The steamer came up to the quay, and there was much bustle and confusion. Cæsar waited, with one hand on the mare's neck, until the worst of it was over. Then he went aboard, and said in a solemn voice to the sailor at the foot of the gangway, “Anything here the property of Mr. Peter Quilliam?” “That's his luggage,” said the sailor, pointing to a leather trunk of moderate size among similar trunks at the mouth of the hatchway. “H'm!” said Cæsar, eyeing it sideways, and thinking how small it was. Then, reflecting that perhaps valuable papers were all it was thought worth while to send home, he added cheerfully, “I'll take it with me.” Somewhat to Cæsar's surprise, the sailor raised no difficulties, but just as he was regarding the trunk with that faith which is the substance of things hoped for, a big, ugly hand laid hold of it, and began to rock it about like a pebble. It was Black Tom, smoking with perspiration. “Aisy, man, aisy,” said Cæsar, with lofty dignity. “I've the gig on the quay.” “And I've a stiff cart on the market,” said Black Tom. “I'm wanting no assistance,” said Cæsar; “you needn't trouble yourself.” “Don't mention it, Cæsar,” said Black Tom, and he turned the trunk on end and bent his back to lift it. But Cæsar put a heavy hand on top and said, “Gough bless me, man, but I am sorry for thee. Mammon hath entered into thy heart, Tom.” “He have just popped out of thine, then,” said Black Tom, swirling the trunk on one of its corners. But Cæsar held on, and said, “I don't know in the world why you should let the devil of covetousness get the better of you.” “I don't mane to--let go the chiss,” said Black Tom, and in another minute he had it on his shoulder. “Now, I believe in my heart,” said Cæsar, “I would be forgiven a little violence,” and he took the trunk by both hands to bring it down again. “Let go the chiss, or I'll strek thee into the harbour,” bawled Black Tom under his load. “The Philistines be upon thee, Samson,” cried Cæsar, and with that there was a struggle. In the midst of the uproar, while the men were shouting into each other's faces, and the trunk was rocking between them shoulder high, a sunburnt man, with a thick beard and a formidable voice, a stalwart fellow in a pilot jacket and wide-brimmed hat, came hurrying up the cabin-stairs, and a dog came running behind him. A moment later he had parted the two men, and the trunk was lying at his feet. Black Tom fell back a step, lifted his straw hat, scratched his bald crown, and muttered in a voice of awe. “Holy sailor!” Cæsar's face was livid, and his eyes went up toward his forehead. “Lord have mercy upon me,” he mumbled; “have mercy on my soul, O Lord.” “Don't be afraid,” said the stranger. “I'm a living man and not a ghost.” “The man himself,” said Black Tom. “Peter Quilliam alive and hearty,” said Cæsar. “I am,” said Pete. “And now, what's the bobbery between the pair of you? Shuperintending the beaching of my trunk, eh?”