“Springle,” his lordship gasped. “Springle, I’ve killed him, ha’n’t I?”
Then I saw that the butler was standing in the corner, a plate of beef in his hand. He came forward and, setting down the plate, shook the sprawling figure.
“Aye, aye, he’s dead as his beef,” said Springle.
“We’ll bury the body quick, Conrad. Wait. I’ll see he has no friends outside.”
I could not help wondering at the old nobleman’s pluck as I saw him move towards the door, and thought of him marching round that desolate house with Heaven knows how many bloodthirsty enemies ambushed in the shadows.
When his master had left the hall, Springle shook the body more roughly, and to my horror, for I thought him stone dead, Captain Swall muttered thickly:
“Curse you, Dicky, you nearly done for me a second time, but you’ll pay—you’ll pay.”
“Look ’ee here, Cap’n Swall,” said Springle, turning the wounded man over and staring into his eyes. “Two’s company at Cannebrake, but three ain’t. You sent me off for beef. You had me flogged once. You’ve run aground, Cap’n Swall.”
Here the fiend caught his enemy by the throat, and, as he squeezed the life out of the thickset man, spoke through clenched teeth:
“You’re making port at last, Cap’n Swall. I’ll lay Davy Jones is about signalling your sperrit now.”