There was a renewed nudging and whispering amongst the group of men listening.
"Told ye so!" growled one. "Just wot I said!"
"By golly! dem is ghost groans, dis chile tell dat easy. No libing coon eber make dem noises, not on your life," grunted the coloured man, his voice shaking with fright.
"Silence there!" thundered the mate. "Go on, Green, spit it out 'fore y'r throat gits sore," he continued.
"Then I asks Pedro, sir, if it was 'im, an' he sez he ain't opened his mouth all night."
"All right, yew kin go," muttered Black Davis. "It's thet softy of a carpenter been eatin' too much!" he went on half to himself, half aloud.
Suddenly, right over his head called a voice:
"I'm comin' fer yew, Davis, I'm comin' fer yew!" Then, after a short interval, "I'm burning! I'm burning! I'm burning!"
The effect on the superstitious men was stupendous. The voice was the late second mate's to the life, and seemed to come from the mizzen-top.