“You'll have to do it again, Mr. Cregeen, for I'm not gone yet,” said Pete.
“No, but worth ten dead men still,” said Black Tom. “And my goodness, boy, the smart and stout you're looking, anyway. Been thatching a bit on the chin, eh? Foreign parts has made a man of you, Peter. The straight you're like the family, too! You'll be coming up to the trough with me—the ould home, you know. I'll be whipping the chiss ashore in a jiffy, only Cæsar's that eager to help, it's wonderful. No, you'll not then?”
Pete was shaking his head as he went up the gangway, and seeing this, Cæsar said severely—
“Lave the gentleman alone, Mr. Quilliam. He knows his own business best.”
“So do you, Mr. Collecting Box,” said Black Tom. “But your head's as empty as a mollag, and as full of wind as well. It's a regular ould human mollag you are, anyway, floating other people's nets and taking all that's coming to them.”
They were ashore by this time; one of the quay porters was putting the trunk into the gig, and Cæsar was removing the horse-cloth and the nose-bag.
“Get up, Mr. Peter, and don't listen to him,” said Cæsar. “If my industry and integrity have been blessed with increase under Providence——”
“Lave Providence out of it, you grasping ould Ebenezer, Zachariah, Amen,” bawled Black Tom.
“You've been flying in the face of Providence all your life, Tom,” said Cæsar, taking his seat beside Pete.
“You haven't though, you miser,” said Black Tom; “you'd sell your soul for sixpence, and you'd raffle your ugly ould body if you could get anybody to take tickets.”