"Where's my rum? Fetch aft the rum, Darby McGraw!"
"Ah, ye black-hearted wretch!" shrilled Darby. "May the banshees whistle for ye, and— I'll not! Beware do ye touch me, I say, or I'll——"
The door of the stateroom crashed open again, and Darby was bundled out into the companionway.
"'Tis bad luck, and not good, I'll wish on ye!" he screamed.
Bones' ugly face was projected from the doorway long enough to squirt a stream of tobacco-juice at the boy.
"Be off with ye, ye red-haired rat," he growled. "You and your luck! Aye, 'tis fine luck ye brought to John Flint, wi' the rattles in his throat."
"Darby McGraw!" wailed Flint. "Ho, Darby! Fetch aft the rum, Darby McGraw!"
The stateroom door slammed shut on the dying man's plaint, and Darby stood for an instant shaking his fist at its panels.
"May the priest fall dead that would be sayin' mass for your soul!" he cursed. "May him that offers ye bite or sup put the bitter poison in it! May ye never know sleep that will rest ye or kindness that— Ah, but what will be the use of it all? For there will be nothing but just the fires of hell to punish one that's as bad as you."
He turned wearily and saw me, and the tears trickled down his freckled cheeks.