“I don’t think he does,” whispered Baldwin. “He seems to me to be one o’ these miserable opium-smokers whose brains get too much fuddled to understand or care for anything.”
“Whist now, don’t spake so loud,” said Rooney, advancing his head closer to his companions, and glancing doubtfully at the object of their suspicion; “sure he’s got a sharp countenance, fuddled or not fuddled.”
The pilot had indeed an intelligent cast of countenance, but as he sat in a careless attitude in the bow of the boat smoking listlessly and gazing dreamily, almost stupidly, towards the shore, it did seem as though he had indulged too freely in the noxious drag which poisons so many inhabitants of these unhappy lands.
As he was out of earshot, the four adventurers drew their heads still closer together, and talked eagerly about their prospects.
“Sure our fortins is made already,” said Rooney; “how much d’ee think we’ve fished up, Mr Berrington?”
“I cannot say, but at a rough guess I should think not less than twenty thousand pounds.”
“Ye don’t main it? Och! Molly astore! Ye shall walk in silks an’ satins from this day forward—to say nothin’ of a carridge an’ four, if not six.”
“But where’ll we putt it, sir?” asked Baldwin.
“I’ve been thinking of that,” replied Edgar. “You see I don’t like the notion of running right into port with it, where this pilot has probably numerous friends who would aid him in making a dash for such a prize—supposing he has guessed what we are about. Now, I happen to have a trusty friend here, a young Scotchman, who lives in a quiet out-o’-the-way part. We’ll run up to his place, land the gold quickly, and get him to carry it off to some place of security—”
“Whist, not so loud! I do belave,” said Rooney, “that rascal is cocking his weather ear.”