The Italian came up the beach with the liquor.
“Here’s what’ll put us all in good nick,” said Tresco, as he drew the cork of the bottle, and poured some of the spirit into the pannikin. “Here’s luck,” and he drank his dram at a draught.
He generously replenished the cup, and handed it to Rock Cod.
“Well, cap’n,” said that puzzled barnacle, “there’s things I don’t understand, but here’s fun.” He took his liquor at a gulp, and passed the pannikin to his mate.
It took the Italian no time to catch the drift that matters were taking.
“You expecta make me drunk, eh, signor? You steala ze mail an’ carry him away, eh? Alla right, you try.”
“Now, look here,” said Tresco; “it’s this way. These bags want re-sorting—and I’m going to do it. If in the sorting I come across anything of importance, that’s my business. If, on the other hand, you happen across anything that you require, but which seems thrown away on other folks, that’s your business. If you don’t like the bargain, you can both go and sit in the boat.”
Neither man moved. It was evident that Crookenden had chosen his tools circumspectly.
“Very good,” said Tresco, “you have the run of your fingers over this mail when I have re-sorted it, provided you keep your heads shut when you get back to town. Is it a bargain?”
He held out his hand.