Rock Cod was the first to take it. He said:—
“It’s a bargain, boss.”
Macaroni followed suit. “Alla right,” he said. “I reef in alonga you an’ Rocka Codda. I no spik.”
So the compact was made.
Seizing the nearest bag, Tresco cut its fastenings, and emptied its contents on the sand.
“Now, as I pass them over to you,” said he, seating himself beside the heap of letters, “you can open such as you think were meant for you, but got misdirected by mistake to persons of no account. But burn ’em afterwards.”
He put a match to the driftwood collected by the Italian. “Those that don’t interest you, gentlemen, be good enough to put back into the bag.”
His hands were quick, his eyes were quicker. He knew well what to look for. As he glanced at the letters, he threw them over to his accomplices, till in a short time there was in front of them a bigger pile of correspondence than had been delivered to them previously in the course of their conjoint lives.
The goldsmith seldom opened a letter, and then only when he was in doubt as to whether or not it was posted by the Jewish merchant. The fishermen opened at random the missives in front of them, in the hope of finding they knew not what, but always in disappointment and disgust.
At length, however, the Italian gave a cry of joy. “I have heem. Whata zat, Rocka Codda?” He held a bank-note before his mate’s eyes. “Zat five pound, my boy. Soon I get some more, eh? Alla right.”