"It's bad luck to touch the dead," reaffirmed Flint. "No, no, the thing to do is to bury him quick. You take half a dozen men, Bill, and plant him anywhere—so's he's deep enough."
"And what about the treasure?" called one of the men by the door.
"Aye, aye," chimed in a second. "When do we shift it aboard and divvy up?"
Flint stroked his chin, considering.
"Why, there's no hurry about the treasure, mates," he answered finally. "'Tis safe here. What we all need now is a dram o' rum and two watches below."
There was a general murmur of assent with this sentiment, and he crooked his finger at me.
"Come along, Buckskin. We'll put the three o' ye aboard-ship, out o' harm's way, seein' as ye're so precious o' your skins. Long John, I'll leave it to ye to guard the prisoners. Give the girl a stateroom for herself—less'n ye might wish to share it, Buckskin?" he added with a leer that fetched a ruddy tide to Moira's cheeks.
He guffawed.
"Dainty, ain't ye, my lass? Well, the Walrus is a pirate, not a private man-o-war, and maybe ye'll learn a thing or two."
Silver motioned us to precede him into the night, and as we passed out he gathered together a party of men who formed loosely around us.