“And did not make the proprietors’ fortune,” said Geoffrey, with a smile.
“Nobody tried to make mine,” growled the old fellow, “and they treated me like a dog. I had to think of self. Look here, Mas’r Trethick, I hated you when you come here, for I thought you meant my Bess.”
“I know you did,” said Geoffrey.
“But I don’t think so now, and I tell you this. You get me shares, and it’ll be worth thousands to you. Get shares yourself too; and mind this, you’ve got to take care of your enemy.”
“And who’s that?”
The old man chuckled, and pointed with his pipe-stem out of the mouth of the cave, looking curiously weird and picturesque in the glow of the fire, with the black, uncouth shadows of the pieces of wreck-wood and boat-gear behind.
“I don’t understand you,” said Geoffrey.
“The sea, boy—the water’s your enemy, so look out.”
“I will,” said Geoffrey; and then they smoked and chatted on, the old man going up three or four times to see if the doctor was ready to go; and at last, soon after three, he came back, looking more grim than ever, and not to trim the fire this time.
“Doctor will come in five minutes,” he said, gruffly. “Will you have any more brandy?”