To S.L.O.,
    an American gentleman
    in accordance with
         whose classic taste
    the following narrative
        has been designed,
    it is now,
           in return
               for numerous delightful hours,
    and with the kindest wishes,
    dedicated by his affectionate friend,
           the author.

    TO THE HESITATING
        PURCHASER

    If sailor tales
           to sailor tunes,
    Storm and adventure,
           heat and cold,
    If schooners,
           islands,
         and maroons,
    And buccaneers,
           and buried gold,
    And all the old romance,
           retold
    Exactly in the ancient way,
    Can please,
           as me
             they pleased of old,
          The wiser youngsters of today:

    --So be it,
           and fall on!

    If not,

    If studious youth
           no longer crave,
    His ancient appetites forgot,
    Kingston,
           or Ballantyne the brave,
    Or Cooper
           of the wood and wave:
    So be it,
           also!

    And may I

    And all my pirates
           share the grave Where these
               and their creations lie!

 
  PART ONE The Old Buccaneer

 
  1
  The Old Sea-dog at the Admiral
       Benbow

    SQUIRE
        TRELAWNEY,
           Dr. Livesey,
         and the rest
               of these gentlemen
            having asked me
                  to write
                       down the whole particulars
                     about Treasure Island,
           from the beginning
               to the end,
         keeping nothing back
             but the bearings
                   of the island,
           and that only
             because there is still
                   treasure not yet lifted,
         I take
               up my pen
                   in the year
                       of grace 17__
              and go back
                   to the time
             when my father
                   kept the Admiral Benbow inn
                       and the brown old seaman
                     with the sabre
                      cut first
                took up his lodging
                       under our roof.

    I remember him
         as if it were yesterday,
           as he came
             plodding to the inn door,
         his sea-chest
              following behind him
                   in a hand-barrow
          --a tall,
           strong,
         heavy,
           nut-brown man,
         his tarry pigtail
              falling over the shoulder
                   of his soiled blue coat,
           his hands ragged and scarred,
         with black,
           broken nails,
         and the sabre
              cut across one cheek,
           a dirty,
         livid white.

    I remember him
          looking round the cover and
              whistling to himself as
         he did so,
           and then breaking out in
             that old sea-song
               that he
                sang so often afterwards:

        "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--
           Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

    in the high,
           old tottering voice
             that seemed
                  to have been tuned and
                      broken at the capstan bars.

    Then he rapped
           on the door
               with a bit of stick
             like a handspike
         that he carried,
           and when my father appeared,
         called roughly
               for a glass of rum.

    This,
           when it
            was brought to him,
         he drank slowly,
           like a connoisseur,
         lingering on the taste
               and still
             looking about him
                   at the cliffs and
                 up at our signboard.

    "This is a handy cove,"
          says he at length;
            "and a pleasant sittyated grog-shop.

    Much company,
           mate?"

    My father told him no,
           very little company,
         the more was the pity.

    "Well,
           then,"
          said he,
               "this is
                   the berth for me.

    Here you,
           matey,"
          he cried to the man
             who trundled the barrow;
            "bring up
                   alongside and help
                 up my chest.

    I'll stay here
           a bit," he continued.

    "I'm a plain man;
        rum and bacon
               and eggs is
             what I want,
           and that head up
              there for to watch
               ships off.

    What you mought call me?

    You mought call me captain.