“What meaneth he?” asked one of the men.
“Why, if ye have lost an old skiff and a few jugs of vinegary wine,” continued Dick, “forget them, for the trash they are; and do ye rather buckle to an adventure worth the name, that shall, in twelve hours, make or mar you for ever. But take me up from where I lie, and let us go somewhere near at hand and talk across a flagon, for I am sore and frozen, and my mouth is half among the snow.”
“He seeks but to cozen us,” said Tom contemptuously.
“Cozen! cozen!” cried the third man. “I would I could see the man that could cozen me! He were a cozener indeed! Nay, I was not born yesterday. I can see a church when it hath a steeple on it; and for my part, gossip Arblaster, methinks there is some sense in this young man. Shall we go hear him, indeed? Say, shall we go hear him?”
“I would look gladly on a pottle of strong ale, good Master Pirret,” returned Arblaster.—“How say ye, Tom? But then the wallet is empty.”
“I will pay,” said the other—“I will pay. I would fain see this matter out; I do believe, upon my conscience, there is gold in it.”
“Nay, if ye get again to drinking, all is lost!” cried Tom.
“Gossip Arblaster, ye suffer your fellow to have too much liberty,” returned Master Pirret. “Would ye be led by a hired man? Fy, fy!”
“Peace, fellow!” said Arblaster, addressing Tom. “Will ye put your oar in? Truly a fine pass, when the crew is to correct the skipper!”
“Well, then, go your way,” said Tom; “I wash my hands of you.”