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PinkMonkey.com-Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson


distress, the visits of the neighbours, the arranging of the funeral,
and all the work of the inn to be carried on in the meanwhile kept
me so busy that I had scarcely time to think of the captain, far less
to be afraid of him.

He got downstairs next morning, to be sure, and had his meals
as usual, though he ate little and had more, I am afraid, than his
usual supply of rum, for he helped himself out of the bar, scowling
and blowing through his nose, and no one dared to cross him. On
the night before the funeral he was as drunk as ever; and it was
shocking, in that house of mourning, to hear him singing away at
his ugly old sea-song; but weak as he was, we were all in the fear of
death for him, and the doctor was suddenly taken up with a case
many miles away and was never near the house after my father’s
death. I have said the captain was weak, and indeed he seemed
rather to grow weaker than regain his strength. He clambered up
and down stairs, and went from the parlour to the bar and back
again, and sometimes put his nose out of doors to smell the sea,
holding on to the walls as he went for support and breathing hard
and fast like a man on a steep mountain. He never particularly
addressed me, and it is my belief he had as good as forgotten his
confidences; but his temper was more flighty, and allowing for his
bodily weakness, more violent than ever. He had an alarming way
now when he was drunk of drawing his cutlass and laying it bare
before him on the table. But with all that, he minded people less
and seemed shut up in his own thoughts and rather wandering.
Once, for instance, to our extreme wonder, he piped up to a
different air, a king of country love-song that he must have learned
in his youth before he had begun to follow the sea.

So things passed until, the day after the funeral, and about


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