"The kites," Charles would say. "The robbers! I wish I had mounted a few guns in her, and given her a few cases of muskets. These great, rich ships are as helpless as bustards."
His mind was seldom off the vessel. Item by item, the cargo would pile up before him: casks, bales, chests, rich silks, rare dyes, spices, fabrics of amazing texture, drugs, soft leather, gold vessels. There were days when he'd talk of nothing else; he would be drunk with the prospect of it. But Anthony frowned and doggedly worked with the affairs of the house; for they, at least, were things one could put one's hand on; a ship away at the other side of the world, as any man who knew the ways of ships would tell, was a chance, only. There were delays to be considered, and falling markets; there were gales and sinister currents and coasts dreaded of mariners; there were the springing of timbers, mutiny, and the Moorish corsairs; a drunken third mate had ruined the hopes of many a merchant; a helmsman whose mind was not on his work had smashed the ribs of hundreds of sound ships on easy headlands.
But the work of the counting-room was never-ending; the young man would no sooner, and sometimes with deadening labor, surmount a difficulty or avoid a peril than another of a greater growth would show itself at the door. He met them steadily and fought them as was his nature; but they came swiftly, one upon another, like the waves of the sea; they came so unexpectedly and with such crushing viciousness that he was gradually being borne down by them; the horizons of the house were clouded by mists and spray, and breakers seemed roaring all around it.
"It's no use," said Weir; "you cannot fight these things back; they lie too deep; they must take their course."
"And then?" asked Anthony, pale, harassed, but still stubborn.
Weir shrugged his shoulders.
"I have seen unexpected strokes," said he. "Fortune is peculiar." There was a cold smile in his eyes. "It may be your uncle's thoughts will come true."
Of a night, after the work of the day, Anthony would sometimes spend an hour with Christopher Dent; and he'd sit and smoke while the little apothecary watched him with troubled eyes.
"You are breaking down," said Christopher. "Your mind is killing your body. The vital elements have gone out of your blood. What does it serve to work as you are doing? When the house of Stevens falls, as seems likely now, I'm told, will there be any purpose in finding your body in the ruins?"
"I shall, at least, have striven to prevent the fall," said Anthony.