“You need have no fear on that score, mister,” said the red-headed sailor. “They’ve not come to sell fish. Speak up, Macaroni.”
“We come to tella you we come from Mr. Crookendena. We come to you accepta ze service of Rocka Codda and Macaroni.”
For one brief moment Tresco looked perplexed. Then his face assumed its usual complacence. “Are you in the know, too?” he asked of the seaman.
“All I know is that I was told to pilot these two men to your shop. That done, I say good-day.”
“And the same to you,” said Tresco. “Happy to have met you, sir, and I’m sorry there’s nothing to offer you in the jug but water.”
“There’s no bones broke anyway,” replied the sailor as he edged towards the door. “But if you’ll say when the real old stingo is on tap, I’ll show you how to use the water.”
“Certainly,” said Tresco. “Nothing will please me better. Good afternoon. Sorry you must go so soon. Take great care of yourself. Good men are scarce.”
As the door closed behind the sailor the goldsmith turned to the fishermen.
“So you were sent to me by Mr. Crookenden?”
“That’s so.” It was Rock Cod who answered. “He give us the price of a drink, an’ says he, ‘There’ll be five pound each for you if you do as Mr. Tresco tells you.’ We’re a-waitin’ orders; ain’t that so, Macaroni?”