“Yer know me—y’know me—I’m—I’m Major Guido A—Amati, o —er—Romero’s foot,” hiccoughs the pseudo Spanish roisterer.
“Yes, I—I had the honor of seeing you at my house once, Captain Amati.”
“Major—Major Amati de Medina—don’t you forget th’ De Medina. Sit—sit down and—hic—sign this!” And Guy presses the merchant into his chair from which he has half risen, and slaps in front of him the charter paper.
“What—what is this?” stammers Bodé Volcker.
“It’s an article ’f charter—firm of Jacobszoon & Olins, for Cap’n Andrea Blanco—you know Cap’n [[153]]Andrea—Andrea Blanco?” he winks cunningly, “of—er ship Esperanza.”
“A charter in ballast?” cries Niklaas, commercial instinct rising in him. “What drunken nonsense is this? There’s no money in charter in ballast.”
“Not er charter in ballast, but charter to—convey twelve cases of goods—landed las’ night at yer warehouse—’bout twelve ’clock. See the pint, Bodé Vol—Volcker?” And this being emphasized with drunken leer and wink, Bodé Volcker sees the point with an awful gulp of terror, then gasps: “You—you’re accusing me of smuggling; that—that’s only a fine!”
“Yesh—fine of your head!”
“Smuggling lace—the fine of my head—you’re drunk!” replies the merchant, plucking up courage.
“Smuggling arquebuses—packed in lace—time of war—is torture as well.”