My great-uncle surveyed this magnificence with pardonable pride. 'Twas evident it meant something to him.
"Diomede," he said to the negro, "where is Master Gunn?"
A high, piping voice answered him from the companionway.
"Coming, worshipful sir. Ben Gunn's a-coming. I jest stopped by the galley to fetch up your chocolate, a-sayin' to myself as the captain would be sharp-set account o' early business in the morning."
The man who followed the voice trotted in bearing a silver pitcher of steaming chocolate, Murray's favorite drink; aye, and food. He was a slender fellow, with a simple, open face, clad in plain black as became an upper servant. He stopped dead at sight of us.
"Set your tray on the table, Gunn," instructed my great-uncle. "This is my grandnephew, Master Ormerod, and his friend, Master Corlaer. They are to sail with us a while."
Gunn pulled his forelock and ducked.
"Sarvant, gentlemen," he acknowledged. "Allus glad to please, is Ben Gunn. Bound to oblige ye, gentlemen. You jest name your drinks, and I'll fetch 'em up from the wine-bins."
"Food as well, Gunn," said Murray. "And Captain Flint is coming aboard."
Ben Gunn cocked his head on one side.