"He's a terrible unchancy fellow, yon, Master Bob. Not for all the gold onzas Long John do be always talkin' of would I ha' him for uncle! No, no! I'll sail with Flint, rather. The eye to him—and the soft voice and quiet ways! And him as swift to cut your throat or walk ye down the plank as Flint; aye, and swifter! I ha' the creepies on my back whiles I look at him.
"Flint, now, he's main different, Long John says. He'll swig rum wi' any man, and if he wants your life ye'll be in no doubt of that same; and he curses better'n Bill Bones."
"You seem to have experienced no trouble in becoming intimate with your new companions, Darby," I remarked.
"It's me head does it," returned Darby, unabashed. "As I told ye, it brings good luck."
"Not to me," I retorted with a grin.
"And don't ye be too sure," he flashed. "We'll maybe sail a long ways together; and I'm your friend, Master Bob, for ye were never one to let me be put upon in the counting-room."
"Humph," said I. "That is to be seen. Where is 'himself,' as you call him?"
"Asleep in his berth. Troth, he was up until dawn conning the brig through the harbor shoals."
"Are we outside?"
"Sure, we're by and beyond what they call Sandy Hook. There's only the wide ocean in front."