Flint went pale.
"Now, now, Darby," he wheedled. "Don't ye talk that reckless way. 'Tain't good for our luck. And I ha' been main kind to ye, and——"
"'Tis you would be the ruin of our luck," said Darby. "All I'm for tellin' ye is to be gentle in handlin' an eligant young maid as ye ought to be on your two knees before this moment for the throuble and sore dismay ye ha' wrought wi' her."
"She's safe enough, Darby," Flint answered. "I'd never harm her. We'll keep her until we ha' lifted what's buried on the Dead Man's Chest, and then she and her two buckos can take a small boat and fare how they please, and——"
"And I'll be with 'em," added Darby.
"Oh, no, not you, Darby! Think o' all the red gold ye'll have aboard the Walrus. And there's your luck we'll still need."
"Me luck!" fumed Darby. "May the —— curse me luck! 'Tis more of a nuisance than a help."
"Ah, that's no way to talk."
Flint was nigh frantic.
"Lad, would ye lose all your red head has brought us? And look ye, too, if the maid's to be safe, 'tis I alone can keep her so, for wi'out me there'll be —— to pay, and none to stall the reckoning."