“Who’s your friend?”
“A man named Max Lampton.”
“D’ye know that he’s now at Sydney?”
“He was there two years ago. If he’s dead his son’ll be living. But he ain’t dead. Max is one who takes care of himself. No drink—no baccy—regular as a clock—a steady man.”
“What do you expect of him?”
“He’ll show us what to do with the money; ’vart it into paper and gold for us.”
“Fifteen tons!”
“It’ll take time. We sailors aren’t going to make a job of it without help, anyhow.”
“Is it a clever idea to bury this silver in Amsterdam Island, first of all?”
“Ay, blooming clever! Where’s there such another island to answer our turn? We can’t cast the brig away with the money aboard, that’s sartin.”