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Narrative Resumed by Jim Hawkins: The Garrison in the Stockade

           Thesunhadjustset,theseabreezewasrustlingandtumblinginthewoodsandrufflingthegreysurfaceoftheanchorage;thetide,too,wasfarout,andgreattractsofsandlayuncovered;theair,aftertheheatoftheday,chilledmethroughmyjacket.

           TheHispaniolastilllaywhereshehadanchored;but,sureenough,therewastheJollyRogertheblackflagofpiracyflyingfromherpeak.EvenasIlooked,therecameanotherredflashandanotherreportthatsenttheechoesclattering,andonemoreround-shotwhistledthroughtheair.Itwasthelastofthecannonade.

           Ilayforsometimewatchingthebustlewhichsucceededtheattack.Menweredemolishingsomethingwithaxesonthebeachnearthestockadethepoorjolly-boat,Iafterwardsdiscovered.Away,nearthemouthoftheriver,agreatfirewasglowingamongthetrees,andbetweenthatpointandtheshiponeofthegigskeptcomingandgoing,themen,whomIhadseensogloomy,shoutingattheoarslikechildren.Buttherewasasoundintheirvoiceswhichsuggestedrum.

           AtlengthIthoughtImightreturntowardsthestockade.Iwasprettyfardownonthelow,sandyspitthatenclosestheanchoragetotheeast,andisjoinedathalf-watertoSkeletonIsland;andnow,asIrosetomyfeet,Isaw,somedistancefurtherdownthespitandrisingfromamonglowbushes,anisolatedrock,prettyhigh,andpeculiarlywhiteincolour.ItoccurredtomethatthismightbethewhiterockofwhichBenGunnhadspokenandthatsomedayorotheraboatmightbewantedandIshouldknowwheretolookforone.

           ThenIskirtedamongthewoodsuntilIhadregainedtherear,orshorewardside,ofthestockade,andwassoonwarmlywelcomedbythefaithfulparty.

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