“I will, Bill.”
“Sketch me your idea that I may see my way.”
“I’ll go ashore now,” said he, “and make all necessary arrangements. Keep aboard yourself and don’t let any of your people leave the brig. Tell them we’ll pay ’em off at my house to-morrow. Destroy all your papers—see to that, Bill. The moon’s old and nigh wore out—it’ll be a dark night, raining and squally, I hope. You’ll have a lugger alongside of you when it comes dark. She’ll hail you. Her name’ll be the Seamen’s Friend, the name of the man that hails you, Jarvie Files. Trust him up to the hilt, Bill, and leave him to discharge ye. He knows the ropes. Afore midnight them chests, to the bottom dollar, ’ll be in my cellars.”
“When do I come ashore?”
“To-morrow. Quite coolly, Bill. Come along with your men and bring ’em to my house, where the money in English gold for paying ’em off ’ll be ready.”
“And what’s to become of this brig?”
“How many anchors do ye hold by?”
“One, uncle.”
“Moor her, Bill. You’ve got a snug berth. She’ll want a caretaker till that there Mynheer Tulp arrives and settles up. She’s his property. And the sooner Tulp arrives the better for all parties.”
He was about to make his way out of the lazarette.