“Jim,” he said, at length, “you saw that seafaring man today?”

“Black Dog?” I asked.

“Ah! Black Dog,” said he. “ He’s a bad ’un; but there’s worse that put him on. Now, if I can’t get away nohow, and they tip me the black spot, mind you, it’s my old sea-chest they’re after; you get on a horse⁠—you can, can’t you? Well, then, you get on a horse and go to⁠—well, yes, I will!⁠—to that eternal doctor swab, and tell him to pipe all hands⁠—magistrates and sich⁠—and he’ll lay ’em aboard at the Admiral Benbow⁠—all old Flint’s crew, man and boy, all on ’em that’s left. I was first mate, I was, old Flint’s first mate, and I’m the on’y one as knows the place. He gave it me at Savannah, when he lay a-dying, like as if I was to now, you see. But you won’t peach unless they get the black spot on me, or unless you see that Black Dog again, or a seafaring man with one leg, Jim⁠—him above all.”

“But what is the black spot, captain?” I asked.