"You'll be on watch with me, Sails," he concluded. "I have the two to four. Little Billy has the earlier half of the watch."
"Little Billy!" echoed Sails. "Did ye say Little Billy, lad?" His belligerent voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Och, lad—Little Billy?"
"Why, yes. What is wrong with that?" answered Martin.
Suddenly Sails raised an arm and shook a clenched fist at the mountain that brooded invisible behind the fog curtain.
"Och, ye black de'il's kirk!" he declaimed. "Ye blood-sucker! The MacLean's curse on ye!"
He stood in relief against the muddy background, his features dimly lighted by the ray from the galley lamp, wisps of fog eddying about his gray head and beard, his features wild and passion-working. And he cursed the Fire Mountain. It was unreal, unearthly, a scene from another age. But Martin felt a superstitious thrill.
"Great Scott! What is the matter?" he cried, startled.
MacLean lowered his arm, and his shoulders slumped despondently. He mumbled to himself. Then, in answer to Martin, he said:
"Little Billy—och, 'tis Little Billy, dear Billy! 'Tis feydom, lad!" And he turned abruptly, strode forward, and was lost in the fog.
When Martin reached aft again, he intended to tell Little Billy about MacLean's strange behavior. He found the hunchback restlessly pacing the tiny floor space of their common room. Little Billy lifted a haggard face as Martin entered.