Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

his powdered wig, and sat there, looking very strange indeed with his own close-cropped, black poll.
    At last Mr. Dance finished the story.
    “Mr. Dance,” said the squire, “you are a very noble fellow. And as for riding down that black, atrocious miscreant, I regard it as an act of virtue, sir, like stamping on a cockroach. This lad Hawkins is a trump, I perceive. Hawkins, will you ring that bell? Mr. Dance must have some ale.”
    “And so, Jim,” said the doctor, “you have the thing that they were after, have you?”
    “Here it is, sir,” said I, and gave him the oilskin packet.
    The doctor looked it all over, as if his fingers were itching to open it; but, instead of doing that, he put it quietly in the pocket of his coat.
    “Squire,” said he, “when Dance has had his ale he must, of course, be off on his Majesty’s service; but I mean to keep Jim Hawkins here to sleep at my house, and, with your permission, I propose we should have up the cold pie, and let him sup.”
    “As you will, Livesey,” said the squire; “Hawkins has earned better than cold pie.”
    So a big pigeon pie was brought in and put on a side-table, and I made a hearty supper, for I was as hungry as a hawk, while Mr. Dance was further complimented, and at last dismissed.
    “And now, squire,” said the doctor.
    “And now, Livesey,” said the squire in the same breath.
    “One at a time, one at a time,” laughed Dr. Livesey. “You have heard of this Flint, I suppose?”
    “Heard of him!” cried the squire. “Heard of him, you say! He was the bloodthirstiest buccaneer that sailed, Blackbeard was a child to Flint. The Spaniards were so prodigiously afraid of him, that, I tell you, sir, I was sometimes proud he was an Englishman. I’ve seen his top-sails with these eyes, off Trinidad, and the cowardly son of a rum-puncheon that I sailed with put back—put back, sir, into Port of Spain.”
    “Well, I’ve heard of him myself, in England,” said the doctor. “But the point is, had he money?”
    “Money!” cried the squire. “Have you heard the story? What were these villains after but money? What do they care for but money? For what would they risk their rascal carcasses but money?”
    “That we shall soon know,” replied the doctor. “But you are so confoundedly hot-headed and exclamatory that I cannot get a word in. What I want to know is this: Supposing that I have here in my pocket some clue to where Flint buried his treasure, will that treasure amount to much?”
    “Amount, sir!” cried the squire. “It will amount to this: if we have the clue you talk about, I fit out a ship in Bristol dock, and take you and Hawkins here along, and I’ll have that treasure if I search a year.”
    “Very well,” said the doctor. “Now, then, if Jim is agreeable, we’ll open the packet;” and he laid it before him on the table.
    The bundle was sewn together, and the doctor had to get out his instrument-case, and cut the stitches with his medical scissors. It contained two things—a book and a sealed paper.
    “First of all we’ll try the book,” observed the doctor.
    The squire and I were both peering over his shoulder as he opened it, for Dr. Livesey had kindly motioned me to come round from the side-table, where I had been eating, to enjoy the sport of the search. On the first page there were only some scraps of writing, such as a man with a pen in his hand might make for idleness or practice. One was the same as the tattoo mark, “Billy Bones his fancy;” then there was “Mr. W. Bones, mate.” “No more rum.” “Off Palm Key he got itt;” and some other snatches, mostly single words and unintelligible. I could not help wondering who it was that had “got itt,” and what “itt” was that he got. A knife in his back as like as not.
    “Not much instruction there,” said Dr. Livesey, as he passed on.
    The next ten or twelve pages were filled with a curious series of entries. There was a date at one end of the line