It was fine weather till past midnight; the wind then came out of the northeast in a heavy squall of wet, and after this for several days it blew very fresh. The rain drove in clouds over the sea; the dark sky hung low, and our reeling trucks were swept by the shadows of the flying scud. Yet in these heavy, boisterous days Yan Bol and two or three others contrived to take stock of the quantity of fresh water and provisions on board. Bol sent Jimmy to me with the particulars, and asked leave to attend me in my cabin while I worked out the figures. I sent word back that an Englishman might come--Teach or Friend--bidding Jimmy add that I understood Bol’s English with difficulty. The truth was I hated the villain; wished to have no more to do with him than the work of the brig forced upon me. He had threatened me with an open boat, he was at the bottom of this seizure of the brig and her cargo of silver; the project of casting the vessel away was his I did not question. Could I have served any purpose by taking his life I’d have shot him with less compunction than I’d wring a fowl’s neck. The man who arrived was Teach. He had washed his face and buttoned himself up in a clean pilot coat to pay the cabin this visit. He was a smart seaman: a sharp-looking rogue, with curling hair and a long, lean nose, and little, darting eyes. He knocked on my cabin door, and I bade him come in. “Oh,” said I, “is it you? Sit down.” Without further words, I took pencil and paper and fell to my calculations. Bol’s figures lay before me. I guessed they were correct. He’d naturally go to work anxiously, that we might not be starved or driven by thirst from the Amsterdam Island scheme. There was so much beef, so much pork, so much ship-bread, and such and such a quantity of peas, sugar, flour, and the like; there was so much water. We were fifteen souls in all, counting the girl and the two Spaniards; and my figures worked out thus--that, at the usual allowance, we had provisions for seven months and water for three. I gave Teach these figures, and then put them down in black and white for the crew, and handed him the paper. “There’s plenty of provisions,” said he, looking at the paper upside down, “to last all hands to Australia. Fresh water we’ll take in at Amsterdam Island.” “Ever at Sydney?” “No, sir.” “Who’s your friend?” “A man named Max Lampton.” “D’ye know that he’s now at Sydney?” “He was there two years ago. If he’s dead his son’ll be living. But he ain’t dead. Max is one who takes care of himself. No drink--no baccy--regular as a clock--a steady man.” “What do you expect of him?” “He’ll show us what to do with the money; ’vart it into paper and gold for us.” “Fifteen tons!” “It’ll take time. We sailors aren’t going to make a job of it without help, anyhow.” “Is it a clever idea to bury this silver in Amsterdam Island, first of all?”