Black Bartlemys Treasure

"Not a drop!" says I.

"Good! The more for me!" he nodded. "Rum--ha-"Some swam in rum to kingdom come"-"You sing a mighty strange song!" quoth I.

"Ha--d'ye like it?"

"No, I don't!"

"And wherefore no?"

"There seems overmuch death in it."

"Death?" cries he with a great laugh and hugging his case-bottle. "Death says you--aye, aye, says I and so there is, death in every line on't. 'Tis song as was made for dead men, of dead men, by a dead man, and there's for ye now!" Here he lifted the bottle, drank, and thereafter smacked his lips with great gusto. "Made by a dead man," he repeated, "for dead men, of dead men, and there's for ye!"

"I like your song less and less!"

"You've a cursed queasy stomach I think!" he hiccupped.

"And an empty one!" says I.

"'Tis a song well bethought on by--by better men nor you, for all your size!" says he, glancing at me over his bottle with a truculent eye, and though his glance was steady, I perceived the drink was affecting him more and more. "Aye, many a better man!" he nodded, frowning.

"As who?" I questioned.

"First, there's Abnegation Mings as you shall hear tell of on the Main from Panama to St. Catherine's, aye, by the horns of Nick there be none of all the coastwise Brotherhood quicker or readier when there's aught i' the wind than Abnegation, and you can lay to that, my delicate cove!"

"And who's he?"

"Myself!" Here he took another draught and nodded at me in drunken solemnity. "And look'ee, my dainty cull, when you've seen as much o' death as Abnegation Mings you'll know as Death's none so bad a thing, so long as it leaves you alone. And I for one say 'tis a good song and there's for ye!"

"And who else?"

"Well, there's Montbars as do they call the Exterminator, and there's young Harry Morgan--a likely lad, and there's Roger Tressady and Sol Aiken and Penfeather--sink him!"

"And Abner!" said I at a venture.

"Aye for sure!" he nodded, and then, "Ha, d'ye know Abner then?"

"I've met him."

"Where away?"

"In a tavern some mile hence."

"A tavern!" quoth he, "A tavern, 'od rot 'em and here's me hove short in this plaguy hole! A tavern, and here's my bottle out--dog bite me! But a mouthful left--well, here's to a bloody shirt and the Brotherhood o' the Coast."

"You drink to the buccaneers, I think?" says I.

"And what if I do?"

"'Tis said they be no better than pirates--"

"Would ye call me a pirate then?" cried he, scowling.