His stories were what frightened people worst of all.  Dreadful stories they were—­about hanging, and walking the plank, and storms at sea, and the Dry Tortugas, and wild deeds and places on the Spanish Main.  By his own account he must have lived his life among some of the wickedest men that God ever allowed upon the sea, and the language in which he told these stories shocked our plain country people almost as much as the crimes that he described.  My father was always saying the inn would be ruined, for people would soon cease coming there to be tyrannized over and put down, and sent shivering to their beds; but I really believe his presence did us good.  People were frightened at the time, but on looking back they rather liked it; it was a fine excitement in a quiet country life, and there was even a party of the younger men who pretended to admire him, calling him a “true sea-dog” and a “real old salt” and such like names, and saying there was the sort of man that made England terrible at sea.

In one way, indeed, he bade fair to ruin us, for he kept on staying week after week, and at last month after month, so that all the money had been long exhausted, and still my father never plucked up the heart to insist on having more.  If ever he mentioned it, the captain blew through his nose so loudly that you might say he roared, and stared my poor father out of the room.  I have seen him wringing his hands after such a rebuff, and I am sure the annoyance and the terror he lived in must have greatly hastened his early and unhappy death.

All the time he lived with us the captain made no change whatever in his dress but to buy some stockings from a hawker.  One of the cocks of his hat having fallen down, he let it hang from that day forth, though it was a great annoyance when it blew.  I remember the appearance of his coat, which he patched himself upstairs in his room, and which, before the end, was nothing but patches.  He never wrote or received a letter, and he never spoke with any but the neighbours, and with these, for the most part, only when drunk on rum.  The great sea-chest none of us had ever seen open.

He was only once crossed, and that was towards the end, when my poor father was far gone in a decline that took him off.  Dr. Livesey came late one afternoon to see the patient, took a bit of dinner from my mother, and went into the parlour to smoke a pipe until his horse should come down from the hamlet, for we had no stabling at the old Benbow.  I followed him in, and I remember observing the contrast the neat, bright doctor, with his powder as white as snow and his bright, black eyes and pleasant manners, made with the coltish country folk, and above all, with that filthy, heavy, bleared scarecrow of a pirate of ours, sitting, far gone in rum, with his arms on the table.  Suddenly he—­the captain, that is—­began to pipe up his eternal song: 

“Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—­
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! 
Drink and the devil had done for the rest—­
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”