It was clear they had come upon the gold boxes, and they wished to impress upon the visitors, in underwater dumb show, that the find had only been made that very minute.  It was a strange enough performance.  Half-seen hands snapped red fingers in triumph.  Ponderously booted feet did a dance of ecstasy in three feet of gluey mud.  And meanwhile, Kettle, with a hand on the haft of his knife, edged away from this uncanny demonstration, lest some one should slit his air-tube before he could prevent it.

He had seen what he wanted; he had no reason to wait longer; and besides, being a novice at diving, his lungs were half burst already in the effort to get breath, and his head was singing like a tea-urn.  The gold boxes were there, and if they were not brought to the surface, and carried honestly to Suez, the matter would have to be fought out above in God’s open air, and not in that horrible choking quagmire of slime and cruel water.  And so, still guarding himself cannily, he got back again to the boat, and almost had it in him to shake hands with the men who eased him of that intolerable helmet.

Now far be it from me to raise even a suspicion that Captain Owen Kettle resented the fact that he had been robbed of a scuffle when the little salvage steamer actually did bring up in Suez harbor with the specie honestly locked in one of her staterooms.  But that he was violently angry he admits himself without qualification.  He says he kicked himself for being such a bad judge of men.

The Parakeet was in when they arrived, rebunkering for the run home, and Murray came off as fast as a crew could drive his boat to inquire the news.

He saw Tazzuchi on the deck and accosted him with a vigorous handshake, and a “Hullo, Fizz-hookey, old man, how goes it?  Who’d have thought of seeing you here?  Howdy, Captain Kettle.  Had good fishing?”

“Do you know Captain Tazzuchi?”

“Somewhat.  Why, we were both boys on the Conway together.”

“You’re making some mistake.  Captain Tazzuchi is an Italian.”

“Oh, am I?” said Tazzuchi.  “Not much of the Dago about me except the name.”

“Well, you never told me that before.”

“You never asked me, that I know of.  I speak about enough of the lingo to carry on duty with, and I serve on an Italian ship because I couldn’t get a skipper’s billet on anything else.  But I’m as English as either of you, and as English as Birds—­or more English than Birds, seeing that they come from somewhere near Jerusalem.  Great Scot, Captain Kettle, can’t you tell a Dago yet for sure?  Where have you been all your days?”

Murray laughed.  “Well, come across and discuss it in the Parakeet.  I’ve got a case of champagne on board to wet my new ticket.”

“Stay half a minute,” said Tazzuchi, “we’ll just get those boxes of gold down into your boat, Murray, and ferry them across.  I sha’n’t be sorry to have them out of my responsibility.  They’re too big a temptation to leave handy for the crew there is on board here.”