able.

The digger counted them.

"That's only fifty," he said.

"You shall have the balance in two days, but not an hour sooner,"
replied Tresco. "In the meanwhile, you can git. I'm busy."

Without more ceremony, he went into his workshop.

"Jake, I give you a holiday for three days," he said. "Go and see your
Aunt Maria, or your Uncle Sam, or whoever you like, but don't let me see
your ugly face for three solid days."

The apprentice looked at his master open-mouthed.

The goldsmith went to the safe which stood in a corner of the shop, and
took out some silver.

"Here's money," he said. "Take it. Don't come back till next Friday.
Make yourself scarce; d'you hear?"

"Right, boss. Anythin' else?"

"Nothing. Go instanter."

Jake vanished as if the fiend were after him, and Tresco seated himself
at the bench.

Out of a drawer immediately above the leather apron of the bench he took
the wax impression of something, and a square piece of brass.

"Fortune helps those who help themselves," he muttered. "When the Post
Office sent me their seals to repair, I made this impression. Now we
will see if I can reproduce a duplicate which shall be a facsimile, line
for line."

CHAPTER XII.

Rock Cod and Macaroni.

The small boat came alongside the pilot-shed with noise and fuss out of
all proportion to the insignificance of the occasion.

It was full spring-tide, and the blue sea filled the whole harbour and
threatened to flood the very quay which stretched along the shore of
Timber Town.

In the small boat were two fishermen, the one large and fat, the other
short and thick.

"Stoppa, Rocka Codda!" cried the big man, who was of a very dark
complexion. "You son 'a barracouta, what I tella you? Why you not stoppa
ze boat?"

"Stop 'er yourself, you dancin', yelpin' Dago."

"You calla me Dago? I calla you square-'ead. I calla you Russian-Finna.
I calla you mongrel dogga, Rocka Codda."

The Pilot's crew, standing at the top of the slip, grinned broadly, and
fired at the fishermen a volley of chaff which diverted the Italian's
attention from his mate in the boat.

"Ah-ha!" His voice sounded as shrill as a dozen clarions, and it carried
half-a-mile along the quay. He sprang ashore. "Hi-ya!" It was like the
yell of a hundred cannibals, but the Pilot's crew only grinned. "You
ze boys. I bringa you ze flounder for tea. Heh?" In one moment the fat
fisher was back in the boat, and in another he had scramble