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“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.

“Now, Morgan,” said Long John very sternly, “you never
clapped your eyes on that Black--Black Dog before, did you,

“Not I, sir,” said Morgan with a salute.
“You didn’t know his name, did you?”
“No, sir.”

“By the powers, Tom Morgan, it’s as good for you!” exclaimed
the landlord. “If you had been mixed up with the like of that, you
would never have put another foot in my house, you may lay to
that. And what was he saying to you?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir,” answered Morgan.
“Do you call that a head on your shoulders, or a blessed dead-
eye?” cried Long John. “Don’t rightly know, don’t you! Perhaps
you don’t happen to rightly know who you was speaking to,
perhaps? Come, now, what was he jawing--v’yages, cap’ns, ships?
Pipe up! What was it?”

“We was a-talkin’ of keel-hauling,” answered Morgan.
“Keel-hauling, was you? And a mighty suitable thing, too, and
you may lay to that. Get back to your place for a lubber, Tom.”

And then, as Morgan rolled back to his seat, Silver added to me
in a confidential whisper that was very flattering, as I thought,

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