“Three, I think; but we was in sich a hurry that I ain’t sartin exactly.”
“Well, then, boys, look here!” continued the captain, drawing a pretty large circle on the sand, “set to work like a band of moles an’ dig up every inch o’ that till you come to the water.”
“That’s your sort,” cried Rokens, plunging elbow-deep into the sand at once.
“Arrah! then, here’s at ye; a fair field an’ no favour at any price,” shouted Briant, baring his arms, straddling his legs, and sending a shower of sand behind him that almost overwhelmed Gurney, before that stout little individual could get out of the way.
The spirits of the men were farther rejoiced by the coming up of the other party, bearing the good news that the keel of the boat was safe, as well as all her planking and the carpenter’s tools, which fortunately happened to have been secured in a sheltered spot. From the depths of despair they were all suddenly raised to renewed and sanguine hope, so that they wrought with the energy of gold-diggers, and soon their toil was rewarded by the discovery of that which, in their circumstances, they would not have exchanged for all the golden nuggets that ever were or will be dug up from the prolific mines of Australia, California, or British Columbia, namely, three casks of biscuit, a small keg of wine, a cask of fresh water, a roll of tobacco, and a barrel of salt junk.
Chapter Twenty.
Preparations for a Long Voyage—Briant Proves that Ghosts can Drink—Jacko Astonishes his Friends, and Saddens his Adopted Mother.
“Wot I say is one thing; wot you say is another—so it is. I dun know w’ich is right, or w’ich is wrong—no more do you. P’raps you is, p’raps I is; anywise we can’t both on us be right or both on us be wrong—that’s a comfort, if it’s nothin’ else. Wot you say is—that it’s morally imposs’ble for a crew sich as us to travel over two thousand miles of ocean on three casks o’ biscuit and a barrel o’ salt junk. Wot I say is—that we can, an’, moreover, that morals has nothin’ to do with it wotsomediver. Now, wot then?”