PART TWO: The Sea-cook
Chapter 8: At the Sign of the Spy-glass
I plucked up courage at once, crossed the threshold,
and walked right up to the man where he stood, propped
on his crutch, talking to a customer.
"Mr. Silver, sir?" I asked, holding out the note.
"Yes, my lad," said he; "such is my name, to be sure. And
who may you be?" And then as he saw the squire's letter,
he seemed to me to give something almost like a start.
"Oh!" said he, quite loud, and offering his hand. "I
see. You are our new cabin-boy; pleased I am to see you."
And he took my hand in his large firm grasp.
Just then one of the customers at the far side rose
suddenly and made for the door. It was close by him,
and he was out in the street in a moment. But his
hurry had attracted my notice, and I recognized him at
glance. It was the tallow-faced man, wanting two
fingers, who had come first to the Admiral Benbow.
"Oh," I cried, "stop him! It's Black Dog!"
"I don't care two coppers who he is," cried Silver. "But
he hasn't paid his score. Harry, run and catch him."
One of the others who was nearest the door leaped up
and started in pursuit.
"If he were Admiral Hawke he shall pay his score,"
cried Silver; and then, relinquishing my hand, "Who did
you say he was?" he asked. "Black what?"
"Dog, sir," said I. Has Mr. Trelawney not told you of
the buccaneers? He was one of them."
"So?" cried Silver. "In my house! Ben, run and help
Harry. One of those swabs, was he? Was that you
drinking with him, Morgan? Step up here."
The man whom he called Morgan--an old, grey-haired,
mahogany-faced sailor--came forward pretty sheepishly,
rolling his quid.