“You’d better not. She’s been trying for three days to find a crew—the cap’n, both the mates, and all the shipping agents in port have been running about the streets looking for hands, but everybody who knows her is shy of her. She has borne a hard name from the day she was launched.”
“And all through just such fellows as you are!” cried the mate, jumping to his feet, his face red with anger. “Don’t I wish I had you with me just one more voyage? I’d haze you until you were ready to jump overboard.”
“But you’ll never have me with you another voyage,” said the sailor, with a laugh. “One cruise in the Santa Maria is as much as I can stand. Ay, you had better go!” he continued, as the mate buttoned his coat and hurried toward the door. “You’re no good here, and you’ll never raise a crew until you call on the sharks.”
“Look out that I don’t get you in that way, my hearty,” exclaimed the mate, as he slammed the door behind him.
The sailors once more turned to their cards, and Flint moved back beside Guy. At this moment the landlord came up, bringing on a tray two glasses filled with some steaming liquor. Flint took them off the tray and placed them on the floor behind the stove.
“What did that sailor mean when he said that the Santa Maria had a crew who don’t sign articles?” asked Guy in a whisper.
“He meant ghosts,” replied Flint.
“Ghosts?” repeated Guy. “Humph!”
“Hold on there, and don’t say ‘humph’ till you know what you’re talking about,” said the sailor sharply.
“Why, Flint, there are no such things. You surely don’t believe in them?”