"Them lads is sick," answered Silver. "Bellyaches and headaches a-twistin' em in knots."
"They're soldierin' so as not to have to go aloft," returned Flint. "But if you're afraid of 'em, I'm not."
The first of the sick men he prodded with his hanger already was dead, and he hastened back to the cabin and fortified himself anew with rum. I heard him mumbling to Bones as he entered the companionway:
"It's main queer, Bill. I don't like it. Maybe my luck ain't good against sickness."
"Maybe," answered Bones. "What ha' ye done wi' the map?"'
Flint's teeth gritted together.
"If I thought ye——"
"Belay there, John. I'm only thinkin' as if ye was sick some o' them swabs for'ard might try and come by it."
"Don't ye worry about that," advised Flint grimly. "It's safe—and it will stay safe."
A second man died the next day, and there were eighteen sick instead of ten. A panic possessed the crew, and Silver mustered a fo'csle council of frightened pirates, who whispered and nudged each other as they gazed awestruck at Flint's congested visage atop of the barrel which was his official throne. Thorough scoundrels themselves, they accorded him the sincere respect which was the due of one who utterly surpassed them in wickedness. He was "a rare 'un," "a main desperate rogue"; "lead and steel was same as bread and meat to him."