“Don’t much matter,” puts in Davis. “I dar’ say we can settle the thing without either. You begin, Jack; tell Mr Padilla, and the rest, what we’ve been talking about.”
“’Twon’t take a very long time to tell it,” responds Striker. “Theer be no great need for wastin’ words. All I’ve got to say are, that the swag shud be eekilly divided.”
Padilla starts, Velarde doing the same.
“What do you mean?” asks the former, putting on an air of innocence.
“I means what I’ve saved—that the swag shud be eekilly divided.”
“And yet I don’t understand you.”
“Yis, ye do. Come, Master Padilla, ’tain’t no use shammin’ ignorance—not wi’ Jack Striker, at all events. He be too old a bird to get cheated wi’ chaff. If ye want to throw dust into my eyes, it must be o’ the sort that’s stowed aft in the cuddy. Now, d’ye understan’ me?” Padilla looks grave, so does Velarde. Old Tarry and Slush show no sign of feeling; both being already prepared for the demand Striker intended to make, and having given their promise to back it.
“Well,” says the second mate, “you appear to be talking of some gold-dust. And, I suppose, you know all about it!”
“That we do,” responds Striker.
“Well, what then?” asks Padilla.