"Refuse that and you've seen the last of me but musketballs."
"Very good," said the captain."'Now you'll hear me. If you'll come up one by one, unarmed, I'll engage to clap you all in irons,and to take you home to a fair trial in England. If you won't, my name is Alexander Smollett, I've flown my sovereign's colors, and I'll see you all to Davy Jones.1 You can't find the treasure. You can't sail the ship—there's not a man among you fit to sail the ship. You can't fight us—Gray, there, got away from five of you. Your ship's in irons, Master Silver; you're on a lee-shore, and so you'll find I stand here and tell you so, and they're the last good words you'll get from me; for, in the name of heaven, I'll put a bullet in your back when next I meet you. Tramp, my lad. Bundle out of this, please, hand over hand, and double quick."
Silver's face was a picture; his eyes started in his head with wrath. He shook the fire out of his pipe.
"Give me a hand up!"' he cried.
"Not I," returned the captain.
"Who'll give me a hand up?" he roared.
Not a man among us moved. Growling the foulest imprecations, he crawled along the sand till he got hold of the porch and could hoist himself again upon his crutch. Then he spat into the spring.
"There!" he cried, "that's what I think of ye. Before an hour's out, I'll stove in your old block-house like arum puncheon. Laugh, by thunder, laugh! Be-
