And Geordie gasped.
"S'help me," he murmured. "S'help me, did I dream?"
He dropped his marline-spike as if it were red hot and made a break for the fo'c's'le and his wet coat.
"Now if so be I dreamed," he said, "there'll be naught in this pocket. And if I didn't, I'm jiggered."
He put his hand in and brought out a handful of damp and crushed letters, and came out upon deck staggering. Mr. Brose saw him, and was on his tracks like a fish-hawk on a herring-gull. Geordie saw him coming and stood open-mouthed.
"Oh, sir," said Geordie. "Oh, sir——"
"Oh, rot," said Brose; "what's your little shenanakin game? Get to work, or I'll have you soused till you're half dead."
But Geordie could explain nothing.
"Oh, sir," he stammered, and held up his papers, shaking them feebly. And Brose shook him, anything but feebly, so that Geordie's teeth chattered.
"If you please, sir," he cried out at last, "if you please, sir, don't. I owns her."