"Gut me," swore Flint. "I never thought to see Andrew Murray lyin' stark."
Silver's eyes glinted from his slab of a face.
"He don't figure much now, do he, mates?" he said.
"Let's have a look at him," spoke up Bones abruptly. "Here, Black Dog, bring up your light, too."
The man with the sore back limped after them, drawing the tails of his cat through the fingers of one hand with a kind of lingering caress.
"Let me at mun," he muttered. "I'll flay mun, I will! I'll learn mun t' murder sailormen. Five o' us, and——"
Bones brushed off the plum satin coat with one toe, and Murray's gaunt white face smiled up at them, faintly satirical, the snuff-box still clutched in one hand.
"—— me, 'tis so he looked ever!" gasped Flint.
"'Tain't right nor natural," said Bones. "He looks like he knowed we was here—and couldn't harm him none."
Silver said nothing, peering down at the dead man with a puzzled frown as if he were trying to read something that was hidden behind the impassive features.