Dick laughed and took it up, and the crew, glad to find him so easily recovered, joined in eagerly and they filed off down the road singing in chorus:
“He ground up more bones
Than barley or stones,
And more than old Rowley could kill.
More bones, more bones,
More bones, more bones,
More bones than old Rowley could kill.”
“Ah, well!” said Joe, rising to his feet, as the last man reeled drunkenly out of the doorway. “I reckon I’ll be getting down to look to my boat.”
The others laughed; it was well known that the smugglers would commandeer any rowing-boat that might come their way to take them to the brig, and like as not would set it adrift to be carried out to sea.
“I’ll go with ye, lad,” said Granger, and they went out together.
Most of the others followed, leaving only French, Red, and Cip de Musset sitting with Gilbot round the fire.
Anny and Sue stood by the door talking together, their backs to the Spaniard, while Hal went on cleaning pewter.
Dick swaggered over to French.
“Master French,” he said softly, his beautiful voice very even and clear, “hadst thou not better go down to the brig and see to thy goods?”
French looked up, puzzled.