Horne—[Pretending mystification.] Who’s that, sir?
Bartlett—[With sombre emphasis.] That cook and that boy. They come to me. I’m gettin’ to be afeered o’ goin’ to sleep—not ’feered o’ them, I don’t mean. [With sudden defiant bravado.] Not all the ghosts out o’ hell kin keep me from a thing I’ve set my mind on. [Collecting himself.] But I’ve waked up talkin’ out loud—to them—and I’m afeerd there might be someone hear me. That’s why I’ve been sleepin’ down here to the boat-house all alone.
Horne—[Uneasily—with an attempt to be reassuring.] You ain’t all cured o’ that sun and thirst on the island yet, sir.
Bartlett—[Evidently reassured—roughly.] O’ course! D’ye think I’d really believe in things in nightmares? [With an attempt at conviviality.] Sit down a bit, Horne, and take a grog. [Horne does so. Bartlett pours out a half-tumbler full of rum for himself and shoves the bottle over to Horne.]
Horne—Luck to our vige, sir.
Bartlett—Aye, luck! [They drink. Bartlett leans over and taps Horne on the arm.] Aye, it takes time to get cured o’ thirst and sun! Lucky that tradin’ schooner picked us up the time she did.
Horne—If she hadn’t—we’d been as dead men—as them two.
Bartlett—[Somberly—after a pause.] I spoke no word, Silas Horne, d’ye remember?
Horne—Nor me. Jimmy did it alone. [Craftily.] We’d all three swear Bible oaths to that in any court. And even if ye’d given the word, there ain’t no good thinkin’ more o’ it, sir. Didn’t they deserve all they got—that thief o’ a cook and that boy? Wasn’t they plottin’ on the sly to steal the gold?
Bartlett—[His eyes gleaming.] Aye!