The three of us sat at table in the main cabin, Peter still occupied with the fragments of a wild pigeon. Through the open stern windows drifted a tag-end of song from the Walrus, lying a cable's length higher up the anchorage:
"The Frenchman took Moon's knife in the throat—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle o' rum!
But all they found was a rusty groat—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle o' rum!"
"That is Flint's voice," continued my great-uncle. "I am glad he is aboardship. 'Twill save us the inconvenience of a journey ashore."
And to the query of my raised eyebrows he replied:
"The tide ebbs on the break of dawn. I purpose sailing then."
"And you must deliver the body of your hostage beforehand," I answered as disagreeably as I could.
"Even so," he acknowledged. "'Tis regrettable, Robert, yet the time will come, I venture to predict, when you will look back with pride upon the inconvenience you suffered."
"I'll accept the inconvenience if I may escape the rascals alive," I retorted.
"Of that you need have no doubts," he said earnestly. "I shall accompany you, and you may hear my parting instructions to Flint. Friend Peter, will you indulge me for the space of half an hour whilst I visit the Walrus with my nephew?"
"Neen," answered Peter, and pushed away from the table. "I go too."