“Belay that talk, John Silver,” he said.  “This crew has tipped you the black spot in full council, as in dooty bound; just you turn it over, as in dooty bound, and see what’s wrote there.  Then you can talk.”

“Thanky, George,” replied the sea-cook.  “You always was brisk for business, and has the rules by heart, George, as I’m pleased to see.  Well, what is it, anyway?  Ah!  ’Deposed’—­that’s it, is it?  Very pretty wrote, to be sure; like print, I swear.  Your hand o’ write, George?  Why, you was gettin’ quite a leadin’ man in this here crew.  You’ll be cap’n next, I shouldn’t wonder.  Just oblige me with that torch again, will you?  This pipe don’t draw.”

“Come, now,” said George, “you don’t fool this crew no more.  You’re a funny man, by your account; but you’re over now, and you’ll maybe step down off that barrel and help vote.”

“I thought you said you knowed the rules,” returned Silver contemptuously.  “Leastways, if you don’t, I do; and I wait here—­and I’m still your cap’n, mind—­till you outs with your grievances and I reply; in the meantime, your black spot ain’t worth a biscuit.  After that, we’ll see.”

“Oh,” replied George, “you don’t be under no kind of apprehension; we’re all square, we are.  First, you’ve made a hash of this cruise—­you’ll be a bold man to say no to that.  Second, you let the enemy out o’ this here trap for nothing.  Why did they want out?  I dunno, but it’s pretty plain they wanted it.  Third, you wouldn’t let us go at them upon the march.  Oh, we see through you, John Silver; you want to play booty, that’s what’s wrong with you.  And then, fourth, there’s this here boy.”

“Is that all?” asked Silver quietly.

“Enough, too,” retorted George.  “We’ll all swing and sun-dry for your bungling.”

“Well now, look here, I’ll answer these four p’ints; one after another I’ll answer ’em.  I made a hash o’ this cruise, did I?  Well now, you all know what I wanted, and you all know if that had been done that we’d ’a been aboard the Hispaniola this night as ever was, every man of us alive, and fit, and full of good plum-duff, and the treasure in the hold of her, by thunder!  Well, who crossed me?  Who forced my hand, as was the lawful cap’n?  Who tipped me the black spot the day we landed and began this dance?  Ah, it’s a fine dance—­I’m with you there—­and looks mighty like a hornpipe in a rope’s end at Execution Dock by London town, it does.  But who done it?  Why, it was Anderson, and Hands, and you, George Merry!  And you’re the last above board of that same meddling crew; and you have the Davy Jones’s insolence to up and stand for cap’n over me—­you, that sank the lot of us!  By the powers!  But this tops the stiffest yarn to nothing.”

Silver paused, and I could see by the faces of George and his late comrades that these words had not been said in vain.

“That’s for number one,” cried the accused, wiping the sweat from his brow, for he had been talking with a vehemence that shook the house.  “Why, I give you my word, I’m sick to speak to you.  You’ve neither sense nor memory, and I leave it to fancy where your mothers was that let you come to sea.  Sea!  Gentlemen o’ fortune!  I reckon tailors is your trade.”