Остров сокровищ

The Ebb-tide Runs

           Onshore,Icouldseetheglowofthegreatcamp-fireburningwarmlythroughtheshore-sidetrees.Someonewassinging,adull,old,droningsailor’ssong,withadroopandaquaverattheendofeveryverse,andseeminglynoendtoitatallbutthepatienceofthesinger.Ihadhearditonthevoyagemorethanonceandrememberedthesewords:

           "Butonemanofhercrewalive,

           Whatputtoseawithseventy-five."

           AndIthoughtitwasadittyrathertoodolefullyappropriateforacompanythathadmetsuchcruellossesinthemorning.But,indeed,fromwhatIsaw,allthesebuccaneerswereascallousastheseatheysailedon.

           Atlastthebreezecame;theschoonersidledanddrewnearerinthedark;Ifeltthehawserslackenoncemore,andwithagood,tougheffort,cutthelastfibresthrough.

           Thebreezehadbutlittleactiononthecoracle,andIwasalmostinstantlysweptagainstthebowsoftheHispaniola.Atthesametime,theschoonerbegantoturnuponherheel,spinningslowly,endforend,acrossthecurrent.

           Iwroughtlikeafiend,forIexpectedeverymomenttobeswamped;andsinceIfoundIcouldnotpushthecoracledirectlyoff,Inowshovedstraightastern.AtlengthIwasclearofmydangerousneighbour,andjustasIgavethelastimpulsion,myhandscameacrossalightcordthatwastrailingoverboardacrossthesternbulwarks.InstantlyIgraspedit.

           WhyIshouldhavedonesoIcanhardlysay.Itwasatfirstmereinstinct,butonceIhaditinmyhandsandfounditfast,curiositybegantogettheupperhand,andIdeterminedIshouldhaveonelookthroughthecabinwindow.

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