This here crew is on a wrong tack, I do believe. And come to think on it, it was like Flint’s voice, I grant you, but not just so clear-away like it, after all. It was liker somebody else’s voice now—it was liker—” “By the powers, Ben Gunn!” roared Silver. “Aye, and so it were,” cried Morgan, springing on his knees. “Ben Gunn it were!” “It don’t make much odds, do it, now?” asked Dick. “Ben Gunn’s not here in the body any more’n Flint.” But the older hands greeted this remark with scorn. “Why, nobody minds Ben Gunn,” cried Merry; “dead or alive, nobody minds him.” It was extraordinary how their spirits had returned and how the natural colour had revived in their faces. Soon they were chatting together, with intervals of listening; and not long after, hearing no further sound, they shouldered the tools and set forth again, Merry walking first with Silver’s compass to keep them on the right line with Skeleton Island. He had said the truth: dead or alive, nobody minded Ben Gunn. Dick alone still held his Bible, and looked around him as he went, with fearful glances; but he found no sympathy, and Silver even joked him on his precautions. “I told you,” said he—“I told you you had sp’iled your Bible. If it ain’t no good to swear by, what do you suppose a sperrit would give for it?