.' He laughed, an' I laughed: which we wouldn't ha' done
had we known _The Witch_ was going to be piled up on this confounded
coast."

The Pilot had risen to his feet. His face was crimson with excitement,
and his brow dark with passion.

"Cap'n Sartoris!" he exclaimed, as he brought his fist with a bang upon
the table, so that the decanter and tumblers rattled, "every sea-faring
man hates to see a good ship wrecked, whoever the owner may be. None's
more sorry than me to see the bones of your ship piled on that reef. But
when you talk about bringing me a present o' wine from my brother, you
make my blood boil. To Hell with him and all his ships!" With another
bang upon the table, he paced up and down, breathing deeply, and
trembling with passion still unvented.

Sartoris and Scarlett looked with astonishment at the suddenly
infuriated man.

"As for his cursed port wine," continued the Pilot, "let him keep it.
_I_ wouldn't drink it."

"In which case," said the skipper, "if I'd ha' got into port, I'd ha'
been most happy to have drank it myself."

"I'd have lent you a hand, Captain," said Scarlett.

"Most happy," replied Sartoris. "We'd ha' drank the firm's health, and
the reconciliation o' these two brothers. But, Pilot, let me ask a
question. What on this earth could your brother, Mr. Summerhayes, ha'
done to make you reject six cases o' port--reject 'em with scorn: six
cases o' the best port as was ever shipped to this or any other country?
Now, that's what puzzles me."

"Then, Cap'n Sartoris--without any ill-feeling to you, though I do
disagree with your handling o' that ship--I say you'll have to puzzle it
out. But I ask this: If _you_ had a brother who was the greatest
blackguard unhung, would _you_ drink his port wine?"

"It would largely depend on the quality," said the skipper--"the quality
of the wine, not o' the man."

"The senior partner of your firm is my brother."

"That's right. I don't deny it."

"If he hadn't been my brother I'd ha' killed him as sure as God made
little apples. He'd a' bin dead this twenty year. It was the temptation
to do it that drove me out of England; and I vowed I'd never set foot
there while he lived. And he sends me presents of port wine. I wish it
may choke him! I wish he may drink himself to death with it! Look you
here, Sartoris: you bring back the anger I thought was buried this long
while; you open the wound that twelve thousand miles of sea and this new
country