“Shut your head!” cried the sailor imperiously. “By George, you make a man sick with all your nasty blowing. Fill your sack, and shut up!” Silence followed, broken by light thuds in quick succession. A shadow heaved athwart the glow, in a thin white cloud of steaming breath. It was Tony, with some shapeless burden in his arms. “Come along,” he said. A second shadow rose, and stooped toward the lantern, grumbling. “I don’t tromp down them rocks no more ’thout a light.” “Let it stay!” roared Tony. “How many times must I tell you? We can’t go showing lights on that beach. Drop it! You can see to cross the clearing, and that’s enough. Next time, by thunder, you’ll want me to carry you!” They moved off, growling, round the twisted spur of the snow-bank. The night swallowed them. Miles gave ample time, before venturing further; then floundered on through gleaming undergrowth. The verge, however, rose impassable. A gigantic drift flung one smooth, graceful whirl round the little hollow, or bowl, in which the lantern shone. To break through would leave a tumbling track of ruin. The ring stood therefore as good as enchanted: he could only lean forward and look. Close below lay scattered boughs of spruce or fir; and among these, half uncovered, a square chest yawned enormous, with lid thrown back. Full or empty, it showed nothing inside but darkness. The return of angry voices sent him dodging back among the trees. In the interval the quarrel had flamed higher, for at the gap in the snow Tony wheeled with a savage flourish. “Bother?” he scoffed. “You’re the only bother I see!” They swung nearer, and even by the smoky lantern, their faces shone red and threatening. “And damned if I’ll have it, either!” added Florio. “Oh, no, ’tain’t no bother,” sneered his follower. “Not a mite! Reg’lar summer weather, ain’t it, to be rowin’ round in? No bother to git froze, or break your laigs again’ rocks in the dark, or handle all that pesky stuff twice over! Usin’ this island was a fool idee, from the start. No bother! When ye could kerry it all to oncet, single lo’ds, slap over to the furder shore!” “Slap over!” mocked the sailor. “You know, and none better, it’s not every night Graves can take it off our hands. Meantime, what? Stow it in our pockets? or use what sense God gives geese!” “Keep it on our own side,” grunted Abram, “till Graves gits ready.” “You’re a wonder!” The sailor dashed his empty sack on the ground passionately. “A fair wonder! I was in luck when I got you! Our own side! Where? Under the bed or up the chimney? Between that girl at your house and young Bissant at mine, how long would it stay hid? What’s that? Outdoors? Good Lord! did it ever cross your mind that snow leaves tracks? Look behind you, and see the path we’ve beaten! But no one comes out here; and that’s why, idiot!” “Old man Bissant would ’a’ took it in,” retorted the mutineer. “Jest give him some money, let him into cahoots, and he’d ’a’ kep’ still.”