nd the
inanimate gear. The blankets had been removed from the windows, and the
lamp extinguished. The skipper sat beside the deal table from which he
had distributed the gold, staring thoughtfully at his raw knuckles. The
pistols still lay on the table. He pushed them to one side, scooped the
gold from his pockets, spread it out and counted it slowly and
awkwardly. Then he produced a canvas bag, stowed the gold away in it and
tied the mouth of it securely.

"A rough crew," he muttered. "They needs rough handlin', most o' the
time, an' then a mite o' humorin' like ye t'row fish to a team o' dogs
after ye lash the hair off 'em. Aye, a rough crew, an' no mistake--but
Black Dennis Nolan bes their master!"

He left his chair, stepped across the floor, and lifted the trap that
led to the cellar. He descended, returning in a minute with a bottle of
wine and two tins of potted meat.

"I'm t'inkin' it bes about time to t'row some fish to that dog Jack
Quinn," he murmured.

He went out, leaving the bag of gold on the table, and locked the door
behind him. Though he left the gold he did not leave the pistols. Under
his arm he carried the wine and the tinned meat. He went straight to
Foxey Jack Quinn's cabin, and entered without knocking on the door.
Quinn was sitting by the little stove with his head untidily bandaged.
One pale, undamaged eye glared fiercely from the bandages. The woman was
seated close to the only window, sewing, and the children were playing
on the floor. All movement was arrested on the instant of the skipper's
entrance. The children crouched motionless and the woman's needle stuck
idle in the cloth. Quinn sat like an image of wood, showing life only in
that one glaring, pale eye.

"How bes ye feelin' now, Jack?" asked the visitor.

The hulking fellow by the stove did not speak, but the hand that held
his pipe twitched ever so slightly.

"Orders be orders," continued the skipper. "The lads who obeys me fills
their pockets wid gold--an' them who don't get hurt. But I bain't a hard
man, Jack Quinn. Ye did yer best to heave me over the edge o' the
cliff--an' most would have killed ye for that. Here bes wine an' meat
for ye an' the wife an' children."

He laid the bottle and tins on a stool near the woman. Quinn's glance
did not waver, and not a word passed his swollen lips; but his wife
snatched up one of the tins of meat.

"The saints be praised!" she cried. "We bes nigh starvin' to deat' wid
hunger!"