Flint clapped him on the shoulder, abruptly jovial.
"Ah, if it's ashore you'd be that's a different matter," says he. "I'm for goin' ashore myself. Bill, call all hands away for the boats, and we'll have a grand goat-hunt up Spyglass. John Silver shall barbecue 'em for us. And break out a couple o' casks o' rum. Lively now, my lads! We'll enjoy ourselves like the honest pirates we are!"
A frenzy of cheering answered him, and I backed water with my oars.
"You heard, Peter?" I said over my shoulder.
"Ja; dot's badt."
"We can't go where they do."
"Neen."
I reflected and examined the surface of the main island, rearing itself before us on the opposite side of the estuary. A half-mile, perhaps, eastward of the river we had been heading for a second and less inviting stream oozed its way into the haven through a succession of swamps. Beyond it toward the island's eastern shore the country was sandy and open. The Spyglass and the intervening hills were miles to the west, clear across the island and the two streams.
"There we'll be safe, Peter," I said. "They're not going in that direction, and if they do by chance come after us we'll be able to see them."
"Maybe we better go back to der ship," he answered doubtfully.