The Spaniard’s voice was once more raised in a flaunting tone. “Let it be enough,” he continued, “to say that it hath some ninety lives to answer for.”
There was a general gasp at this information and a slow smile spread over Black’erchief Dick’s face as he noted their amazement.
“It will be wonderful old I reckon?” Joe Pullen put the question quietly, but as though he expected an answer in the affirmative.
“Nay,” the Spaniard smiled again, “’twas of my own killings I was talking,” he said.
“Oh!” Joe Pullen leant back and closed his eyes as though bored with the conversation.
This procedure seemed to irritate the Spaniard, for he said suddenly, “Look, friend, ’tis a fair weapon,” and he threw the glittering thing at the man in the high-backed seat with a seemingly careless jerk of the wrist. The dagger shot through the air, a streak of glistening steel, and fastened itself in the wood half an inch above Joe’s head.
Sue shrieked, but there was a murmur of admiration at the feat from the men looking on.
Lazily Joe Pullen sat up and wrenched the blade out of the soft wood; he studied the dagger carefully.
“Ah!” he said at last, an expression of polite interest on his face, “a wonderful fine throw that, sir,” and then added, the knife poised delicately between a clumsy thumb and forefinger, “I wonder now could I do that?” He raised his hand and appeared to be taking aim directly at the Spaniard’s head.
“And was losht in the rolling sea,”