Tresco put a letter into the breast-pocket of his coat. It’s envelope bore on its back the printed legend, “Joseph Varnhagen, General Merchant, Timber Town.”
So the ransacking of the outgoing mail went forward. Now another bag was opened, but, as it contained nothing else but newspapers and small packages, the goldsmith desired to leave it intact. But not so his accomplices. They therein saw the chief source of their payment. Insisting on their right under the bargain, the sand in front of them was soon strewn with litter.
Tresco, in the meantime, had directed his attention to another bag, which contained nothing but correspondence, and evidently he had found what he was most earnestly in search of, for he frequently expressed his delight as he happened across some document which he thrust into his bosom.
In this way the mail was soon rummaged, and without waiting for the other two men to finish their search, the goldsmith began to reseal the bags. First, he took from his pocket the counterfeit matrix which had cost him so much labour to fashion. Next, he took some string, similar to that which he had previously cut, and with it he retied the necks of the bags he had opened. With the help of a lighted match, he covered the knotted strings, first of one bag and then of another, with melted sealing-wax, which he impressed with the counterfeit seal.
His companions watched the process with such interest that, forgetting for a time their search amongst the chattels of other people, they gave their whole attention to the process of resealing the bags.
“Very ’andy with his fingers, ain’t ’e, Macaroni?—even if ’e is a bit un’andy in a boat.” Confederacy in crime had bred a familiarity which brought the goldsmith down to the level of his co-operators.
All the bags were now sealed up, excepting the one which the fishermen had last ravaged, and the contents of which lay scattered on the sand.
“This one will be considerably smaller than it useter was,” remarked Tresco, as he replaced the unopened packets in the bag.
“Hi! stoppa!” cried Macaroni, “Rocka Codda an’ me wanta finish him.”
“And leave me to hand in an empty bag? Most sapient Macaroni, under your own guidance you would not keep out of gaol a fortnight: Nature did not equip you for a career in crime.”