So these two men wring hands together. The next morning the painter leaves for Brussels, taking Achille with him, carrying six pigeons, and Guy goes to unloading his vessel as rapidly as possible. This he does for three days, taking every precaution. No man leaves his ship at night. No liquor is drunk, for the men know their lives depend upon circumspection, and the hardiest of them shudders as he thinks of Alva’s death. Even Corker himself, tough old mariner that he is, tells his captain that he is nervous and cannot sleep nights. “It seems,” says the old salt, “so much like havin’ a grip on your windpipe. Sometimes I feels as if I was chokin’, an’ Bill Chucksin scared us last night screechin’: ‘For God’s sake, don’t burn me alive!’ It’s had a bad effect on the men.” “No, a good effect,” remarks Guy. “I’ve noticed they’ve been very careful all day.” Then he turns to the boatswain and says: “Tell the men from me that every Jack tar of them, if this is a success, shall own Portsmouth for three days, and shall make the Jews rich by each man buying two watches, one for each fob pocket. How are you getting on with the unloading, José?” “Pretty well, Señor Capitan Blanco,” replies the tar with a wink. “The fore hold is empty and by to-morrow morning we’ll have cleaned out the aft and main holds and swept decks. But the consignee’s coming on board, Señor Capitan Blanco,” and with a few muttered Spanish words the boatswain strides forward, for he doesn’t like to encounter visitors. Guy watches with cloudy brow his consignee come up the gang plank. It is the fourth day—he has not heard from Oliver, and he is very anxious. “Do you generally sleep on board?” remarks Jan Olins, after the usual greeting to his captain. “No, on shore. Sometimes at the inn you recommended, and sometimes with a friend of mine, an artist.” “Well, to-night it will be a great favor to me if you will remain on the vessel. You can’t leave the town after the gates are closed at nightfall.” “Certainly. What do you wish me to do?” “Step into your cabin with me, and I’ll tell you,” replies the Fleming. And the two getting behind closed doors, Olins whispers. “Under the false flooring of this cabin, you know, you have twelve cases of goods that are not in the manifest.” This Guy does not know, but he immediately assents to the same. “These cases must be got out late to-night and not delivered at our warehouse, but where I shall personally show you.” “To-night, after dark?” “Yes, late at night. The moon goes down at ten. Eleven will do for the hour. Tell your men it is two guilders apiece for each of them, and for yourself, Captain, the usual tariff.” “What is the usual tariff for smuggling in the port of Antwerp?” asks Guy. “Hush! we don’t call it that, we simply call it avoiding the tenth penny,” mutters the merchant. “You’ll receive one hundred guilders for your share of the business.”