“And so this here’s the smugglers’ cave, is it?” said Tom Bodger, looking about. “But where’s t’other way out, sir?”
Aleck explained that the smuggler had closed the way up.
“Well, sir, it’s a wery artful sort o’ place, I will say that. Lot o’ good things stored up here, I s’pose?”
“Plenty.”
“Hah! Is there now? Well, it means some prize money, Mr Wrighton, sir, and enough to get a big share.”
“And I deserve it, my man,” said the middy, with something of his old consequential way; “but let’s get out into the daylight. I’m afraid—I’m—that is, I shouldn’t like to be shut in again.”
“No fear, sir. You trust me. Lot more time yet. ’Sides, the tide’ll fall lower to-morrow morning; but I’ll get you out as soon as I can, for your poor uncle’s quite took to his bed, Master Aleck.”
“Uncle has?”
“Yes, sir. Chuffy sharp-spoken gent as he always was, blest if he didn’t say quite soft to me, with the big tears a-standing in his eyes: ‘It’s all over, Bodger, my man,’ he says, ‘and you may have the poor boy’s boat, for I know if he could speak now he would say, “Give it to poor old Tom.”’”
“Poor old uncle!” said Aleck, huskily. “Then you’re cheated again, Tom, and have lost your boat?”