‘“That’s foolishness,” he says. “Who cares where Frankie Drake makes a hole in the water now or twenty years from now?”
‘The Spanisher kept muckin’ on more and more canvas. I told him so.
‘“He’s feelin’ the tide,” was all he says. “If he was among Tergoes Sands with this wind, we’d be picking his bones proper. I’d give my heart to have all their tall ships there some night before a north gale, and me to windward. There’d be gold in my hands then. Did your Aunt say she saw the world settin’ in my hand, Sim?”
‘“Yes, but ’twas a apple,” says I, and he laughed like he always did at me. “Do you ever feel minded to jump overside and be done with everything?” he asks after a while.
‘“No. What water comes aboard is too wet as ’tis,” I says. “The Spanisher’s going about.”
‘“I told you,” says he, never looking back. “He’ll give us the Pope’s Blessing as he swings. Come down off that rail. There’s no knowin’ where stray shots may hit.” So I came down off the rail, and leaned against it, and the Spanisher he ruffled round in the wind, and his port-lids opened all red inside.
‘“Now what’ll happen to my road if they don’t let me lie quiet in my grave?” he says. “Does your Aunt mean there’s two roads to be found and kept open—or what does she mean? I don’t like that talk about t’other road. D’you believe in your iron ships, Sim?”
‘He knowed I did, so I only nodded, and he nodded back again.
‘“Anybody but me ’ud call you a fool, Sim,” he says. “Lie down. Here comes the Pope’s Blessing!”
‘The Spanisher gave us his broadside as he went about. They all fell short except one that smack-smooth hit the rail behind my back, an’ I felt most won’erful cold.