Jim whistled. “By Jove! It would be a nice haul for some one. Bit out of your line, isn’t it, James—carrying specie?”
“Yes, it is,” agreed the other. “It generally goes on the bigger boats, but there was some hitch this time. And it’s just as safe with me as it is with them. That has made it safe.” He pointed to the wireless operator busily sending out the parson’s message. “That has made piracy a thing of the past. And incidentally, as you can imagine, Jim, it’s a big feather in my cap, getting away with this consignment. It’s going to make the trip worth six ordinary ones to the firm, and—er—to me. And, with any luck, if things go all right, as I’m sure they will, I have hopes that in the future it will no longer be out of our line. We might get a share of that traffic, and I’ll be able to buy that chicken farm in Dorsetshire earlier than I thought.”
Jim laughed. “You old humbug, James! You’ll never give up the sea.”
The skipper sighed and stretched himself.
“Maybe not, lad; maybe not. Not till she gives me up, anyway. But chickens are nice companionable beasts they tell me, and Dorset is England.”
We continued talking for a few minutes longer, when a sudden and frenzied explosion of mirth came from the wireless operator. I had noticed him taking down a message, which he was now reading over to himself, and after a moment or two of unrestrained joy he came out on deck.
“What is it, Jenkins?” said the skipper.
“Message for the parson, sir,” answered the operator.