they had picked up their dead, their wounded and their loot and
continued their journey at top speed, intent on casting out the witch,
and bringing the skipper to a knowledge of his desperate state even if
the operation should cost him his life. What cared they for his life now
that he had lost his luck?

They reached Chance Along, scattered for a few minutes to dispose of
the dead and wounded, gathered again and crowded toward the skipper's
house. They were quiet now, for the superstitious fear had not entirely
driven from their hearts the human fear of the skipper's big hands and
terrible eyes. They stumbled and reeled against one another, their heads
and feet muddled by brandy and excitement. Some were armed with sticks,
a few had drawn their knives, others had forgotten to arm themselves
with anything. They trod upon each other's feet in the dark, narrow,
uneven ways between the cabins. Bill Brennen joined them in the dark. He
carried a broken oar of seasoned ash in his hands. He had sent Nick
Leary to warn the skipper of the approach of the mutineers; and his
faith in the skipper's prowess was such that he felt but little anxiety.
He was sober and he knew that Black Dennis Nolan was sober. He kept to
the rear of the mob, just far enough behind it to allow for a full swing
of his broken oar, and waited for his master to make the first move
against this disorderly demonstration of superstition, bottle-valor and
ingratitude. He removed his mittens, stowed them in his belt and spat
upon the palms of his hands while he waited. Being sober, he reasoned.
Bad luck had struck the harbor this day, beyond a doubt, and brought
death and mutiny. But death had not come to the skipper. Not so much as
a scratch had come to the skipper. If a witch was in the harbor he
trusted to Black Dennis Nolan to deal with her without bringing harm
upon himself or his friends. If the devil himself visited Chance Along
he would look to the skipper to outwit, outcurse and out-devil him. This