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 then as he saw the squire’s letter, he seemed to me to give something almost like a start.

“Oh!” said he, quite loud, 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 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, grey-haired, mahogany-faced sailor—­came forward pretty sheepishly, rolling his quid.

“Now, Morgan,” said Long John very sternly, “you never clapped your eyes on that Black—­Black Dog before, did you, now?”

“Not I, sir,” said Morgan with a salute.

“You didn’t know his name, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“By the powers, Tom Morgan, it’s as good for you!” exclaimed the landlord.  “If you had been mixed up with the like of that, you would never have put another foot in my house, you may lay to that.  And what was he saying to you?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir,” answered Morgan.

“Do you call that a head on your shoulders, or a blessed dead-eye?” cried Long John.  “Don’t rightly know, don’t you!  Perhaps you don’t happen to rightly know who you was speaking to, perhaps?  Come, now, what was he jawing—­v’yages, cap’ns, ships?  Pipe up!  What was it?”