“No, by gum, it don’t,” agreed Silver; “not nat’ral, nor not nice, says you. Great guns, messmates, but if Flint was living this would be a hot spot for you and me! Six they were, and six are we; and bones is what they are now.”

“I saw him dead with these here deadlights,” said Morgan. “Billy took me in. There he laid, with penny-pieces on his eyes.”

“Dead⁠—ay, sure enough he’s dead and gone below,” said the fellow with the bandage; “but if ever sperrit walked it would be Flint’s. Dear heart, but he died bad, did Flint!”

“Ay, that he did,” observed another; “now he raged and now he hollered for the rum, and now he sang. ‘Fifteen Men’ were his only song, mates; and I tell you true, I never rightly liked to hear it since. It was main hot and the windy was open, and I hear that old song comin’ out as clear as clear⁠—and the death-haul on the man already.”