brandy out o' a wrack Pat Walen an' Micky Nolan fit wid skulpin'-knives
till Pat was killed dead."

The skipper laughed again and expanded his chest.

"There bain't no fightin' over wracks now," he said. "I bes skipper now,
Granny. Do this, do that, says I--an' it's done! An' I gives out the
shares to the men like I was master o' a sealin'-ship after a trip to
the ice--one share to every man o' the crew an' four to meself. There
bain't no shares for ship an' owners in this business, Granny."

"An' where be the diamonds?" asked the old woman.

"Hid in the marsh, safe an' sound till I takes 'em to St. John's,"
replied the skipper.

"There bain't no luck in diamonds," mumbled the old woman, "an' there
bain't no luck in wracks. The devil bes in the both o' them, Denny."

The skipper passed through his grandmother's bed-room and entered the
cold and un-aired chamber that was reserved for the use of Father
McQueen. He closed the door behind him, bolted it stealthily and then
tiptoed across the floor to the bulging chimney and empty fire-place. He
knelt on the drafty hearth, placed the bag of gold beside his knee, and
thrust both arms into the black maw of the chimney. After a minute of
prying and pulling he withdrew them, holding a square, smoke-smudged
stone in his hands. Laying this on the hearth, he took up the canvas bag
and thrust it into a cavity at the back of the chimney that had been
ready for the reception of just such a treasure for some time. Then he
replaced the stone and scrambled to his feet. He glanced furtively at