“Come in, Mr. Dance,” says he, very stately and condescending.

“Good evening, Dance,” says the doctor with a nod.  “And good evening to you, friend Jim.  What good wind brings you here?”

The supervisor stood up straight and stiff and told his story like a lesson; and you should have seen how the two gentlemen leaned forward and looked at each other, and forgot to smoke in their surprise and interest.  When they heard how my mother went back to the inn, Dr. Livesey fairly slapped his thigh, and the squire cried “Bravo!” and broke his long pipe against the grate.  Long before it was done, Mr. Trelawney (that, you will remember, was the squire’s name) had got up from his seat and was striding about the room, and the doctor, as if to hear the better, had taken off his powdered wig and sat there looking very strange indeed with his own close-cropped black poll.

At last Mr. Dance finished the story.

“Mr. Dance,” said the squire, “you are a very noble fellow.  And as for riding down that black, atrocious miscreant, I regard it as an act of virtue, sir, like stamping on a cockroach.  This lad Hawkins is a trump, I perceive.  Hawkins, will you ring that bell?  Mr. Dance must have some ale.”

“And so, Jim,” said the doctor, “you have the thing that they were after, have you?”

“Here it is, sir,” said I, and gave him the oilskin packet.

The doctor looked it all over, as if his fingers were itching to open it; but instead of doing that, he put it quietly in the pocket of his coat.

“Squire,” said he, “when Dance has had his ale he must, of course, be off on his Majesty’s service; but I mean to keep Jim Hawkins here to sleep at my house, and with your permission, I propose we should have up the cold pie and let him sup.”

“As you will, Livesey,” said the squire; “Hawkins has earned better than cold pie.”

So a big pigeon pie was brought in and put on a sidetable, and I made a hearty supper, for I was as hungry as a hawk, while Mr. Dance was further complimented and at last dismissed.

“And now, squire,” said the doctor.

“And now, Livesey,” said the squire in the same breath.

“One at a time, one at a time,” laughed Dr. Livesey.  “You have heard of this Flint, I suppose?”

“Heard of him!” cried the squire.  “Heard of him, you say!  He was the bloodthirstiest buccaneer that sailed.  Blackbeard was a child to Flint.  The Spaniards were so prodigiously afraid of him that, I tell you, sir, I was sometimes proud he was an Englishman.  I’ve seen his top-sails with these eyes, off Trinidad, and the cowardly son of a rum-puncheon that I sailed with put back—­put back, sir, into Port of Spain.”

“Well, I’ve heard of him myself, in England,” said the doctor.  “But the point is, had he money?”

“Money!” cried the squire.  “Have you heard the story?  What were these villains after but money?  What do they care for but money?  For what would they risk their rascal carcasses but money?”