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19. Narrative Resumed by Jim Hawkins: The
Garrison in the Stockade

AS soon as Ben Gunn saw the colours he came to a halt,
stopped me by the arm, and sat down.

“Now,” said he, “there’s your friends, sure enough.”
“Far more likely it’s the mutineers,” I answered.

“That!” he cried. “Why, in a place like this, where nobody puts
in but gen’lemen of fortune, Silver would fly the Jolly Roger, you
don’t make no doubt of that. No, that’s your friends. There’s been
blows too, and I reckon your friends has had the best of it; and
here they are ashore in the old stockade, as was made years and
years ago by Flint. Ah, he was the man to have a headpiece, was
Flint! Barring rum, his match were never seen. He were afraid of
none, not he; on’y Silver--Silver was that genteel.”

“Well,” said I, “that may be so, and so be it; all the more reason
that I should hurry on and join my friends.”

“Nay, mate,” returned Ben, “not you. You’re a good boy, or I’m
mistook; but you’re on’y a boy, all told. Now, Ben Gunn is fly. Rum
wouldn’t bring me there, where you’re going--not rum wouldn’t,
till I see your born gen’leman and gets it on his word of honour.
And you won’t forget my words; ‘A precious sight (that’s what
you’ll say), a precious sight more confidence’-- and then nips him.

And he pinched me the third time with the same air of

“And when Ben Gunn is wanted, you know where to find him,
Jim. Just wheer you found him today. And him that comes is to
have a white thing in his hand, and he’s to come alone. Oh! And

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