“Give me the form.”
The man handed a piece of paper to the mail-contractor.
“How many bags?”
“Eight.”
By the light of the lamps Crookenden signed the paper, and handed it back to the carrier, who mounted to his seat, and drove away.
The merchant went to the edge of the wharf.
“All right, down there?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied a gruff voice.
“Then cast off.”
There was the noise of oars, and a dark object upon the waters vanished into the night.