CHAPTER XI
PETER PLAYS AT BOWLS WITH DESTINY
Darby McGraw's red head shone in the lanthorn-light.
"Whisht, but it's Master Bob again! Now ain't this the mighty forchune to have ye with us! Ha' ye left the old devil yon for good?"
He nodded his torch of hair at the vague hull of the James. Flint exploded with raucous laughter.
"'The old devil yon,'" he repeated. "—— me, but it takes Darby to put the right word to a man. 'Tis what he is, blast him for the —— —— —— he sets himself up to be!"
Darby proffered him a huge silver beaker of rum.
"I fetched this from the cabin after ye, captain," said the Irish boy in his wheedling brogue. "Troth, say I to meself, if the captain must talk with Murray he'll ha' a bad taste in the mouth o' him to be washed out, and I'd best ha' a sup o' sugar-juice handy for his needin's."
Flint seized the rum, threw back his head and drained the fiery stuff as if it had been wine.
"You said right, my lad," he answered sourly. "And I'm thinking I'll maybe need all the luck that red head o' yours can bring me. Where's Billy Bones?"