spooks—doan’ try for to bother ’em none—they’s more to them ha’nts—” his word for ghosts “—than most folks knows, I reckon!” 
“Well, you won’t get me there,” declared Tom. 
The slow, idle evening gave them plenty of time to recount their feelings and to argue to and fro about ghosts, spooks, ha’nts, and buccaneers’ apparitions in particular. Sam, refusing to come forth even to cook supper, took no part. He crouched in a corner, muttering some charm or spell of protection taught him by Ma’am Sib, no doubt, till Cliff called, “Oh, Sam—shut up!”“All that talks doesn’t scare me,” Nicky declared, “nor Sam, either, even with his witch-charms. I’d sort of like to see——” That very second he had his wish!

CHAPTER X
SAM SHOWS HIS TRUE COLORS

On shore, a queer light appeared. It was queer in more ways than one. It was of a peculiar green, an uncanny green; it was not the light of a lantern, shining all around; it seemed like a small window lighted up with an uncanny glow—and it was where no window could be. The light seemed to be moving, very slowly, when Cliff discovered it and without a word directed his comrades’ attention toward it. While they stared, the light came slowly closer to the shore—and yet it did not seem to be carried—it glided along almost imperceptibly. 

Tom, with a nervous clutch on Mr. Neale’s arm, indicated the open water of the Sound. Across it a boat was moving, slowly, steadily, toward them. Yet, although it came steadily along and they could see the men as dim, ghostly shapes, the oars made no sound as the forms in the boat plied them—bend! straighten!—bend! straighten! The light had stopped moving and seemed to hang, a queer window of illumination, above the water on which its gleam was reflected faintly. The boat came toward them. In its bow a figure stood—and what a figure! In the dim star-gleam, it seemed gigantic. Not a sound accompanied the slow progress of the strange craft. 

“He’s got something in his hand!” gasped Nicky. The man, as the boat came to within thirty feet of the sloop, raised his arm. “It’s a sword—” whispered Tom. “No! A cutlass!” Cliff breathed. 

The ghostly figure, its head tied up in some sort of cloth, its face a white blur under the white head covering, made a menacing gesture, as of one thrusting at them, with the implement in his hand. Then he lifted the cutlass and with it pointed away toward the passage between the mangroves where they had come into the Sound. 

“Go away, or you will suffer!” his gestures seemed to say. His boat, still without a 

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