“True for ye,” cried a man outside the window, as he flattened his nose against the glass, “an is it polite to kape yer own first mate rappin’ the skin off his knuckles at the door?”
The captain at once let in his follower, and showed him the letter. His surprise may be better imagined than described.
“But d’ee think it’s true, cap’n?”
“I haven’t a doubt of it, but we can settle that to-morrow by a visit to the writer of the letter.”
“That’s true,” said O’Rook; “which o’ the boxes, now, that belonged to us d’ee think it is?”
“It can only be one,” replied the captain, “that box of mine in which you asked me to stuff the remnant of the gold-dust that you hadn’t room for in your own boxes. It was the strongest box o’ the lot, which accounts for its not breakin’ up like the others.”
“It must be that. I rowled it up in an owld leather coat bought from an Injin the day before we left the diggin’s. It’s but a small remainder o’ me fortune—a thousand pounds, more or less,—but sure, it’s found money an comes handy this good day, which reminds me I’ve got some noose for ’ee. What d’ee think, cap’n?” continued O’Rook, with a very conscious look.
“How can I think if ye don’t give me somethin’ to think about?”
“The widdy’s tuk me after all!” said O’Rook.
“What! widow Bancroft?”