“Captain Trent, sir,” returned the old gentleman.
“Well, I'm Captain Kirkup, and this is the crew of the Sydney schooner Currency Lass, dismasted at sea January 28th.”
“Ay, ay,” said Trent. “Well, you're all right now. Lucky for you I saw your signal. I didn't know I was so near this beastly island, there must be a drift to the south'ard here; and when I came on deck this morning at eight bells, I thought it was a ship afire.”
It had been agreed that, while Wicks was to board the ship and do the civil, the rest were to remain in the whaleboat and see the treasure safe. A tackle was passed down to them; to this they made fast the invaluable chest, and gave the word to heave. But the unexpected weight brought the hand at the tackle to a stand; two others ran to tail on and help him, and the thing caught the eye of Trent.
“'Vast heaving!” he cried sharply; and then to Wicks: “What's that? I don't ever remember to have seen a chest weigh like that.”
“It's money,” said Wicks.
“It's what?” cried Trent.
“Specie,” said Wicks; “saved from the wreck.”
Trent looked at him sharply. “Here, let go that chest again, Mr. Goddedaal,” he commanded, “shove the boat off, and stream her with a line astern.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” from Goddedaal.
“What the devil's wrong?” asked Wicks.
“Nothing, I daresay,” returned Trent. “But you'll allow it's a queer thing when a boat turns up in mid-ocean with half a ton of specie, and everybody armed,” he added, pointing to Wicks's pocket. “Your boat will lay comfortably astern, while you come below and make yourself satisfactory.”
