"You owns wot?" demanded Brose; and the rest of the men edged as near as they dared.
"BROSE SHOOK HIS MATE ONCE MORE."
"He's drunk still," said Braby, as Brose shook his mate once more.
"I owns the bally Patriarch," screamed Geordie, "and all the rest of 'em, and all my uncle's richness, and I won't be shook, I won't!"
And Brose let him go.
"You're mad," said Brose, "you're mad."
"I ain't," roared Geordie, who was fast recovering from the shock, "I ain't. Take these; read 'em—read 'em out; let the skipper read 'em. I owns the Patriarch and the Palermo and the Proosian and the whole line. The lawyer says so!"
He put the lot of damp letters into Mr. Brose's hands and sat down on the spare top-mast lashed under the rail.
"There's letters for the captain 'ere," said Brose, suspiciously; "'ow did you get 'em?"