The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
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he, “I believe you are entitled to a third of the ship’s value for salvage services. There are nearly two hundred ounces of gold-dust in these two leather bags—that is, roughly, eight hundred pounds—and there is forty-eight pounds ten in sovereigns and half-sovereigns, in the canvas bag. Will that satisfy you?
“Rubbish,” said Osmond. “I want eight shillings for two cases of gin broached by your men.”
“You won’t get it from me,” snapped the skipper. “I’ll have nothing to do with intoxicating liquor.”
“If you don’t pay, I’ll sue you,” said Osmond.
“I haven’t had the gin,” retorted the skipper. “It was brought on board without my authority. You must recover from the men who had it. But what do you say about the question of salvage?”
“Hang the salvage!” replied Osmond. “I want to be paid for my gin.”
“You won’t get a ha’penny from me for your confounded poison,” exclaimed the skipper, hotly. “I hold very strict views on the liquor traffic. There are the men who drank the stuff. Make them pay. It’s no concern of mine. But about this salvage question: are you satisfied with what I offer?”
Osmond glanced through the gangway. The gin-cases were all stowed in the canoe; Mensah was beaming up at him with an expectant grin and the canoe-men grasped their paddles. He felt in his pocket, and then, taking the canvas bag from the skipper, thrust his hand in and brought out a handful of coins. From these he selected a half-sovereign, and returning the others, dropped in a couple of shillings from his pocket.
“Two shillings change,” he remarked. He threw the bag down on the deck, and pocketing the half sovereign, dropped down into the canoe. But he had hardly taken his seat on the tie-tie thwart when two heavy thumps on the floor of the canoe, followed by a jingling impact, announced the arrival of the two bags of gold-dust and the bag of specie.
Osmond stood up in the dancing canoe with a leather bag in each hand.
“Now, Mensah,” he sang out, “tell the boys to get away one time.”
The paddles dug into the blue water; the canoe bounded forward. Aiming skilfully at the open gang way, Osmond sent the heavy leathern bags, one after the other, skimming along the deck, and the little bag of specie after them. The skipper grabbed them up and rushed to the gangway. But he was too late. The canoe was twenty yards away and leaping forward to the thud of the paddles. Looking back at the brigantine with a satisfied smile, Osmond saw a row of six grinning faces at the rail, and at the gangway a small figure that shook its fist at the receding canoe with valedictory fury.
His homecoming was the occasion of a pleasant surprise. At intervals during his absence he had given a passing thought to his factory and the little solitary house by the beach and had wondered how they would fare while their master was away. Now he found that in Kwaku Mensah he had a really faithful steward, and not only faithful but strangely competent in his simple way. The house was in apple-pie order and the store was neatly kept and evidently a going concern, for when he arrived, Mensah’s pretty Fanti wife was behind the counter, chaffering persuasively with a party of ‘bush’ people from Agotimé, and a glance into the compound showed a good pile of produce, awaiting removal to the produce store. Accounts, of course, there were none, since Mensah ‘no sabby book,’ but nevertheless that artless merchantman had kept an exact record of all the transactions with that uncanny precision of memory that one often observes in the intelligent illiterate.
So Osmond settled down at once, with a satisfaction that rather surprised him, into the old surroundings; and as he sat that evening at the table, consuming with uncommon relish a dinner of okro soup, ‘chickum cotrecks,’ and ‘banana flitters,’ the product of Mrs. Mensah’s skill (her name was Ekua Bochwi, from which one learned that she had been born on Wednesday and was the eighth child of her parents), he was inclined to congratulate himself on Captain Hartup’s refusal to retain him as the provisional mate of the Speedwell.
But in spite of the triumphant way in which he had out-manoeuvred the skipper, Osmond had a suspicion that he had not seen the last of his late commander. For the brigantine, which he had left hove-to and apparently ready to proceed on her voyage, had presently let go her anchor and stowed her sails as if the captain contemplated a stay at Adaffia. And the event justified his suspicions. On the following morning, while he was seated at the breakfast-table, with a fair copy of his letter to Betty before him, he became aware of shod feet on the gravelled compound, and a few moments later the doorway framed the figure of Captain Hartup, while in the background lurked Sam Winter, grinning joy and carrying two leathern bags.
The captain entered, and regarding his quondam mate with an expression that almost approached geniality, wished him “good morning” and even held out his hand. Osmond grasped it cordially, and drawing up a second chair, pressed his visitor to join him.
“A little fresh food,” he remarked, untactfully, with his eye on the leathern bags, “and a cup of real coffee will do you good.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” snorted the skipper. “I’m not starving, and neither are you. The ship’s grub hasn’t killed you. Still,” he added, “as I see you are breakfasting like a Christian and not in the beastly Coast fashion, I don’t mind if I do try a bit of shore tack with you. And you needn’t look at those bags like that. I am not going to force anything on you. I am not an obstinate man” (which was a most outrageous untruth).
“What have you brought them here for?” Osmond demanded stolidly.
“I’ll tell you presently,” replied the skipper. “Bring ’em in, Winter, and dump ’em on that sideboard.”
Winter deposited the two bags on the stack of empty cases thus politely designated and then backed to the doorway, where he was encountered by Kwaku, who was directed to take him to the store and feed him.
“I’ve come ashore,” the captain explained when they were alone, “to see if I can make one or two little arrangements with you.”
Osmond nodded as he helped his guest to stuffed okros and fried eggs (eggs are usually served, on the Coast, fried or poached or in some other overt form, as a precaution against embryological surprises).
“To begin with,” continued the skipper, “I want about half a dozen niggers—a cook, a cabin-boy, and a few hands to do the rough work. Do you think you can manage that for me?”
“I’ve no doubt I can,” was the reply.
“Good. Well, then, there is this gold-dust. If you care to change your mind, say so, and the stuff is yours.”
Osmond shook his head. “I came on board for my own purposes,” said he, “and I am not going to take any payment for looking after my own business.”
“Very well,” the skipper rejoined: “then if you won’t have it, I may as well keep it; and I shan’t if it remains on board. It was that gold-dust that tempted Dhoody and the others. Now I understood from you that you have got a safe. Is it a pretty strong one?”
“It’s strong enough. There are no skilled burglars out here.”
“Then I’m going to ask you to take charge of this stuff for me. You see that both bags are sealed up, and there is a paper inside each giving particulars of the contents and full directions as to how they are to be disposed of if anything should happen to me. Will you do this for me—as a matter of business, of course?”
“Not as a matter of business,” replied Osmond. “That would make me responsible for the safe custody of the bags, which I can’t be, as I may have to be absent from Adaffia and leave my man, Mensah, in charge of the factory. I will put the stuff in my safe with pleasure, and I think it will be perfectly secure there; but I won’t take any payment or accept any responsibility beyond exercising reasonable care. Will that do?”
“Yes,” replied the captain, “that will do. What is good enough for your own property is good enough for mine. So I will ask you to lock the stuff up for me and keep it till I