“Well,” I said, “we’re having a good try to find where it is hidden.” And then we took him inside and showed him how we were pulling the old place to pieces.
“Jehoshaphat!” he ejaculated, with a whistle. “You’re making a pretty fine mess, and no gammon! The landlord’s hair will stand on end when he sees it.”
“I expect so,” I laughed. “But now we’ve started we must go through with it—and you must help us.”
“Help yer? Why, of course. Shiver me, we’ll pull the whole crazy house down, if you like.”
The porter had delivered the skipper’s sack, so we carried it up to the room we had prepared for him adjoining ours.
“Wait, you chaps, till I’ve unlashed my kit,” he said, addressing us, and bending over the white canvas sack he quickly uncorded it and began to unpack.
It was filled with a collection of articles that surprised us. Not only had he brought his bed, but also his big yellow oilskin, “in case the weather was dirty,” he informed us. Three fine melons, from Algiers, rolled across the floor; a box of cigars was handed to each of us, as a present, and then, from careful wrappings, he produced two wicker-covered bottles of Black Head rum.
“Now, mates!” he cried, “get three glasses, and we’ll drink success to this outcome o’ Noah’s Ark.”
Rum was not our habitual beverage before one o’clock in the day, but in order to show our appreciation of his goodwill we each tossed down a little of the neat spirit after he had chinked his glass with ours, saying: —
“ ’Ere’s luck to all three of us, and a thousand of Old Nick’s best brand o’ curses on them swabs.”