“Nothing. Go instanter.”
Jake vanished as if the fiend were after him, and Tresco seated himself at the bench.
Out of a drawer immediately above the leather apron of the bench he took the wax impression of something, and a square piece of brass.
“Fortune helps those who help themselves,” he muttered. “When the Post Office sent me their seals to repair, I made this impression. Now we will see if I can reproduce a duplicate which shall be a facsimile, line for line.”
CHAPTER XII.
Rock Cod and Macaroni.
The small boat came alongside the pilot-shed with noise and fuss out of all proportion to the insignificance of the occasion.
It was full spring-tide, and the blue sea filled the whole harbour and threatened to flood the very quay which stretched along the shore of Timber Town.
In the small boat were two fishermen, the one large and fat, the other short and thick.