“You can trust me, my boy,” retorted Quin cheerfully, and turning on his heel, he was back on the wharf in a moment, and apparently busy about the pile of baggage.

Suddenly there came a mighty uproar aboard ship.  Lorns and the Swiss, the latter already irate over some trouble he had experienced, were rolling about the deck in a most violent scrimmage, the Swiss having decidedly the worst of the trouble.  The chief rushed up the plank; Lorns and the descendant of Tell and Winkelried, were torn apart; and then a double din of explanation ensued.  After ten minutes, the chief was able to straighten out the difficulty—­whatever its pretended cause might be I know not; for I held myself warily aloof, not a little alarmed by what Lorns had communicated—­and repaired again to his station upon the wharf.  As he came down the plank, Quin, who had not been a moment behind him in going aboard to discover the reasons of the riot, followed.  Brief as was that moment, however, during which Quin had lingered behind, he had made the shift suggested by Lorns; the silk trunk was under the river, a strange trunk stood in its stead.  As the chief returned, he walked straight to this suspected trunk and tipped it down with his foot.  Then to Quin: 

“Ask Lorns to step here.”

Quin went questing after Lorns; shortly Lorns and Quin came back together.  The chief turned in a brisk, sharp, official way to Lorns: 

“Did you inspect this trunk?”

“I did,” said Lorns, looking at the chalk marks as if to make sure.

“Open it!”

No keys were procurable; the owners, Lorns said, had long since left the docks.  But Lorns suggested that he get hammer and cold chisel from the ship.

The trunk was opened and found free and innocent of aught contraband.  The chief wore a puzzled, dark look; he felt that he’d been cheated, but he couldn’t say how.  Therefore being wise, the chief gulped, said nothing, and as life is short and he had many things to do, soon after left the docks and went his way.

“That was a squeak!” said Lorns when we were at last free of the dangerous chief.  “Quin, I thank you.”

“That’s all right,” retorted Quin, with a grin; “do as much for me some time.”

That night, with the aid of a river rat, our trunk, jettisoned by the excellent Quin, was fished up; and being tight as a drum, its contents had come to little harm with their sudden baptism.  At last, our dozen silk trunks—­holding a treasure of thirty thousand dollars and whereon we looked to clear a heavy profit—­were safe in the Reade Street loft; and my hasty heart, which had been beating at double speed since that almost fatal interference, slowed to normal count.

One might now suppose that our woes were at an end, all danger over, and nothing to do but dispose of our shimmering cargo to best advantage.  Harris and I were of that spirit-lifting view; we began on the very next day to feel about for customers.