“You saw Mr. Crookenden put the bags aboard. He’s the contractor—I’m only acting under his instructions. Do you wish to remain fishermen all your lives, or would you rather die rich?”
“We know the value of dollars, you may bet that,” answered Rock Cod.
“Then lend a hand and get these bags ashore. And you, Macaroni, collect driftwood for a fire.”
When the mail-bags were all landed, Benjamin took a lantern from the boat, lit it, and walked up the beach to where the fishermen stood, nonplussed and wondering.
“Your feet must be wet, Macaroni.”
“Si, signor.”
“Wet feet are bad, not to say dangerous. Go down to the boat, and you’ll find a bottle of rum and a pannikin. Bring them here, and we’ll have a dram all round.”
Tresco placed the lantern on the sand, and waited.
“You see, Rock Cod, there are some things in this world that cut both ways. To do a great good we must do a little wrong—that’s not quite my own phrase, though it expresses my sentiments—but in anything you do, never do it by halves.”
“I ain’t ’ad no schoolin’ meself,” answered the fisherman. “I don’t take much account of books; but when there’s a drop o’ rum handy, I’m with you.”