The giant stretched out a great fist with the purse in it.
“Maybe you’ll be selling the little frigate, capt’n; we can knock along—”
The man in the red coat looked him straight in the eyes.
“Damnation, Jasper, I owe you all your pay—yet. Pocket it for beer money.”
“Drink your last guinea, capt’n, not me!”
“Why, man, I can get a bagful for the asking—in an hour. And, look you all, stand by down at ‘The Eight Bells’ to-morrow. I’ll pay every man of you before noon.”
The watermen above had been listening to this dialogue with ribald cynicism.
“Holy Moses,” said one, “here’s a boat-load of saints!”
“Throw it up here, mate, we ain’t shy of the dross.”
The captain had climbed the steps, with the boy beside him. But old Jasper, standing up in the boat with his oar held like a pike, turned his sea-eagle’s face toward the gentry on the causeway.