"And that before this glass is out," affirmed Bones with saturnine emphasis.
The mate knocked the neck off a flask of rum with his cutlass-hilt and poured the equivalent of a water-glass down his throat, gurgling it lustily that he might secure the full savor of the fiery liquor.
"I'll take the rest o' that!" exclaimed Flint eagerly. "Aaa-aah! There's naught like good rum to put heart in a man, Bill. Here, Darby, you finish it. That's the lad! And don't talk no more about losin' your luck. We're goin' to need that luck mighty bad these next few days. Aye, this very day, as Bill says. For here's Tom Allardyce and a batch o' chicken-hearted —— —— a-cryin' we should be satisfied wi' what we got, disband and save our necks. And I don't know what more bilge-slush."
"'Tain't Allardyce I'm 'feared of," said Bones wisely, "but Silver. He's got a head on his shoulders, Long John has, and all the men'll listen to him after the way he carried the stockade."
Flint nodded.
"True for you; but what you're amiss on is that John feels same as I do about disbandin'. After the treasure's all lifted, look out for squalls. But right now, Bill, Silver's as strong for pullin' together as you and me."
"Maybe," said Bones with more of doubt than conviction.
"Maybe? Gut me for a lubber if I'm not right."
Flint rose from the seat he had assumed.
"You come along on deck, and I'll show ye. You, too, Darby. No, no, lad—" when Darby would have hung back—"I want ye by me. I tell ye that red head o' yours is the best beacon I ever steered by."