"So it is, that with all your losses, a kind of good luck aye follows you, and I shall not marvel if, in the end, you build up your colony here, and see good days when I am--well, it matters not where--I doubt me if priests or parsons know. But they who flout you or do you a churlish turn find no good luck resting on them, but rather a curse,--yea, I've marked that too. 'T is better to be friends than foes with some folk." "'Timeo Daneos et dona ferentes,'" quoted Winslow in the ear of Elder Brewster, who sat watching the sailor curiously, and now suddenly said,-- "And so thy shipmen are very ill too, Master Jones!" "Lo you, now! I said naught of it, and how well you knew. What dost mean, Elder?" "Naught but friendly interest like thine own," replied the Elder gently, yet never removing that steadfast gaze, beneath which Jones fidgeted impatiently, and finally cried in a sort of desperate surrender,-- "Well, then, as well you know already, 't is that matter brought me here to-night. My men have sickened daily, and everything hath gone awry, since we bundled you and your goods ashore a month or so agone, when some of you were fain to tarry aboard, or at least leave your stuff there, and come and go." "But thou wast afeard we should drink thy beer by stealth. Nay, thou saidst it," declared Standish disdainfully. "Well, yes, I'll not go back of saying it," retorted Jones half abashed and half defiant. "For where else shall you find me men who will drink water if another man hath beer where they may get it?" "We heard from our friends on board that scurvy had broken out among the shipmen," said Carver motioning Standish to hold his peace. "Scurvy, and fever, and rheumaticks, and flux, and the foul fiend knoweth what beside," replied Jones desperately. "Now Clarke hath still been warning me that you were so sib with the saints"-- "Nay, God forbid!" ejaculated Brewster.