Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson. Part I.
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The Treasure Island
It was about the last day of our outward voyage by the last computation. Some time that night, or latest before noon of the morrow, we should cite the Treasure Island. We were heading south-west, and had a steady, breezer-beam and a quiet sea. The Hispaniola rolled steadily, dipping her bow-spirit now and then with a whiff of spray. All it was drawing, a low and a loft. Now, just after sundown, when all my work was over, and I was on my way to my birth, it occurred to me that I should like an apple. But sitting down there in the dark, what with the sound of the waters and
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