“It’s a dirty piece of work,” said Red Gil in a voice like a raven’s, “and the sooner it’s done with, and we are aboard again and booming back to the Indies, the better I’ll like it. Over with him, brave boys!”

“Is it yours to give the word?” asked the slight man, who was dressed point-device, and with a finical nicety, in black and silver. His voice was low and clear, and of a somewhat melancholy cadence, going well with the pensiveness of fine, deeply fringed eyes.

“Why should n’t I give the word?” growled the personage addressed, adding with an oath, “I’ve as good a right to give it as any man, — maybe a better right!”

“That would be scanned,” said he of the pensive eyes.