Slowly, step by step, he stumped down to the water, where willing hands took his burden and stowed it in the bottom of the boat.
“Four,” said the carrier. “One more lot, and that lets me out.”
As he reached the top of the wharf, on his return journey, the bright lamps of his express dazzled his eyes, and somebody cannoned against him at the back of the trap.
“Now, then! Who’re yer shovin’ up agin?”
“All right, my man. I’m not stealing any of the bags.”
The express-man recognised the voice.
“Is that you, Mr. Crookenden? Beg pardon, sir.”
“Come, come, get the mail aboard. My men don’t want to be out in the boat all night.”
The man carried down his last load of bags, and returned, panting.
“There’s only the paper to be signed,” he said, “and then they can clear.”