This was how it came about.

We had run up the trades to get the wind of the island we were after—­I am not allowed to be more plain—­and now we were running down for it with a bright lookout day and night.  It was about the last day of our outward voyage by the largest computation; some time that night, or at latest before noon of the morrow, we should sight the Treasure Island.  We were heading S.S.W. and had a steady breeze abeam and a quiet sea.  The Hispaniola rolled steadily, dipping her bowsprit now and then with a whiff of spray.  All was drawing alow and aloft; everyone was in the bravest spirits because we were now so near an end of the first part of our adventure.

Now, just after sundown, when all my work was over and I was on my way to my berth, it occurred to me that I should like an apple.  I ran on deck.  The watch was all forward looking out for the island.  The man at the helm was watching the luff of the sail and whistling away gently to himself, and that was the only sound excepting the swish of the sea against the bows and around the sides of the ship.

In I got bodily into the apple barrel, and found there was scarce an apple left; but sitting down there in the dark, what with the sound of the waters and the rocking movement of the ship, I had either fallen asleep or was on the point of doing so when a heavy man sat down with rather a clash close by.  The barrel shook as he leaned his shoulders against it, and I was just about to jump up when the man began to speak.  It was Silver’s voice, and before I had heard a dozen words, I would not have shown myself for all the world, but lay there, trembling and listening, in the extreme of fear and curiosity, for from these dozen words I understood that the lives of all the honest men aboard depended upon me alone.

11

What I Heard in the Apple Barrel

“No, not I,” said Silver.  “Flint was cap’n; I was quartermaster, along of my timber leg.  The same broadside I lost my leg, old Pew lost his deadlights.  It was a master surgeon, him that ampytated me—­out of college and all—­Latin by the bucket, and what not; but he was hanged like a dog, and sun-dried like the rest, at Corso Castle.  That was Roberts’ men, that was, and comed of changing names to their ships—­Royal fortune and so on.  Now, what a ship was christened, so let her stay, I says.  So it was with the Cassandra, as brought us all safe home from Malabar, after England took the viceroy of the Indies; so it was with the old walrus, Flint’s old ship, as I’ve seen amuck with the red blood and fit to sink with gold.”

“Ah!” cried another voice, that of the youngest hand on board, and evidently full of admiration.  “He was the flower of the flock, was Flint!”