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Mrs. Wilson gazed sternly at Billy. "Willium, do you take Anson's tarts and pie?" she asked ominously. It was as Captain Acton said: the Saucy brig-of-war was getting under weigh, and it might be safely concluded for no other purpose than to exercise the crew by an off-shore trip. Captain Acton and the two ladies stood watching the little toy figure away down in the river's mouth. Sail was made with man-of-war despatch; all the clews were sheeted home together, the yards at the same time mounting, so that all at once it seemed the little vessel broke into a broad, bright, shapely glare of canvas, slightly leaning from the breeze as she softly crept round and pointed her bowsprit seaward, and whitening the water under her with the power of a floating body of radiance. "What is that you say?" cried Aunt Caroline, starting in her chair and peering over her gold-rimmed glasses at Mr Lawrence..

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"Thin God bless him," cried Harry. "Now grasp tight t' yer rabbit fut, an' we'll be afther goin' on our way t' tempt Satan, over beyant in the evil cedars." The sick man sank lower in his chair, his face working, his heart crying the same pleading cry as cried the heart of Rachel of old for her children—a cry understood only by the heart in which it was born—and God. Billy put his hand on the latch of the door, then stood, frozen into inaction. From the interior of the shanty had come a groan—a human groan! Billy almost dropped the lantern. A cold shiver ran down his spine. His mind flashed to Old Scroggie's ghost. The hand that groped into his pocket in search of the rabbit-foot charm trembled so it could scarcely clasp that cherished object. Mr Lawrence reflected as though mentally gauging depth of hold and breadth of beam, and answered, "I think when flush she should hold six hundred tons.".