreadful oaths which cannot be recorded.

Every six months, for at least fifteen years, he had received a similar letter, expressing in the same affectionate terms the love of his brother Silas, which was accentuated by a like draft for 250, and yet the Pilot had persistently cursed the receipt of each letter.

There was a footstep on the verandah behind him. With a start the old man thrust the epistle and draft into his pocket, and stood, with a look on his face as black as thunder, confronting almost defiantly his charming daughter.

"Have you got your letters, father? I heard the postman's knock." As she spoke, Rose looked rather anxiously at her frowning parent. "Good news, I hope--the English mail arrived last night."

"I daresay it did, my gal," growled the Pilot. "But I don't see what you and me have to do with England, seeing we've quit it these fifteen years."

"But we were born there! Surely people should think affectionately of their native country."

"But we won't die there, please G.o.d--at least, _I_ won't, if I can help it. You'll not need to, I hope. We're colonials: _this_ is our country."

The girl turned to go indoors, but, a sudden impulse seizing her, she put her arms around the old man's neck, and kissed his weather-beaten cheek.

"What's been troubling you, father? _I'll_ drive the worry away." She held his rough hand in hers, and waited for him to speak.

"You're a good gal, Rosebud; you're a great comfort. But, Lord bless me, you're as sensitive as a young fawn. There's nothing the matter with _me_, except when now and again I get a fit of the blues; but you've drove 'em away, da'rter; you've drove 'em clean away. Now, just you run in and attend to your house; and leave me to go into town, where I've a bit of business to attend to--there's a good gal." He kissed his daughter's smooth, white forehead, and she ran indoors, smiling and happy.

The Pilot resettled the peaked cap on his head, stumped down the garden-path, and pa.s.sed out of his gate and along the road. His steps led him to the main street of the town, where he entered the Kangaroo Bank, the gla.s.s doors of which swung noiselessly behind him, and he stood in front of the exquisite clerk of Semitic origin, who dealt out and received over the broad counter the enormous wealth of the opulent inst.i.tution.

"Good morning, Captain Summerhayes."

"'Mornin'," said the Pilot, as he fumbled in the inside pocket of his coat.

At length he drew out the draft and handed it to the clerk, who turned it over, and said, "Please endorse it."

The old sailor took a pen, and with infinite care wrote his name on the back of the doc.u.ment.