"'Tain't right to put pennies to John Flint's eyes, him as handled onzas like other fellers does fardin's."
"Are ye daft, mate? Ye'd never put gold in a dead man's shroud!"
"Mebbe not! Mebbe not! Not to be sewed up, no."
"Ah, what's it matter? He's dead. The river'll have him——"
The clumping became a measured tramp as four tall seamen carried out the canvas cylinder that had been John Flint. A babble of grief from Darby broke the silence. We could hear him even where we three were huddled in Moira's stateroom, biding what the future held for us.
"Glory be to God, and him gone overside in all his sin! Och, St. Bridget and St. Patrick and Blessed Veronica and Holy Mark, do ye intercede for him! Let ye cry upon the Virgin to be speakin' for him in the heavenly courts. Oh, wirra, wirra, wirra, evil he was, and good in his way, and there's none by to give him the chance of purgatory!"
A roar from Bones.
"Stow that guff! Here, a pair o' ye strangle the mick if he'll not hush."
Darby whimpered and was still.
"Down-stream," continued Bones. "Here, to la'b'd. Ease him up. Where's that shot? Is it fast? Let him go, mates!"