"We—we—we're all right," he stuttered finally.
Silver, only, seemed unimpressed.
"Ye were seven as went ashore, cap'n," he said apologetically, "and one to return aboard."
Flint laughed that dreadful laugh a second time.
"Aye, there's six stayed ashore, Silver; six tall fellows. Six, says you, and seven's lucky. Aye, lucky! Main lucky! And Allardyce says he's safe wi' six! Ho, ho, ho!"
"Where—where—are they?" questioned Bones.
"Ashore, I told ye, Bill. All safe ashore."
"Dead?" pressed Bones.
"Aye, dead as Harry Morgan—or Avery."
Darby dived through the jam with an open bottle of rum, and Flint stretched out both arms and tossed men right and left to make way for the lad.