“Lend a hand here,” said Bill. “We’ll see what they do.”
A pretense of hauling up the mainsail was 233 made aboard the Spot Cash. There was an immediate stir on the deck of the Black Eagle; the hands were called from the forecastle.
“Look at that!” said Archie, in disgust.
Both crews laughed and gave it up.
“It isn’t like your dad,” said Bill o’ Burnt Bay. “I’ll lay you alongside the Black Eagle, Archie,” he added, “an’ you can have a little yarn with Skipper George.”
Skipper George Rumm was glad to see Archie––glad in a too bland way, in which, however, Archie did not detect a very obvious nervousness. Three eighty-five for fish? Yes; the skipper did believe that Tommy Bull was paying three eighty-five. No; he didn’t know the market price in St. John’s. Flour and pork and sugar and tea? No; the skipper didn’t know just what Tommy Bull was selling flour and pork and sugar and tea at. You see, Tommy Bull was clerk of the Black Eagle; and that was the clerk’s business. Tommy Bull was ashore just then; the skipper didn’t just quite know when he’d come aboard. Were these prices Sir Archibald’s orders? Really, Skipper George didn’t know. Tommy Bull knew all 234 about that; and Tommy Bull had clerked in these waters long enough to keep the firm’s business to himself. Tommy Bull was closemouthed; he wouldn’t be likely to blab Sir Archibald’s orders in every harbour of the coast or whisper them in the ear of a rival trading clerk.
This last thrust was too much for Archie’s dignity. He leaped from the deck of the Black Eagle into his own punt in a greater rage than ever.
“There’s t’ be a spell o’ rough weather,” were Skipper George’s last words.
The punt moved away.