"Three," assented Flint. "Two o' 'em could be spared—lousy dogs. The other was Toby Welsh, as stout a fellow as we had."
"Not bad for one night's work," commented Murray.
Flint was obviously in no very belligerent mood; he could scarce stand. But he flamed up at this.
"Aye, and what d'ye expect? How many months did ye tell me I must bide here wi' a crew that knows naught but how to brew the Devil's broth? And how many men d'ye think will be alive by the end of the time? Gut me, but 'twill be like the song we sing o' the Dead Man's Chest!"
"I fear it will," agreed my great-uncle. "Unless you take measures to prevent it."
"Measures?"
Flint cursed with the fluency of the man who enjoys his work.
"There's a deal to be done in keeping twelvescore men from fighting on this chunk o' earth and rock!"
"There's your ship to be cleaned," said my great-uncle tentatively.
"I'd ha' mutiny on my hands did I call for it! They're all for a run ashore, and there'll be no working them aboard-ship until they ha' had their fill o' woods and mountains."