“I’m not sayin’ you is.”
“No; nor never will be.”
It had all been talked over before, of course; and it would be talked over again before a fortnight was past and the Black Eagle had set sail for the French Shore with a valuable cargo. Tom Tulk had begun gingerly; he had proceeded with exquisite caution; he had ventured a bit more; at last he had come boldly out with the plan. Manned with care––manned as she could be and as Tom Tulk would take care to have her––the Black Eagle was the ship for the purpose; and Skipper George, with a reputation for bad seamanship, was the man for the purpose. And the thing would be easy. Tom Tulk knew it. Skipper George knew it. It could be successfully done. There was no doubt about it; and Skipper George hated to 216 think that there was no doubt about it. The ease and safety with which he might have the money tumble into his pocket troubled him. It was not so much a temptation as an aggravation. He found himself thinking about it too often; he wanted to put it out of his mind, but could not.
“Now, Tom Tulk,” said he, at last, flushing angrily, “let’s have no more o’ this. I’m fair tired of it. I’ll have nothin’ t’ do with it; an’ I tells you so, once an’ for all.”
“Pass the bottle,” said Tom Tulk.
The bottle went from hand to hand.
“We’ll say no more about it,” said Tom Tulk; “but I tells you, Skipper George, that that little clerk o’ yours, Tommy Bull, is just the ticket. As for a crew, I got un handy.”
“Belay, belay!”
“Ay, ay, Skipper George,” Tom Tulk agreed; “but as for fetchin’ a cargo o’ fish into St. John’s harbour without tellin’ where it came from, if there’s any man can beat me at that, why, I’d–––”
Skipper George got up and pulled open the hatch.