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lad Dick.

“We’re all forecastle hands, you mean,” snapped Silver. “We
can steer a course, but who’s to set one? That’s what all you
gentlemen split on, first and last. If I had my way, I’d have Cap’n
Smollett work us back into the trades at least; then we’d have no
blessed miscalculations and a spoonful of water a day. But I know
the sort you are. I’ll finish with ‘em at the island, as soon’s the
blunt’s on board, and a pity it is. But you’re never happy till you’re
drunk. Split my sides, I’ve a sick heart to sail with the likes of

“Easy all, Long John,” cried Israel. “Who’s a-crossin’ of you?”
“Why, how many tall ships, think ye, now, have I seen laid
aboard? And how many brisk lads drying in the sun at Execution
Dock?” cried Silver. “And all for this same hurry and hurry and
hurry. You hear me? I seen a thing or two at sea, I have. If you
would on’y lay your course, and a p’int to windward, you would
ride in carriages, you would. But not you! I know you. You’ll have
your mouthful of rum tomorrow, and go hang.”

“Everybody knowed you was a kind of a chapling, John; but
there’s others as could hand and steer as well as you,” said Israel.
“They liked a bit o’ fun, they did. They wasn’t so high and dry,
nohow, but took their fling, like jolly companions every one.”

“So?” says Silver. “Well, and where are they now? Pew was
that sort, and he died a beggar-man. Flint was, and he died of rum
at Savannah. Ah, they was a sweet crew, they was! On’y, where
are they?”

“But,” asked Dick, “when we do lay ‘em athwart, what are we to
do with ‘em, anyhow?”

“There’s the man for me!” cried the cook admiringly. “That’s

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