“Oh, nonsense,” he said, serving out some of the cold bacon from the dish in front of him. “Nonsense. What would your uncle say if you landed slovenly like that? Besides, now you're at sea you're a sailor. Sailors don't wear things like that at meals any more than they wear their hats.” After this, I saw that there was no further chance of retaining the satchel, so I took it from my neck, but grudgingly, as though I hated doing so. I heard no more about it till after breakfast, when he made a sudden playful pounce upon it, as it lay upon the chair beside me, at an instant when I was quite unprepared to save it. “Aha,” he cried, waving his booty. “Now then. Now.” I knew that he would expect a passionate outcry from me, nor did I spare it; because I meant him to think that I knew the satchel contained precious matters. “No, no,” I cried. “Let me have it. I don't want it mended.” “What?” he said. “Not want it mended? It must be mended.” At this I made a sort of playful rush to get it. He dodged away from me, laughing. I attacked again, playing my part admirably, as I thought, but taking care not to overdo it. At last, as though fearing to show too great an anxiety about the thing, I allowed him to keep it. I asked him if he would be able to sew the leather over the wire heart. “Why, yes,” he said. I could see that he smiled. He was thinking that I had stopped struggling in order to show him that I set no real value on the satchel. He was thinking that he saw through my cunning. “Might I see you sew it up?” I said. “I should like to learn how to sew up leather.” He thought that this was another sign of there being letters in the satchel, this wish of mine to be present when the sewing was done. “Why, yes,” he said. “I'll do it here. You shall do it yourself if you like. I will teach you.” So saying, he tossed me an orange from his pocket. “Eat that,” he said, “while I go on deck to take the sights.” He left the cabin, swinging the satchel carelessly in his left hand. I thought to myself that I had better play anxiety; so, putting the orange on the table, I followed him into the 'tweendecks, halting at the door, as though in fear about the satchel's fate. Looking back, he saw me there. My presence confirmed him in his belief that he had got my treasure. He waved to me. “Back in a minute,” he said. “Stay in the cabin till I come back. There's a story-book in the locker.” I turned back into the cabin in a halting, irresolute way which no doubt deceived him as my other movements had deceived him. When I had shut the door, I went to the locker for the story-book.