Davey, Tink, put your fists on your tattoos. I did not bring you down here to talk of leaks. Swear you will say nothing of this. Sous-swarm, says Tink, put in his hand on his hip. What are you, Apto, Jackie? I lean into the glow of the lantern. What do you think I'm up to, mates? Gold! That's what? We've been bringing up a lot of it, and there's lots more down there, ready to be grabbed. So, asks Davey, what are we poor seaman to think of that? You should think that maybe it shouldn't all go to good King George. It's Spanish gold. It ain't his, right? A good part should go to him for Mary Old England and all, but some should come to us, too.