big as a ham--plain and pale, but
intelligent and smiling. Indeed, he seemed in the most cheerful spirits,
whistling as he moved about among the tables, with a merry word or a
slap on the shoulder for the more favored of his guests.

Now, to tell you the truth, from the very first mention of Long John in
Squire Trelawney's letter, I had taken a fear in my mind that he might
prove to be the very one-legged sailor whom I had watched for so long at
the old "Benbow." But one look at the man before me was enough. I had
seen the captain, and Black Dog, and the blind man Pew, and I thought I
knew what a buccaneer was like--a very different creature, according to
me, from this clean and pleasant-tempered landlord.

I plucked up courage at once, crossed the threshold, and walked right up
to the man where he stood, propped on his crutch, talking to a customer.

"Mr. Silver, sir?" I asked, holding out the note.

"Yes, my lad," said he; "such is my name, to be sure. And who may you
be?" And when he saw the squire's letter he seemed to me to give
something almost like a start.

"Oh!" said he, quite aloud, and offering his hand, "I see. You are our
new cabin-boy; pleased I am to see you."

And he took my hand in his large firm grasp.

Just then one of the customers at the far side rose suddenly and made
for the door. It was close by him, and he was out in the street in a
moment. But his hurry had attracted my notice, and I recognized him at a
glance. It was the tallow-faced man, wanting two fingers, who had come
first to the "Admiral Benbow."

"Oh," I cried, "stop him! it's Black Dog!"

"I don't care two coppers who he is," cried Silver, "but he hasn't paid
his score. Harry, run and catch him."

One of the others who was nearest the door leaped up and started in
pursuit.

"If he were Admiral Hawke he shall pay his score," cried Silver; and
then, relinquishing my hand, "Who did you say he was?" he asked. "Black
what?"

"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, gray-haired, mahogany-faced
sailor--came forward pretty sheepishly, rolling his quid.

[Illustration: _"Now, Morgan," said Long John, very sternly, "you never
clapped your eyes on that Black Dog before, did you, now?"_ (Page 57)]