d their cannonade.

All through the evening they kept thundering away. Ball after ball flew
over or fell short, or kicked up the sand in the inclosure; but they had
to fire so high that the shot fell dead and buried itself in the soft
sand. We had no ricochet to fear; and though one popped in through the
roof of the log-house and out again through the floor, we soon got used
to that sort of horse-play and minded it no more than cricket.

"There is one thing good about all this," observed the captain; "the
wood in front of us is likely clear. The ebb has made a good while; our
stores should be uncovered. Volunteers to go and bring in pork."

Gray and Hunter were the first to come forward. Well armed, they stole
out of the stockade, but it proved a useless mission. The mutineers were
bolder than we fancied, or they put more trust in Israel's gunnery, for
four or five of them were busy carrying off our stores and wading out
with them to one of the gigs that lay close by, pulling an oar or so to
hold her steady against the current. Silver was in the stern-sheets in
command, and every man of them was now provided with a musket from some
secret magazine of their own.

The captain sat down to his log, and here is the beginning of the entry:

"Alexander Smollett, master; David Livesey, ship's doctor; Abraham
Gray, carpenter's mate; John Trelawney, owner; John Hunter and
Richard Joyce, owner's servants, landsmen--being all that is left
faithful of the ship's company--with stores for ten days at short
rations, came ashore this day and flew British colors on the
log-house in Treasure Island. Thomas Redruth, owner's servant,
landsman, shot by the mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin-boy--"

And at the same time I was wondering over poor Jim Hawkins' fate.

A hail on the land side.

"Somebody hailing us," said Hunter, who was on guard.

"Doctor! squire! captain! Hallo, Hunter, is that you?" came the cries.

And I ran to the door in time to see Jim Hawkins, safe and sound, come
climbing over the stockade.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIX

NARRATIVE RESUMED BY JIM HAWKINS--THE GARRISON IN THE STOCKADE

As soon as Ben Gunn saw the colors 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, Si