Foremost in the ring of seamen was a tall, lanky fellow with rather long, yellow hair and a belligerent expression. 'Twas he who sustained the burden of the debate with Flint, supported to some extent by a group of a score or so, who sat behind him.
"Aye, aye, Tom Allardyce," Flint was saying as we reached our aerie. "You was the man all against attackin' Murray."
"Wasn't I right?" retorted Allardyce. "Didn't all happen as I said it would? Butchered, we was."
"Everything don't go right from the beginnin'," answered Flint. "But just look where we be now, mates."
"It ain't your doin'," asserted Allardyce. "'Twas only blind luck as the storm wrecked Murray and we rode it out."
"Ah!" said Flint agreeably. "Luck is right. The very words I'd use myself, Allardyce. For see ye, 'tis luck counts for the most, and I ha' been main lucky o' late. No man can deny that. Whatever I put my hand to turns out well."
This received a murmur of endorsement, and the yellow-haired man cried out——
"Luck is well enough, but all luck comes to an end, and I am saying that ye ha' stretched yours overthin, cap'n."
"That's moderate," admitted Flint. "I'd say myself as I'm for doublin' my luck. Ye see, mates—" he appealed to the several hundred men who thronged the deck—"my luck has won us eight hundred thousand pounds, and I'm for using it to win eight hundred thousand pounds more. And that's askin' less o' luck than ye might think, seein' the heaviest part is accomplished. We ha' three prisoners as know the secret o' Murray's cache, and all we need do is sail to the Dead Man's Chest, land a party and ferry the stuff aboard."
"Aye, and s'pose a frigate jumps us?" called one of the men sitting with Allardyce.