“Rocka Codda spik alla right—he understanda ze Inglese. I leave-a it to him.”
“You are good men in a boat, I have no doubt. Very good.” The goldsmith pursed his lips, and looked very important. “Mr. Crookenden has entrusted me with a mission. You row the boat—I carry out the mission. All you have to do is to bring your boat round to Mr. Crookenden’s wharf at ten o’clock to-night, and the rest is simple. Your money will be paid you in the morning, in full tale, up to the handle, without fail. You understand? Five pounds a piece for a few hours’ hire of your boat and services.”
“We catch your drift all right,” said Rock Cod.
“But, remember”—the goldsmith looked very serious—“mum’s the word.”
“I have ze mum,” said Macaroni. “I spik only to Rocka Codda, he spik only to me—zat alla right?”
“Quite so, but be punctual. We shall go out at ten o’clock, wet or fine. Till then, adieu.”
“Ze same to you,” said the Italian. “You ze fine fella.”
“Take this, and drink success to my mission.” Tresco handed them a silver coin.
“That part of the business is easy,” remarked Rock Cod. “But as to the job you’ve got in hand, well, the nature o’ that gets over me.”
“All you’re asked to do is to row,” said Tresco. “As to the rest, that lies with me and my resourcefulness. Now git.”