down, hand over hand, by the powers! He talked o' keel-hauling, did he? I'll keel-haul him!"
All the time he was jerking out these phrases he was stumping up and down the tavern on his crutch, slapping tables with his hand, and giving such a show of excitement as would have convinced an Old Bailey1 judge or a Bow Street runner.2 My suspicions had been thoroughly: re-awakened on finding Black Dog at the Spy-glass, and I watched the cook narrowly. But he was too deep, and too ready, and too clever for me, and by the time the two men had come back out of breath, and confessed that they had lost the track in a crowd, and been scolded like thieves, I would have gone bail for the innocence of Long John Silver.
'See here, now, Hawkins," said he, "here's a blessed hard thing on a man like-me, now, ain't it? There's Cap'n Trelawney—what's he to think? Here I have this confounded son of a Dutchman sitting in my own house, drinking of my own rum! Here you comes and tells me of it plain; and here I let him give us all the slip before my blessed dead-lights!3 Now, Hawkins, you do me justice with the cap'n. You're a lad, you are, but you're as smart as paint. I see that when you first came in. Now, here it is: What could I do, with this 'old timber I hobble on? When I was an A B master mariner I'd have come up alongside of him, hand over hand, and broached him4 to in a brace of old shakes, I would; and now—"
And then, all of a sudden, he stopped, and his jaw dropped as though he had remembered something.
