terror of the sea and the ships had made his life a burden. Drink, even, had no comforts for him; for, from the hatchways, from the dark places behind the guns, from the hold where the casks lay, he would see peering that black hag of the tarot. So he had gathered his gear together, and was going ashore in ten minutes' time, to live among the traders till a ship came. He would live cleanly, too, without rum, except in the way of friendship. His head wasn't what it was. It was no use going on drinking when one saw things.
"You give me that knife, Jake Dawes," he said, "and I'll throw you in a quart of hard."
Jake tossed the knife to him, a long Spanish dirk, with a handle of twisted silver, like those you buy in Panama. There was a noise on deck, a confused babble of cries and clanking.
"What in hell are they at, Jake?" he asked.
A man in a red shirt, a leather apron and sea boots made of cow-hide, came past them with a bucketful of wads.
"There's a fat merchant on the coast," he said "we're going out for her. They're getting
