They were nearly at the end of the trip. Indeed, another two hours or so would see them safely at anchor in the safest of all smugglers’ havens—the mouth of the River Blackwater, and their cargo easily and openly landed on Mersea Marsh Island.
The shivering little man smiled to himself at the thought of it. The warm kitchen at the Victory Inn, the smoking rum-cup, and the pleasant sallies of the fair Eliza appealed to his present mood, and he sniffled again and rearranged his blanket.
The green, white-splashed water lapped against the boat and a big saddle-backed gull flew over, screaming plaintively.
Mat began to talk again.
“I wonder why we do it,” he said slowly. “There ain’t anything in him—a weak, ugly little Spaniard, no——”
Blueneck interrupted sharply.
“Hush,” he said. “No good ever comes of talking about Black’erchief Dick, whatever is said.”
“Who said I was talking of the Cap’n?” said Mat quickly.
Blueneck looked uncomfortable, but he replied steadily: “Ah! Mat Turnby, you be careful!”
Mat laughed.