'Oh, sir,' he stammered, and held up his papers, shaking them feebly. And Brose shook him, anything but feebly, so that Geordie's teeth chattered.
'If you please, sir,' he cried out at last, 'if you please, sir, don't. I owns her.'
'You owns wot?' demanded Brose. And the rest of the men edged as near as they dared.
'He's drunk still,' said Braby, as Brose shook his mate once more.
'I owns the bally Patriarch,' screamed Geordie, 'and all the rest of 'em, and all my uncle's richness; and I won't be shook, I won't!'
And Brose let him go.
'You're mad,' said Brose, 'you're mad.'
'I ain't,' roared Geordie, who was fast recovering from the shock. 'I ain't. Take these, read 'em, read 'em out. Let the skipper read 'em. I owns the Patriarch, and the Palermo, and the Proosian, and the whole line. The lawyers says so!'
He put the lot of damp letters into Mr. Brose's hands, and sat down on the spare top-mast lashed under the rail.
'There's letters for the captain 'ere,' said Brose suspiciously. ''Ow did you get 'em?'