He looked at me sourly enough, but said nothing. Some of the color had come back into his cheeks, though he still looked very sick and still continued to slip out and settle down as the ship banged about.
"By the by," I continued, "I can't have these colors, Mr. Hands; and by your leave I'll strike 'em. Better none than these."
And, again dodging the boom, I ran to the color lines, hauled down their cursed black flag, and chucked it overboard.
"God save the king!" said I, waving my cap; "and there's an end to Captain Silver."
He watched me keenly and slyly, his chin all the while on his breast.
"I reckon," he said at last—"I reckon, Cap'n Hawkins, you'll kind o' want to get ashore, now. S'pose we talks."
"Why, yes," says I, "with all my heart, Mr. Hands. Say on." And I went back to my meal with a good appetite.
"This man," he began, nodding feebly at the corpse—"O'Brien were his name—a rank Irelander—this man and me got the canvas on her, meaning for to sail her back. Well, he's dead now, he is—as dead as bilge; and who's to sail this ship, I don't see. Without I give you a hint, you ain't that man, as far's I can tell. Now, look here, you gives me food and drink, and a old scarf or ankecher to tie my wound up, you do; and I'll tell you how to sail her; and that's about square all round, I take it."
