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NARRATIVE RESUMED BY JIM HAWKINS: THE GARRISON IN THE
STOCKADE |
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S soon as Ben Gunn saw the colors he came to a halt, stopped me by the arm, and sat down. "Now," said he, "there's your friends, sure enough."
"Far more likely it's the mutineers," I answered.
"That!" he cried. "Why, in a place like this, where nobody puts in but gen'lemen of fortune, Silver would fly the Jolly Roger, you don't make no doubt of that. No; that's your friends. There's been blows, too, and I reckon your friends has had the best of it; and here they are ashore in the old stockade as was made years and years ago by Flint. Ah, he was the man to have a head-piece, was Flint! Barring rum, his match were never seen. He was afraid of none, not he; on'y Silver—Silver was that genteel."
"Well," said I, "that may be so, and so be it; all the more reason that I should hurry on and join my friends."
"Nay, mate," returned Ben, "not you. You're a good boy, or I'm mistook; but you're on'y a boy, all told. Now, Ben
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