“I think that we just have got out of it—never fear but we’ll get out of the next. Do you know, Gascoigne, it appears to me very odd, but I can do nothing but there’s a bobbery at the bottom of it.”
“You certainly have a great talent that way, Jack. Don’t I hear one of these poor fellows groan?”
“I should think that not impossible.”
“What shall we do with them?”
“We will argue that point, Ned—we must either keep their bodies or we must throw them overboard. Either tell the whole story or say nothing about it.”
“That’s very evident; in short, we must do something, for your argument goes no further. But now let us take up one of your propositions.”
“Well then, suppose we keep the bodies on board, run into a seaport, go to the authorities, and state all the facts, what then?”
“We shall prove, beyond all doubt, that we have killed three men, if not four; but we shall not prove that we were obliged so to do, Jack. And then we are heretics—we shall be put in prison till they are satisfied of our innocence, which we never can prove, and there we shall remain until we have written to Malta, and a man-of-war comes to redeem us, if we are not stabbed, or something else in the meantime.”
“That will not be a very pleasant cruise,” replied Jack. “Now let’s argue the point on the other side.”
“There is some difficulty there—suppose we throw their bodies overboard, toss the baskets after them, wash the boat clean, and make for the first port. We may chance to hit upon the very spot from which they sailed, and then there will be a pack of wives and children, and a populace with knives, asking us what has become of the men of the boat.”