The skipper held the lamp over the square hole in the floor.

"Two at a time, men," he cautioned. "Bill, light a candle an' pass it
down to 'em."

Half an hour later the store was empty, save for the skipper and 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.