Остров сокровищ

“Pieces of Eight”

           Thebloodrandownthefaster,tobesure,butIwasmyownmasteragainandonlytackedtothemastbymycoatandshirt.

           TheselastIbrokethroughwithasuddenjerk,andthenregainedthedeckbythestarboardshrouds.FornothingintheworldwouldIhaveagainventured,shakenasIwas,upontheoverhangingportshroudsfromwhichIsraelhadsolatelyfallen.

           IwentbelowanddidwhatIcouldformywound;itpainedmeagooddealandstillbledfreely,butitwasneitherdeepnordangerous,nordiditgreatlygallmewhenIusedmyarm.ThenIlookedaroundme,andastheshipwasnow,inasense,myown,Ibegantothinkofclearingitfromitslastpassengerthedeadman,O’Brien.

           Hehadpitched,asIhavesaid,againstthebulwarks,wherehelaylikesomehorrible,ungainlysortofpuppet,life-size,indeed,buthowdifferentfromlife’scolourorlife’scomeliness!InthatpositionIcouldeasilyhavemywaywithhim,andasthehabitoftragicaladventureshadwornoffalmostallmyterrorforthedead,Itookhimbythewaistasifhehadbeenasackofbranandwithonegoodheave,tumbledhimoverboard.Hewentinwithasoundingplunge;theredcapcameoffandremainedfloatingonthesurface;andassoonasthesplashsubsided,IcouldseehimandIsraellyingsidebyside,bothwaveringwiththetremulousmovementofthewater.O’Brien,thoughstillquiteayoungman,wasverybald.Therehelay,withthatbaldheadacrossthekneesofthemanwhohadkilledhimandthequickfishessteeringtoandfrooverboth.

           Iwasnowaloneupontheship;thetidehadjustturned.Thesunwaswithinsofewdegreesofsettingthatalreadytheshadowofthepinesuponthewesternshorebegantoreachrightacrosstheanchorageandfallinpatternsonthedeck.

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