Gosler, still rubbing his head and muttering, finally spoke. "Very well, you nasty young man, I'll sell my glass. Give me the coin!" and he stretched out a dirty claw.
"Oh no!" Chris shook his head decisively. "No indeed! You put the glass down between us—carefully, mind you—and back away. I'll throw you the coin when I've seen if the glass is worth the silver!"
Mumbling to himself, Simon Gosler did as he was told. He reached back in his coat pocket to draw out a small spyglass, which he laid down on the ground. He then backed away. Chris picked up and examined the glass, tested it, and then just as the two gamblers came back up the riverbank, tossed the silver piece to the beggar. Gosler caught it in mid-air with the dexterity of years of practice. In an instant Chris had vanished into the thick shade of the wood, and going as fast but as quietly as he could, regained the place where Amos waited for him.
"Gee, Chris!" Amos exclaimed, for he had caught all Chris's expression of speech, "We got us a spyglass!"
"We sure have!" Chris agreed, "And it's a fine one—best I ever saw," he said. "Here, try it out over the river there, where that ship is anchored."
Amos pointed the glass through the shrubs toward a distant ship that swung at anchor close to the shore, and while he tried out their prize, Chris watched the departure of the three gamblers. Gosler had evidently paid up while Chris was returning to their hidden perch, for he was now hustled into the boat by the other two. Soon the three were far down the stream and their boat was moving into the main flow of the river.
"Here," Amos said passing back the glass, "you look. That's a mighty fine ship out there, black as the Mirabelle is white, but she looks fast and strong just the same."
But Chris, taking the glass, was idly following the progress of the three men. Gosler, lost in gloom, sat in the stern hugging his rags about him. The other two bent their backs to the oars and headed straight for the anchored ship.