"I was not aware that you were so clever a man," said he, after a moment, calming down. "I perceive that my attempt to ruin you interlopers at the outset is to be attended with some difficulty. You have individual resources upon which I had not counted."
"Ah!" said I. "It was you who turned the claret sour?"
"It was," he replied—"as a part of my revenge. And, mark you, Captain Hammerpestle, no cargo shall ever reach its destination unspoiled while I have a bit of the old spook left in me. Where are we bound now?"
"To Naples," said I, incautiously, and I further foolishly unfolded my plan to dispose of the cargo as Chianti.
"See here, captain," he said, pleadingly, "give up this honest seafaring business and come out as a pirate, won't you? You're too clever a chap to be honest. Keep the Dutch Avenger going as a terror, and, by Jingo, sir, I'll stand by you to the last."
My answer was the lighting of a sulphur candle in the hope of exorcising him, and, going on deck, I ordered the name Gretchen B. restored, merely to emphasize my determination to have no part in his foul schemes of piracy.
I must now pause in my narrative for a moment, and see how far we have settled in the water. It may be I shall have to write somewhat less in detail so as to finish the tale before I am destroyed by the inrush of the sea.
It is as I feared. The rippling surface of the ocean is already lapping the lower edge of my circular port window, and one or two drops have leaked within. It will not be long, I fear, before the water from below will burst the decks and dash against my door, when, of course, we shall sink the more rapidly, but if the walls of my cabin, and they are unquestionably strong, Von Rotterdaam having had them made bullet-proof, of wrought-iron—if these can withstand the pressure of the water for a half-hour after we are submerged, I am quite confident I can finish the story in time to bottle it up and launch it safely through the port.