nigger--should get what bigger and bullier men than he had died for!
The mate's blood was on those boxes, if the salt water had not washed
it out. It was a hell of a fight when they dragged the captain--Oh,
what was that? Was it the splash of a rat in the bilge, or what?

A superstitious terror had begun to seize him at the thought of blood.
The stifling hold seemed again filled with struggling figures he had
known, the air thick with cries and blasphemies that he had forgotten.
He rose to his feet, and running quickly to the hatchway, leaped to the
deck above. All was quiet. The door leading to the empty loft yielded
to his touch. He entered, and, gliding through, unbarred and opened the
door that gave upon the alley. The cold air and moonlight flowed in
silently; the way of escape was clear. Bah! He would go back for the
treasure.

He had reached the passage when the door he had just opened was
suddenly darkened. Turning rapidly, he was conscious of a gaunt figure,
grotesque, silent, and erect, looming on the threshold between him and
the sky. Hidden in the shadow, he made a stealthy step towards it, with
an iron wrench in his uplifted hand. But the next moment his eyes
dilated with superstitious horror; the iron fell from his hand, and
with a scream, like a frightened animal, he turned and fled into the
passage. In the first access of his blind terror he tried to reach the
deck above through the forehatch, but was stopped by the sound of a
heavy tread overhead. The immediate fear of detection now overcame his
superstition; he would have even faced the apparition again to escape
through the loft; but, before he could return there, other footsteps
approached rapidly from the end of the passage he would have to
traverse. There was but one chance of escape left now--the forehold he
had just quitted. He might hide there until the alarm was over. He
glided back to the hatch, lifted it, and closed it softly over his head
as the upper hatch was simultaneously raised, and the small round eyes
of Abner Nott peered down upon it. The other footsteps proved to be
Renshaw's, but, attracted by the open door of the loft, he turned aside
and entered. As soon as he disappeared Mr. Nott cautiously dropped
through the opening to the deck below, and, going to the other hatch
through which the Lascar had vanished, deliberately refastened it. In a
few moments Renshaw returned with a light, and found the old man
sitting on the hatch.