“Ay, by gum, I do!” he answered. “Ship gone, neck gone—that’s the size of it. Once I looked into that bay, Jim Hawkins, and seen no schooner—well, I’m tough, but I gave out. As for that lot and their council, mark me, they’re outright fools and cowards. I’ll save your life—if so be as I can—from them. But see here, Jim—tit for tat—you save Long John from swinging.”
I was bewildered; it seemed a thing so hopeless he was asking—he, the old buccaneer, the ringleader throughout.
“What I can do, that I’ll do,” I said.
“It’s a bargain!” cried Long John. “You speak up plucky, and by thunder, I’ve a chance.”
He hobbled to the torch, where it stood propped among the firewood, and took a fresh light to his pipe.
“Understand me, Jim,” he said, returning. “I’ve a head on my shoulders, I have. I’m on squire’s side now. I know you’ve got that ship safe somewheres. How you done it I don’t know, but safe it is. I guess Hands and O’Brien turned soft. I never much believed in neither of them . Now you mark me. I ask no questions, nor I won’t let others. I know when a game’s up, I do; and I know a lad that’s stanch. Ah, you that’s young—you and me might have done a power of good together!”
He drew some cognac from the cask into a tin cannikin.
“Will you taste, messmate?” he asked, and when I had refused, “Well, I’ll take a drain myself, Jim,” said he. “I need a caulker, for there’s trouble on hand. And, talking o’ trouble, why did that doctor give me the chart, Jim?”
My face expressed a wonder so unaffected that he saw the needlessness of further questions.