"Sonny, here's to Kitchell, Wilbur & Co., beach-combers,
unlimited. What do you say, hey?"

"I only want to be sure that we've a right to the bark," answered
Wilbur.

"Right to her--ri-hight to 'er," hiccoughed the Captain. "Strike
me blind, I'd like to see any one try'n take her away from Alvinza
Kitchell now," and he thrust out his chin at Wilbur.

"Well, so much the better, then," said Wilbur, pocketing the
papers. The pair ascended to the deck.

The burial of Captain Sternersen was a dreadful business.
Kitchell, far gone in whiskey, stood on the house issuing his
orders, drinking from one of the decanters he had brought up with
him. He had already rifled the dead man's pockets, and had even
taken away the boots and fur-lined cap. Cloths were cut from the
spanker and rolled around the body. Then Kitchell ordered the
peak halyards unrove and used as lashings to tie the canvas around
the corpse. The red and white flags (the distress signals) were
still bound on the halyards.

"Leave 'em on. Leave 'em on," commanded Kitchell. "Use 'm as a
shrou'. All ready now, stan' by to let her go."

Wilbur looked over at the schooner and noted with immense relief
that Moran was not in sight. Suddenly an abrupt reaction took
place in the Captain's addled brain.