“Beauties, aren’t they, sir?”
“Lovely,” cried Carey, who, recovering as he was from a painful illness, was full of appreciation of everything he saw. “Yes, they are lovely; and only to think of it, if we had not found them they would have lain there and perhaps never have been seen.”
“Like enough, my lad. There must be millions and millions about here.”
“Yes,” said the boy, with a sigh. “Here, put them in your pocket, Bob,” and he held them to his companion as if wanting to get them out of sight.
“What for? Aren’t you got one?”
“Yes, but you found them; they’re yours.”
“Nay, we found ’em; and besides, I’m only a common sailor, and like your servant. You keep ’em.”
“It wouldn’t be fair, Bob,” said Carey. “You have the best right to them.”
“Tchah! They’re no good to me. I should on’y sell ’em to somebody if ever we got away, for the price of a pound o’ ’bacco as would go away all in smoke. Once upon a time I should ha’ took ’em home to my old mother. Now I aren’t got one, and you have. So you have ’em made into a ring some day, with the big un in the middle and the little uns one on each side.”
“Shall I, Bob?”