As soon as the dingy was loaded, the two on deck scrambled aboard and one sculled her into shore.
The moment she grounded, the captain leaped ashore. "Here is part of our goods," he said smoothly. "We can bring it all in in three more trips."
"Good," Hunter growled. "Come, unload it. What are you waiting for?"
"Only for our money, kind sir," said the schooner's captain, in smooth, suave tones which stirred in the chums old, cruel memories. "I think it would be best for each boat-load to be paid for as it is brought in."
"Don't be a fool, man," said Hunter, roughly. "We can settle up when the job is done. We have got no time to waste, now."
"Pay before unloading," insisted the captain of the schooner, politely. "Gentlemen in our business cannot be too careful. Of course I know you are the soul of honesty, but you are forgetful, my good friend. You have never remembered to pay me for that last lot I brought you."
"How many cases?" Hunter demanded, with an oath, as he pulled out a greasy roll of bills.
"Twenty cases, one hundred dollars," said the stranger.
Hunter counted out the bills, and the schooner captain recounted them carefully and thrust them into his pocket.