AFTER
        the 32nd chapter
               of TREASURE ISLAND,
           two of
               the puppets strolled out
              to have a pipe
             before business should begin again,
         and met in an open
               place not far
                   from the story.

    "Good-morning,
           Cap'n," said the first,
         with a man-o'-war salute,
            and a beaming countenance.

    "Ah,
           Silver!"

    grunted the other.

    "You're in a bad way,
           Silver."

    "Now,
           Cap'n Smollett,"
          remonstrated Silver,
               "dooty is dooty,
             as I knows,
               and none better;
            but we're off dooty now;
               and I
                can't see no call
                      to keep
                           up the morality business."

    "You're a damned rogue,
           my man," said the Captain.

    "Come,
           come,
         Cap'n,
           be just," returned the other.

    "There's no call
          to be angry
               with me in earnest.

    I'm on'y a chara'ter
           in a sea story.

    I don't really exist."

    "Well,
           I don't really exist either,"
          says the Captain,
               "which seems to meet that."

    "I wouldn't
          set no limits to
         what a virtuous chara'ter
            might consider argument,"
                responded Silver.

    "But I'm the villain
           of this tale,
         I am;
        and speaking
               as one sea-faring man
                   to another,
           what I want
              to know is,
         what's the odds?"

    "Were you never
          taught your catechism?"

    said the Captain.

    "Don't you
          know there's such a thing
               as an Author?"

    "Such a thing
           as a Author?"

    returned John,
           derisively.

    "And who better'n me?

    And the p'int is,
           if the Author made you,
         he made Long John,
           and he made Hands,
         and Pew,
           and George Merry - not
             that George
                is up to much,
         for he's little more'n
               a name;
        and he made Flint,
           what there is of him;
        and he made
               this here mutiny,
           you keep
               such a work about;
        and he
            had Tom Redruth shot;
        and - well,
           if that's a Author,
         give me Pew!"

    "Don't you
          believe in a future state?"

    said Smollett.

    "Do you think there's nothing
         but the present story-paper?"

    "I don't rightly
          know for that,"
          said Silver;
            "and I don't see
                 what it's got
                      to do with it,
               anyway.

    What I know is this:
        if there is sich
               a thing
             as a Author,
           I'm his favourite chara'ter.

    He does me fathoms better'n
         he does you - fathoms,
           he does.

    And he likes doing me.

    He keeps me
           on deck mostly
               all the time,
           crutch and all;
         and he leaves
               you measling in the hold,
           where nobody can't see you,
          nor wants to,
           and you
            may lay to that!

    If there is a Author,
           by thunder,
         but he's on my side,
           and you
            may lay to it!"

    "I see
        he's giving
               you a long rope,"
              said the Captain.

    "But that
        can't change a man's convictions.

    I know the Author
        respects me;
           I feel it
               in my bones;
        when you and
             I had
               that talk
                   at the blockhouse door,
           who do you think
             he was for,
         my man?"

    "And don't he respect me?"

    cried Silver.

    "Ah,
           you should
         'a'
            heard me
              putting down my mutiny,
           George Merry and Morgan and
             that lot,
         no longer ago'n last chapter;
        you'd heard something then!

    You'd
         'a'