_him!_"

"Him?" I echoed. "But you were talking of Death, sir."

"You may call him that. There's men lyin' around in the sand--
Did ever you hear, boy, of a poison that kills a man and keeps him
fresh as paint?"

"No, sir."

He nodded. "No, I reckon you never did. Fresh as paint it keeps
'em, and white as a figure-head. The first heap as ever I dug,
believin' it to be the treasure--my reckoning was out by a foot or
two--I came on one o' them. Three foot beneath the sand I came on
him, an' the gulls sheevoing all the while over my head. _They_
knew. And the sea and the dreadful loneliness around us all the
while. There was three of us, Brooks--I mention no names, you
understand--three of us, and _him_. Three to one. Yet he got the
better of us all--as he got the better of the first lot, and _they_
must ha' been a dozen. Four of them we uncovered afore we struck the
edge of the treasure--uncovered 'em and covered 'em up again pretty
quick, I can tell you. Fresh as paint they were, in a manner o'
speaking, just as though they'd died yesterday; whereas by Bill's
account they must ha' lain there for more'n a year. And the faces on
'em white and shinin'--"

Here Captain Coffin shivered, and, glancing about him, poured out
another go of rum.

"You wouldn't blame me for wantin' it, Brooks--not if you'd seen 'em.