“Search him, some of you shirking lubbers, and the rest of you aloft and get the chest,” he cried.
I could hear their feet rattling up our old stairs, so that the house must have shook with it. Promptly afterward fresh sounds of astonishment arose; the window of the captain’s room was thrown open with a slam and a jingle of broken glass, and a man leaned out into the moonlight, head and shoulders, and addressed the blind beggar on the road below him.
“Pew!” he cried, “they’ve been before us. Someone’s turned the chest out alow and aloft.”
“Is it there?” roared Pew.
“The money’s there.”
The blind man cursed the money.
“Flint’s fist, I mean,” he cried.
“We don’t see it here, nohow,” returned the man.
“Here, you below there, is it on Bill?” cried the blind man again.
At that, another fellow, probably he who had remained below to search the captain’s body, came to the door of the inn. “Bill’s been overhauled a’ready,” said he, “nothin’ left.”
“It’s these people of the inn—it’s that boy. I wish I had put his eyes out!” cried the blind man, Pew. “They were here no time ago—they had the door bolted when I tried it. Scatter, lads, and find ’em.”
“Sure enough, they left their glim here,” said the fellow from the window.