CHAPTER XIX
NARRATIVE RESUMED BY JIM HAWKINS: THE GARRISON IN THE STOCKADE
As soon as Ben Gunn saw the colours 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 headpiece, was Flint! Barring rum, his match were never seen. He were 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 Gunn is fly. Rum wouldn't bring me there, where you 're going—not rum wouldn't, till I see your born gen'leman, and gets it on his word of honour. And you
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