"They was talkin' o' witches," he whispered. "Dick Lynch an' some more
o' the lads. They says as how the comather was put on to ye this very
mornin', Denny."

The skipper paused with his hand on the latch and eyed the other
sharply.

"Witches, ye say? An' Dick Lynch was talkin', was he? Who did they
figger as put the spell on to me?"

"The lass ye saved from the fore-top. Sure, that's what they all bes
sayin', Denny. Mermaid, they calls her--an' some a fairy. A witch,
anyhow. They says as how yer luck bes turned now--aye, the luck o' the
entire harbor. 'Twas herself--the spell o' her--kilt the t'ree lads in
the cabin, they be sayin'. Their talk was desperate black, Denny."

"'Twas the poor dead, drownded woman, an' their own cowardly souls, kilt
'em!"

"Aye, Denny, so it was, nary a doubt; but they shot ye some desperate
black looks, Denny."

"Well, Cormy, don't ye be worryin'. Fifty t'ousand squid like Dick Lynch
couldn't frighten me. The comather, ye say? Saints o' God! but I'll be
puttin' it on themselves wid a club! Bewitched? What the divil do they
know o' witches? Fishes bes all they understands! Black looks they give
me, did they? I'll be batin' 'em so black they'll all look like rotted
herrings, by the Holy Peter hisself! Aye, Cormy, don't ye worry, now."