“How can I tell? D’you think Mr. Crookenden consults me about his business? I’m just sent to fetch you along, and along you come.”
“I know, I understanda,” said the Italian. “He have ze new wine from Italia, my countree—he senda for Macaroni to tasta, and tell ze qualitee. You too bloody about ze neck, Rocka Codda, to come alonga me. You mus’ washa, or you go to sell ze fish.”
“Go an’ hawk the fish yourself,” retorted Rock Cod. “You’re full o’ water as a sponge, an’ there’ll be a pool where you stand on the gen’leman’s carpet.”
Wrangling thus, they made their way towards the merchant’s office.
While this scene was being performed at the port of Timber Town, Benjamin Tresco was in his workshop, making the duplicate of the chief postmaster’s seal. With file and graver he worked, that the counterfeit might be perfect. Half-a-dozen impressions of the matrix lay before him, showing the progress his nefarious work was making towards completion.
“One struggle more and I am free,” muttered the goldsmith. “The English seals, I happen to know, usually arrive in a melted or broken condition. To restore them too perfectly would be to court detection—a dab of sealing-wax, impressed with a key and sat upon afterwards, will answer the purpose. But this robbing business—well, it suits my temperament, if it doesn’t suit my conscience. Oh, I like doing it—my instincts point that way. But the Sunday-school training I had when a boy spoils the flavour of it. Why can’t folk let a lad alone to enjoy his sins? Such a boy as I was commits ’em anyway. An’ if he must commit ’em and be damned for ’em, why spoil both his lives—at least they might leave him alone here. But they ain’t practical, these parsonic folk.” He rose, and took a white, broken-lipped jug from a shelf, and drank a deep draught. “Water,” he murmured. “See? Water, air, sunshine, all here for me, in common with the parson. P’r’aps I shall lack water in limbo, but so, too, may the parson—anyway he and I are on the same footing here; therefore, why should he torment me by stirring up my conscience? He has a bad time here and—we’ll grant this for the sake of argument—a good time afterwards. Now, I’ve got to have a bad time with old Safety Matches down below. Why, then, should the parson want to spoil my time here? It looks mean anyway. If I were a parson, I’d make sure I had a good time in this world, and chance the rest. Sometimes I’m almost persuaded to be converted, and take the boss position in a bethel, all amongst the tea and wimmen-folk. Lor’, wouldn’t I preach, wouldn’t I just ladle it out, and wouldn’t the dears adore me?”
Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the door. Instantly the spurious seals and the fraudulent matrix were swept into the drawer above the apron of the bench, and Benjamin Tresco rose, benignant, to receive his visitors.
He opened the door, and there entered the red-headed sailor, who was closely followed by Rock Cod and Macaroni.
Tresco drew himself up with dignity.
“This is quite unexpected,” he said. “The honour is great. Who do I see here but Fish-ho and his amiable mate? It is sad, gentlemen, but I’m off flounders since the Chinaman, who died aboard the barque, was buried in the bay. It is a great misfortune for Fish-ho to have dead Chinamen buried on his fishing-grounds, but such is the undoubted fact.”