"Aye, the words of it went somewhat like this:
"'Some on a knife did part wi' life
And some a bullet took O!
But—'"
Now here, as I stopped at a loss, my companion took up the rhyme almost unconsciously and below his breath:
"'But three times three died plaguily
A wriggling on a hook O!'
"Comrade!" says he in the same low voice, "Did ye see ever among these mariners a one-handed man, a tall man wi' a hook in place of his left hand—a very bright, sharp hook?" And now as Penfeather questioned me, he seized my wrist and I was amazed at the iron grip of him.
"No!" I answered.
"Nay," says he, loosing his hold, "how should you—he's dead, along o' so many on 'em! He's done for—him and his hook, devil burn him!"
"'A hook both long and stout and strong,
They died by gash o' hook O!'"
"Ah!" I cried. "So that was the kind of hook!"
"Aye!" nodded Penfeather, "That was the kind. A bullet's bad, a knife's worse, but a steel hook, shipmate, very sharp d'ye see, is a death no man should die. Shipmate, I've seen divers men dead by that same hook—torn and ripped d'ye see—like a dog's fangs! I'd seen many die ere then, but that way—'twas an ill sight for queasy stomachs!"