Part 22 (2/2)
”You laugha at me, Rocka Codda? I teacha you laugh.” Taking the big fish by the tail, he belaboured his partner in business with the scaly carcase, till the long spines of the fish's back caught in the fleshy part of his victim's neck. But Rock Cod's screams only drew callous comment from his persecutor. ”You laugha at your mate? I teacha you.
Rocka Codda, I teacha you respecta Macaroni. Laugha now!”
With a sudden jerk Rock Cod obtained his freedom, though not without additional agony. He faced his partner, with revenge in his wild eyes and curses on his tongue. But just at this moment, a stoutly-built, red-faced sailor pushed his way through the Pilot's crew, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing the barracouta from the Italian, he thrust himself between the combatants.
”Of all the mad-headed Dagoes that G.o.d A'mighty sent to curse this earth you, Macaroni, are the maddest. Why, man, folks can hear your yelling half the length of the quay.”
”Looka!” cried the Italian. ”Who are you? Why you come 'ere? Rocka Codda and Macaroni fighta, but ze ginger-headed son of a cooka mus' interfere.
Jesu Christo! I teacha you too. I got ze barracouta lef'.”
He turned to seize another fish from the bottom of the boat, but the sight of two men fighting on the slip with barracoutas for weapons might detract too much from the dignity of the Pilot's crew. The Italian was seized, and forcibly prevented from causing further strife.
”D'you think I came here to save Rock Cod from spoiling your ugly face?”
asked the red-haired man. ”No, siree. My boss, Mr. Crookenden, sent me.
He wants to see you up at his office; and I reckon there's money in it, though you deserve six months' instead, the pair of you.”
”Heh? Your boss wanta me? I got plenty fisha, flounder, barracuda, redda perch. Now then?”
”He don't want your fish: he wants you and Rock Cod,” said the red-headed man.
”Georgio”--the Italian was, in a moment, nothing but politeness to the man he had termed ”ginger”--”we go. Ze fisha?--I leava my boat, all my fisha, here wit' my frien's. Georgio, conducta--we follow.”
Accompanied by the two fishermen, the red-headed peacemaker walked up the quay.
”What's the trouble with your boss?” asked Rock Cod. ”What's 'e want?”
”How can I tell? D'you think Mr. Crookenden consults _me_ about his business? I'm just sent to fetch you along, and along you come.”
”I know, I understanda,” said the Italian. ”He have ze new wine from Italia, my countree--he senda for Macaroni to tasta, and tell ze qualitee. You too b.l.o.o.d.y about ze neck, Rocka Codda, to come alonga me. You mus' washa, or you go to sell ze fish.”
”Go an' hawk the fish yourself,” retorted Rock Cod. ”You're full o'
water as a sponge, an' there'll be a pool where you stand on the gen'leman's carpet.”
Wrangling thus, they made their way towards the merchant's office.
While this scene was being performed at the port of Timber Town, Benjamin Tresco was in his workshop, making the duplicate of the chief postmaster's seal. With file and graver he worked, that the counterfeit might be perfect. Half-a-dozen impressions of the matrix lay before him, showing the progress his nefarious work was making towards completion.
”One struggle more and I am free,” muttered the goldsmith. ”The English seals, I happen to know, usually arrive in a melted or broken condition.
To restore them too perfectly would be to court detection--a dab of sealing-wax, impressed with a key and sat upon afterwards, will answer the purpose. But this robbing business--well, it suits my temperament, if it doesn't suit my conscience. Oh, I like doing it--my instincts point that way. But the Sunday-school training I had when a boy spoils the flavour of it. Why can't folk let a lad alone to enjoy his sins?
Such a boy as I was commits 'em anyway. An' if he _must_ commit 'em and be d.a.m.ned for 'em, why spoil _both_ his lives--at least they might leave him alone here. But they ain't practical, these parsonic folk.” He rose, and took a white, broken-lipped jug from a shelf, and drank a deep draught. ”Water,” he murmured. ”See? Water, air, suns.h.i.+ne, all here for me, in common with the parson. P'r'aps I shall lack water in limbo, but so, too, may the parson--anyway he and I are on the same footing here; therefore, why should he torment me by stirring up my conscience? He has a bad time here and--we'll grant this for the sake of argument--a good time afterwards. Now, I've _got_ to have a bad time with old Safety Matches down below. Why, then, should the parson want to spoil my time here? It looks mean anyway. If I were a parson, I'd make sure I had a good time in _this_ world, and chance the rest. Sometimes I'm almost persuaded to be converted, and take the boss position in a bethel, all amongst the tea and wimmen-folk. Lor', wouldn't I preach, wouldn't I just ladle it out, and wouldn't the dears adore me?”
Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the door. Instantly the spurious seals and the fraudulent matrix were swept into the drawer above the ap.r.o.n of the bench, and Benjamin Tresco rose, benignant, to receive his visitors.
He opened the door, and there entered the red-headed sailor, who was closely followed by Rock Cod and Macaroni.
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