Simple as that.
A bit o' rum, a little nudge...almost shameful, how little it took.
Mr. Arrow was a dolt an' a halfwit. Never fit to sail before the mast, and you may lay to that.
He didn't deserve this treasure we're after. Didn't deserve to live.
I can't help but think, as I watch the ragged stream of bubbles cease abruptly and the black form sink still farther, that this treasure isn't worth it. The murder I've commited and the killin' to come. I've seen too many dead men o'er the years to be able to take much more. Bright young sailors, once hale and strong, now dried carcasses strung up as a warnin' to those who would dare seek fortune and be free.
I shift my wooden leg, wince at the dull, arthritic pain that shoots up my side.
I'm getting too old for this.
This'll be my last hurrah, I suppose. Get the treasure off that blasted island, retire to India with my Negress, live the rest o' my life in peace.
Come on, John. One last adventure. One last hurrah.
I got life in these old bones yet.
Coolly, I glance downward, overboard, one last time, then turn and limp away.
He didn't deserve to live.