"He'll look dif'rent when I lash mun," whined the man with the cat, pushing past Black Dog. "Wait till t' cat slices into t' back o' mum, cap'n. I'll cut t' grin off'n t' devil's face o' mun."
'Twas Silver caught the poor fellow's arm as it was raised to strike.
"No, no, Tom!" he cried. "Murray's dead."
"Dead?" answered the man dazedly. "But 'ee promised I should ha' t' beatin' o' mun!"
"Aye, Tom; but ye can't beat a dead man."
"Why? He beat me till I was like t' die. He beat three o' my mates till they died, an' Job Pytchens is a-dyin' out in the sand right now."
But Flint himself snatched the cat from the man's grasp with unaffected horror.
"Ye can't beat a dead man, Tom," insisted the Walrus' captain. "'Tis bad luck. And look at the good luck we ha' had since we found Darby McGraw! I can tell ye, mates, I'm a-going to hang on to my luck."
Bones growled assent, and Silver added——
"Aye, aye, cap'n; and if ye'll be guided by me ye'll lose no time in puttin' Murray underground."