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"It is not three hundred pounds, sir," answered Mr Lawrence, with the countenance of a man who is resolved in his intention, but desires to speak with prudence and good humour. "I think you are a mutinous dog," said Mr Lawrence in a snarling, sarcastic voice, but preserving a frown that was portentous of an intellectual thunderstorm through the darkness of which the eyes would flash lightning. "Do you see those men-of-war out yonder? I need but make a signal to bring an armed crew aboard, and then you shall[Pg 337] be carried into the first port that's convenient and discharged to make way for a crew of willing men—men willing to obey their commander, who must be willing to obey his owner." She shivered. "And I'm very fond of them, only," she added as she followed him to the door, "I never know whether they want to eat me up or caress me.".

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"Yep; they don't seem to take to the crick water," Billy replied. "It's sort of scummy an' smells queer." "Well, there's the Proctors, five families of 'em an' every last one of 'em a brother to the other." The building held all the unmistakable odors of a school room. The smell of chalk dust, mouldy bread crusts, mice, dirty slates and musty books rose up to smite the arrivals. Four rows of pine seats, blackened with ink-daubs and deeply scarred by pocket-knives, ran the entire length of the building. A big box stove stood in the centre of the room, its wavering pipe supported by wires from the ceiling. Her father nodded. "I'll bet a cookie that was Billy's old muzzle loader I heard down in the duck-ponds about daylight," he laughed. "Maybe," he added hopefully, "he'll fetch us a brace of ducks.".