Here and there was a thatch-palm, stunted, and looking like the head-dress of some savage African warrior.  Inland, the creek, all white sand and golden sunny water at its opening, spread out far and near into noisome swamps overgrown with mangroves.  Those strangest of all trees, that had something tender and idyllic as they stepped out into the ripple with their fresh child-like laurel-line leaves and dangling rods of emerald, that were really the suckers of their banyan-like roots, had grown into an obscene and bizarre maturity, like nightmares striding out in every direction with skeleton feet planted in festering mud, and stretching out horned, clawing hands that seemed to take root as one looked, and to throw out other roots of horror like a dream.

Twilight was beginning to add to its suggestions of diablerie, and the whole land to seem more and more the abode of devils.

“Come along, Tom, I can’t stand any more of this.  We’ll have to leave our funerals till to-morrow, and get aboard for the night”—­for the Maggie Darling was still floating there serenely, as though men and their violence had no existence on the planet.

“We’d better cover them up, against the turkey-buzzards,” said Tom, two of those unsavory birds rising in the air as we returned to the shore.  We did this as well as we were able with rocks and the wreckage of an old boat strewn on the beach, and, before we rowed aboard—­Tom, and Sailor, and I—­we managed to shoot a couple of them,—­pour encourager les autres.

I don’t think two men were ever so glad of the morning, driving before it the haunted night, as Tom and I; and Sailor seemed as glad as ourselves, for he too seemed to have been troubled by bad dreams, and woke me more than once, growling and moaning in his sleep in a frightened way.

After breakfast, our first thought was naturally to the sad and disagreeable business before us.

“I tell you what I’ve been thinking, sar,” said Tom, as we rowed ashore, and I managed to pull down a turkey-buzzard that rose at our approach—­happily our coverings had proved fairly effective—­“I’ve been thinking that the only one of the three that really matters is the captain, and we can find sufficient soil for him in one of those big holes.”

“How about the others?”

“Why, to tell the truth, I was thinking that sharks are good enough for them.”

“They deserve no better, Tom, and I think we may as well get rid of them first.  The tide’s running out strong and we won’t have them knocking about for long.”

So it was done as we said, and carrying them by the feet and shoulders to the edge of the bluff—­George, and Silly Theodore, and the nameless giant who had knocked me down so opportunely—­we skilfully flung them in, and they glided off with scarce a splash.

“See that fin yonder!” cried Tom eagerly; and next minute one of the floating figures was drawn under.  “Got him already!” (with a certain grim satisfaction).  “That’s what I call quick work.”