d from causing further strife.

"D'you think I came here to save Rock Cod from spoiling your ugly face?"
asked the red-haired man. "No, siree. My boss, Mr. Crookenden, sent me.
He wants to see you up at his office; and I reckon there's money in it,
though you deserve six months' instead, the pair of you."

"Heh? Your boss wanta me? I got plenty fisha, flounder, barracuda, redda
perch. Now then?"

"He don't want your fish: he wants you and Rock Cod," said the
red-headed man.

"Georgio"--the Italian was, in a moment, nothing but politeness to the
man he had termed "ginger"--"we go. Ze fisha?--I leava my boat, all my
fisha, here wit' my frien's. Georgio, conducta--we follow."

Accompanied by the two fishermen, the red-headed peacemaker walked up
the quay.

"What's the trouble with your boss?" asked Rock Cod. "What's 'e want?"

"How can I tell? D'you think Mr. Crookenden consults _me_ about his
business? I'm just sent to fetch you along, and along you come."

"I know, I understanda," said the Italian. "He have ze new wine from
Italia, my countree--he senda for Macaroni to tasta, and tell ze
qualitee. You too bloody about ze neck, Rocka Codda, to come alonga
me. You mus' washa, or you go to sell ze fish."

"Go an' hawk the fish yourself," retorted Rock Cod. "You're full o'
water as a sponge, an' there'll be a pool where you stand on the
gen'leman's carpet."

Wrangling thus, they made their way towards the merchant's office.

While this scene was being performed at the port of Timber Town,
Benjamin Tresco was in his workshop, making the duplicate of the chief
postmaster's seal. With file and graver he worked, that the counterfeit
might be perfect. Half-a-dozen impressions of the matrix lay before him,
showing the progress his nefarious work was making towards completion.

"One struggle more and I am free," muttered the goldsmith. "The English
seals, I happen to know, usually arrive in a melted or broken condition.
To restore them too perfectly would be to court detection--a dab of
sealing-wax, impressed with a key and sat upon afterwards, will answer
the purpose. But this robbing business--well, it suits my temperament,
if it doesn't suit my conscience. Oh, I like doing it--my instincts
point that way. But the Sunday-school training I had when a boy spoils
the flavour of it. Why can't folk let a lad alone to enjoy his sins?
Such a boy as I was commits 'em anyway. An' if he _must_ commit 'em and
be damned for 'em