“Let go the chiss, or I'll strek thee into the harbour,” bawled Black Tom under his load.
“The Philistines be upon thee, Samson,” cried Cæsar, and with that there was a struggle.
In the midst of the uproar, while the men were shouting into each other's faces, and the trunk was rocking between them shoulder high, a sunburnt man, with a thick beard and a formidable voice, a stalwart fellow in a pilot jacket and wide-brimmed hat, came hurrying up the cabin-stairs, and a dog came running behind him. A moment later he had parted the two men, and the trunk was lying at his feet.
Black Tom fell back a step, lifted his straw hat, scratched his bald crown, and muttered in a voice of awe. “Holy sailor!”
Cæsar's face was livid, and his eyes went up toward his forehead. “Lord have mercy upon me,” he mumbled; “have mercy on my soul, O Lord.”
“Don't be afraid,” said the stranger. “I'm a living man and not a ghost.”
“The man himself,” said Black Tom.
“Peter Quilliam alive and hearty,” said Cæsar.
“I am,” said Pete. “And now, what's the bobbery between the pair of you? Shuperintending the beaching of my trunk, eh?”
But having recovered from his terror at the idea that Pete was a spirit, Cæsar began to take him to task for being a living man. “How's this?” said he. “Answer me, young man, I've praiched your funeral.”