"They are all down 'elping to fish up that box of gol'pieces," he explained. "You didn' know that, eh?"
"Where?"
"Below the beach. Your frien' showed the place; and, sure enough, there we dived and foun' it. But him—Oh, là là!" He chuckled. "Him and her, what do they care? They 'ave gone off together by their lones to see the sunrise—those dears!"
"Who was she?" I cried, starting up dizzily.
"What? You not know that divine ballerina, that dancer so sublime, that singer so sweet?" He kissed his finger tips. "Anna Darfetho, of Lisbon, and Paris, and Madrid! Only now—good-by! It is finish'! She are going with him to Australia. Imagine! And what for, do you think? To spend their share—'Oly Virgin!—in raising little woolly sheeps together!"
"Share?"
"Oh, we all share—that is agree'. Only me—you understand, I am—'ow you say?—the tiger for eat the mos'. Yes, I get the mos', because truly it should belong all mine.... Be'old—for this our fazers used to cut the throat!"
He took up from the table one of several blackish, common-looking lumps, like slag, and weighed it; and smiled his smile of the gentlemanly brigand who gloats upon the fortune won. And as I stared at that superior knave the whole stupendous marvel closed up with a final click.
Pilot? Pilot? I remembered the quaint phrase of the chronicle: "Great fighting pilot of Spain"—pilot? Pirate, rather. Pirate, of course!...
"Then you must be Pedro Morales?" I gasped.