Pyecroft with a jerk of his arm
threw loose the forward three-pounder. The bar of the back-sight was
heavily blobbed with dew; the foresight was invisible.
"No--they wouldn't have their picket-boats out in this weather, though
they ought to." He returned the barrel to its crotch slowly.
"Be yeou gwine to anchor?" said Macduff, smacking his lips, "or be yeou
gwine straight on to Livermead Beach?"
"Tell him what we're driving at. Get it into his head somehow," said
Moorshed; and Pyecroft, snatching the cup from me, enfolded the old man
with an arm and a mist of wonderful words.
"And if you pull it off," said Moorshed at the last, "I'll give you a
fiver."
"Lard! What's fivers to me, young man? My nevvy, he likes 'em; but I do
cherish more on fine drink than filthy lucre any day o' God's good weeks.
Leave goo my arm, yeou common sailorman! I tall 'ee, gentlemen, I hain't
the ram-faced, ruddle-nosed old fule yeou reckon I be. Before the mast
I've fared in my time; fisherman I've been since I seed the unsense of
sea-dangerin'. Baccy and spirits--yiss, an' cigars too, I've run a plenty.
I'm no blind harse or boy to be coaxed with your forty-mile free towin'
and rum atop of all. There's none more sober to Brix'am this tide, I don't
care who 'tis--than me. _I_ know--_I_ know. Yander'm two great King's
ships. Yeou'm wishful to sink, burn, and destroy they while us kips 'em
busy sellin' fish.
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