"I give him plenty," snarled Bones. "He's a rare fighter, Flint is. But he never had Murray's head to plan—and he knows that as well as me. Aye, for I've heard him say it.
"'Curse me if I like to bob and prance for the old hellion, Bill,' says he; 'but he has the skill o' the Fiend at our lay. He's lasted twice as long as me or any other.'"
"Skill is right," admitted Silver. "D'ye mind, when we was overhaulin' the brig, he ran up alongside the Walrus wi' his speakin'-trumpet out and hailed?
"'Ahoy, Walrus!' says he. 'Don't touch her spars or riggin'. Give her a couple o' round shot across her decks. We've got to get rid of her crew, anyway."
He chuckled enviously.
"But this isn't gettin' us all back to the Walrus, Bill," he added. "Here, George Merry, can't you and your mates handle the big fellow? Two to his head and two to his feet—and drop him easy or he'll stove in the boat. Now, my gentleman—" this to me—"we'll pass you down, too. You must pull a strong oar with the captain for him to be so anxious to get you offshore hale and whole. It'll be place and rank for you, messmate, or a chance to swim wi' the sharks.
"Where's the red-headed little Irisher, Bill?"
"I sent him off with the captain," replied Bones. "Down wi' you, John. We'll cast off."
From where I now lay, propped up in the bow with my head resting on Peter's huge stomach, I could see the wharf a few feet above and the vague figures of the pirates and behind them the shadowy outline of the warehouses and an occasional dim light. Silver—I knew him by his height and a certain hunching of the shoulder under which he rested his crutch—turned away as Bones addressed him.
"What of the cart?" he asked.