“Darby M’Graw,” it wailed—for that is the word that best describes the sound—“Darby M’Graw! Darby M’Graw!” again and again and again; and then rising a little higher, and with an oath that I leave out: “Fetch aft the rum, Darby!”
The buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes starting from their heads. Long after the voice had died away they still stared in silence, dreadfully, before them.
“That fixes it!” gasped one. “Let’s go.”
“They was his last words,” moaned Morgan, “his last words aboveboard.”
Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been well brought up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.
Still, Silver was unconquered. I could hear his teeth rattle in his head, but he had not yet surrendered.
“Nobody in this here island ever heard of Darby,” he muttered; “not one but us that’s here.” And then, making a great effort: “Shipmates,” he cried, “I’m here to get that stuff, and I’ll not be beat by man nor devil. I never was feared of Flint in his life, and, by the powers, I’ll face him dead. There’s seven hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a mile from here. When did ever a gentleman o’ fortune show his stern to that much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug—and him dead, too?”
But there was no sign of reawakening courage in his followers; rather, indeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of his words.
“Belay there, John!” said Merry. “Don’t you cross a sperrit.”
And the rest were all too terrified to reply. They would have run away severally had they dared, but fear kept them together, and kept them