“Plenty for all,” the Ancient Mariner startled Daughtry by cackling shrilly. “Oodles and oodles of it, my gentlemen, in cask and chest, in cask and chest, a fathom under the sand.”
“Share—what, sir?” Daughtry queried, though well he knew, the other steward having cursed to him the day he sailed from San Francisco on a blind lay instead of straight wages. “Not that it matters, sir,” he hastened to add. “I spent a whalin’ voyage once, three years of it, an’ paid off with a dollar. Wages for mine, an’ sixty gold a month, seein’ there’s only four of you.”
“And a mate,” the captain added.
“And a mate,” Daughtry repeated. “Very good, sir. An’ no share.”
“But yourself?” spoke up the fourth man, a huge-bulking, colossal-bodied, greasy-seeming grossness of flesh—the Armenian Jew and San Francisco pawnbroker the previous steward had warned Daughtry about. “Have you papers—letters of recommendation, the documents you receive when you are paid off before the shipping commissioners?”
“I might ask, sir,” Dag Daughtry brazened it, “for your own papers. This ain’t no regular cargo-carrier or passenger-carrier, no more than you gentlemen are a regular company of ship-owners, with regular offices, doin’ business in a regular way. How do I know if you own the ship even, or that the charter ain’t busted long ago, or that you’re being libelled ashore right now, or that you won’t dump me on any old beach anywheres without a soo-markee of what’s comin’ to me? Howsoever”—he anticipated by a bluff of his own the show of wrath from the Jew that he knew would be wind and bluff—“howsoever, here’s my papers . . . ”
With a swift dip of his hand into his inside coat-pocket he scattered out in a wealth of profusion on the cabin table all the papers, sealed and stamped, that he had collected in forty-five years of voyaging, the latest date of which was five years back.
“I don’t ask your papers,” he went on. “What I ask is, cash payment in full the first of each month, sixty dollars a month gold—”
“Oodles and oodles of it, gold and gold and better than gold, in cask and chest, in cask and chest, a fathom under the sand,” the Ancient Mariner assured him in beneficent cackles. “Kings, principalities and powers!—all of us, the least of us. And plenty more, my gentlemen, plenty more. The latitude and longitude are mine, and the bearings from the oak ribs on the shoal to Lion’s Head, and the cross-bearings from the points unnamable, I only know. I only still live of all that brave, mad, scallywag ship’s company . . . ”
“Will you sign the articles to that?” the Jew demanded, cutting in on the ancient’s maunderings.