Part 26 (1/2)

Macaroni followed suit. ”Alla right,” he said. ”I reef in alonga you an'

Rocka Codda. I no spik.”

So the compact was made.

Seizing the nearest bag, Tresco cut its fastenings, and emptied its contents on the sand.

”Now, as I pa.s.s them over to you,” said he, seating himself beside the heap of letters, ”you can open such as you think were meant for you, but got misdirected by mistake to persons of no account. But burn 'em afterwards.”

He put a match to the driftwood collected by the Italian. ”Those that don't interest you, gentlemen, be good enough to put back into the bag.”

His hands were quick, his eyes were quicker. He knew well what to look for. As he glanced at the letters, he threw them over to his accomplices, till in a short time there was in front of them a bigger pile of correspondence than had been delivered to them previously in the course of their conjoint lives.

The goldsmith seldom opened a letter, and then only when he was in doubt as to whether or not it was posted by the Jewish merchant. The fishermen opened at random the missives in front of them, in the hope of finding they knew not what, but always in disappointment and disgust.

At length, however, the Italian gave a cry of joy. ”I have heem. Whata zat, Rocka Codda?” He held a bank-note before his mate's eyes. ”Zat five pound, my boy. Soon I get some more, eh? Alla right.”

Tresco put a letter into the breast-pocket of his coat. It's envelope bore on its back the printed legend, ”Joseph Varnhagen, General Merchant, Timber Town.”

So the ransacking of the outgoing mail went forward. Now another bag was opened, but, as it contained nothing else but newspapers and small packages, the goldsmith desired to leave it intact. But not so his accomplices. They therein saw the chief source of their payment.

Insisting on their right under the bargain, the sand in front of them was soon strewn with litter.

Tresco, in the meantime, had directed his attention to another bag, which contained nothing but correspondence, and evidently he had found what he was most earnestly in search of, for he frequently expressed his delight as he happened across some doc.u.ment which he thrust into his bosom.

In this way the mail was soon rummaged, and without waiting for the other two men to finish their search, the goldsmith began to reseal the bags. First, he took from his pocket the counterfeit matrix which had cost him so much labour to fas.h.i.+on. Next, he took some string, similar to that which he had previously cut, and with it he retied the necks of the bags he had opened. With the help of a lighted match, he covered the knotted strings, first of one bag and then of another, with melted sealing-wax, which he impressed with the counterfeit seal.

His companions watched the process with such interest that, forgetting for a time their search amongst the chattels of other people, they gave their whole attention to the process of resealing the bags.

”Very 'andy with his fingers, ain't 'e, Macaroni?--even if 'e _is_ a bit un'andy in a boat.” Confederacy in crime had bred a familiarity which brought the goldsmith down to the level of his co-operators.

All the bags were now sealed up, excepting the one which the fishermen had last ravaged, and the contents of which lay scattered on the sand.

”This one will be considerably smaller than it useter was,” remarked Tresco, as he replaced the unopened packets in the bag.

”Hi! stoppa!” cried Macaroni, ”Rocka Codda an' me wanta finish him.”

”And leave me to hand in an empty bag? Most sapient Macaroni, under your own guidance you would not keep out of gaol a fortnight: Nature did not equip you for a career in crime.”

Tresco deftly sealed up the last bag, and then said, ”Chuck all the odds and ends into the fire, and be careful not to leave a sc.r.a.p unburned: then we will drink to our continued success.”

The fire blazed up fiercely as the torn packages, envelopes, and letters were thrown upon its embers. The goldsmith groped about, and examined the sand for the least vestige of paper which might form a clue to their crime, but when he was satisfied that everything had been picked up, he returned to the fire, and watched the bright flames as they leapt heavenwards.

His comrades were dividing their spoil.

”I think, boss,” said Rock Cod, ”the best of the catch must ha' fell to your share: me and my mate don't seem to have mor'n ten pound between us, not countin' truck worth p'r'aps another five.”

”So far as _I_ am concerned, my man,”--Tresco used the unction of tone and the dignity of manner that he loved so well--”I am but an agent. _I_ take nothing except a few letters, some of which I have not even opened.”

The Italian burst out laughing. ”You ze boss? You conducta ze holy show, eh? Alla right. But you take nuzzing. Rocka Codda an' Macaroni get ten pound, fifteen pound; an' you get nuzzing.”