“Red Gil!”
“Red Gil!” exclaimed the other. “I’d rather have the Spaniard!”
“The Spaniard would do well enough, if the rest of us weren’t English. If hating every other Spaniard would do it, he’d be English fast enough.”
The scoundrel with the broken head burst into a loud laugh. “D’ye remember the barque we took off Porto Bello, with the priests aboard? Oho! Oho!”
The rogue with the ruff grinned. “I reckon the padres remember it, and find hell easy lying. This hole’s deep enough, I’m thinking.”
They both clambered out, and one squatted at the head of the grave and mopped his face with his delicate handkerchief, while the other swung his fine cloak with an air and dug his bare toes in the sand.
The two boats now grated upon the beach, and several of their occupants, springing out, dragged them up on the sand.
“We’ll never get another like him that’s gone,” said the worthy at the head of the grave, gloomily regarding the something wrapped in white.
“That’s gospel truth,” assented the other, with a prodigious sigh. “He was a man what was a man. He never stuck at nothing. Don or priest, man or woman, good red gold or dirty silver,—it was all one to him. But he’s dead and gone!”
“Now, if we had a captain like Kirby,” suggested the first.