“Two at a time, men,” he cautioned.  “Bill, light a candle an’ pass it down to ’em.”

Half an hour later the store was empty, save for the skipper and the inanimate gear.  The blankets had been removed from the windows, and the lamp extinguished.  The skipper sat beside the deal table from which he had distributed the gold, staring thoughtfully at his raw knuckles.  The pistols still lay on the table.  He pushed them to one side, scooped the gold from his pockets, spread it out and counted it slowly and awkwardly.  Then he produced a canvas bag, stowed the gold away in it and tied the mouth of it securely.

“A rough crew,” he muttered.  “They needs rough handlin’, most o’ the time, an’ then a mite o’ humorin’ like ye t’row fish to a team o’ dogs after ye lash the hair off ’em.  Aye, a rough crew, an’ no mistake—­but Black Dennis Nolan bes their master!”

He left his chair, stepped across the floor, and lifted the trap that led to the cellar.  He descended, returning in a minute with a bottle of wine and two tins of potted meat.

“I’m t’inkin’ it bes about time to t’row some fish to that dog Jack Quinn,” he murmured.

He went out, leaving the bag of gold on the table, and locked the door behind him.  Though he left the gold he did not leave the pistols.  Under his arm he carried the wine and the tinned meat.  He went straight to Foxey Jack Quinn’s cabin, and entered without knocking on the door.  Quinn was sitting by the little stove with his head untidily bandaged.  One pale, undamaged eye glared fiercely from the bandages.  The woman was seated close to the only window, sewing, and the children were playing on the floor.  All movement was arrested on the instant of the skipper’s entrance.  The children crouched motionless and the woman’s needle stuck idle in the cloth.  Quinn sat like an image of wood, showing life only in that one glaring, pale eye.

“How bes ye feelin’ now, Jack?” asked the visitor.

The hulking fellow by the stove did not speak, but the hand that held his pipe twitched ever so slightly.

“Orders be orders,” continued the skipper.  “The lads who obeys me fills their pockets wid gold—­an’ them who don’t get hurt.  But I bain’t a hard man, Jack Quinn.  Ye did yer best to heave me over the edge o’ the cliff—­an’ most would have killed ye for that.  Here bes wine an’ meat for ye an’ the wife an’ children.”

He laid the bottle and tins on a stool near the woman.  Quinn’s glance did not waver, and not a word passed his swollen lips; but his wife snatched up one of the tins of meat.

“The saints be praised!” she cried.  “We bes nigh starvin’ to deat’ wid hunger!”

“‘Twas me give it to ye, not the saints,” said Black Dennis Nolan, “an’ there bes more for ye where it come from.”

He turned and went out of the cabin.

“I’ll fix him yet,” mumbled Foxey Jack Quinn.

The woman gave no heed to the remark, for she had already opened one of the tins of choice meat and was feeding the children from her fingers.