Fabrizio del Wrongo writes:
As I was waiting, a man came out of a side room, and at a glance I was sure he must be Long John. His left leg was cut off close by the hip, and under the left shoulder he carried a crutch, which he managed with wonderful dexterity, hopping about upon it like a bird. He was very tall and strong, with a face as big as a ham — plain and pale, but intelligent and smiling. Indeed, he seemed in the most cheerful spirits, whistling as he moved about among the tables, with a merry word or a slap on the shoulder for the more favoured of his guests.
Now, to tell you the truth, from the very first mention of Long John in Squire Trelawney’s letter I had taken a fear in my mind that he might prove to be the very one- legged sailor whom I had watched for so long at the old Benbow. But one look at the man before me was enough. I had seen the captain, and Black Dog, and the blind man, Pew, and I thought I knew what a buccaneer was like — a very different creature, according to me, from this clean and pleasant-tempered landlord.
I plucked up courage at once, crossed the threshold, and walked right up to the man where he stood, propped on his crutch, talking to a customer.
“Mr. Silver, sir?” I asked, holding out the note.
“Yes, my lad,” said he; “such is my name, to be sure. And who may you be?” And then as he saw the squire’s letter, he seemed to me to give something almost like a start.
“Oh!” said he, quite loud, and offering his hand. “I see. You are our new cabin-boy; pleased I am to see you.”
And he took my hand in his large firm grasp.
— Robert Louis Stevenson
Blowhard, Esq.
Callowman
Sherbrooke
Eddie Pensier
Enzo Nakamura
Epaminondas
Fabrizio del Wrongo
Fenster
Brundle Guy
Glynn Marshes
Paleo Retiree
Atypical Neurotic
Question Lady
Sax von Stroheim
Sir Barken Hyena
The Mistaken
Uncouth Reflections 
In my mind, Long John Silver I’ve always pictured LJS as looking something like a one-legged Nick Nolte, based on that very specific description. Over course, Robert Newton’s priceless Disney LJS overrides all previous conceptions.
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Long John strikes me as the best thing in “Treasure Island.” What a great and memorable character. Like a malevolent Falstaff.
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First novel I read at the age of seven. Magic.
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The change from the tight frock-coat, silk cap, and kid gloves of
an undergraduate at Harvard, to the loose duck trousers, checked
shirt, and tarpaulin hat of a sailor, though somewhat of a
transformation, was soon made; and I supposed that I should pass
very well for a Jack tar. But it is impossible to deceive the
practised eye in these matters; and while I thought myself to be
looking as salt as Neptune himself, I was, no doubt, known for a
landsman by every one on board as soon as I hove in sight. A
sailor has a peculiar cut to his clothes, and a way of wearing
them which a green hand can never get. The trousers, tight round
the hips, and thence hanging long and loose round the feet, a
superabundance of checked shirt, a low-crowned, well-varnished
black hat, worn on the back of the head, with half a fathom of
black ribbon hanging over the left eye, and a slip-tie to the
black silk neckerchief, with sundry other minutiae, are signs, the
want of which betrays the beginner at once. Besides the points in
my dress which were out of the way, doubtless my complexion and
hands were quite enough to distinguish me from the regular salt
who, with a sunburnt cheek, wide step, and rolling gait, swings
his bronzed and toughened hands athwart-ships, half opened, as
though just ready to grasp a rope.
Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast
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