"Rum!" he exclaimed. "That's what I need. Rum—and plenty of it!"
He bent back his head, put the bottle to his lips and drank—and drank. You could hear the gurgle of it as it trickled down his gullet.
"Aaaa-aah!" he breathed. "That was rare stuff. Get me another, Darby."
He tossed the bottle overboard, and started to sing a stave of that savage sea-song which was the chief delight of the crew:
"Tom Avery died of a cutlass slash—
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle o' rum!
Mounseer Tessin felt the galleys' lash—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle o' rum!"
"But the treasure," spoke up Silver. "What'd ye do wi' it, cap'n?"
Flint eyed him for as long as 'twould take to count twenty. And I am bound to say Silver met his eye unflinchingly.
"Why, 'tis safe, John," answered Flint in the horribly soft tones he had employed with Allardyce. "All tucked where it'll stay safe."
"Aye, but where?" persisted Silver.
Flint's blue, mottled visage became convulsed with a passion words can not describe.