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"No," Wilson pushed back his chair and felt for his pipe, "but he seems to want to own the whole Settlement. He made me an offer for my place and he tried to buy Cobin Keeler's farm, too, so Cobin says." "Why, it's money, you ninny! You kill the robbers an' you get the church collection an' lots of other money besides. Then you're rich an' don't ever have to do any work; jest fish an' hunt an' give speeches at tea-meetin's an' things." One bright morning in April in that memorable year 1805, Captain Charles Acton, R.N. (retired), stood on his lawn in front of the house watching a gardener who was at work at a flower-bed. He was a slightly-built but tall, very gentleman-like man, one of the last in a crowd to be picked out as a seafarer. He was pale, his nose aquiline, lips thin, and the expression of the mouth firm. He was dressed in a frill shirt, loose cravat of white cambric, red-striped waistcoat, long green coat with a high collar and small cuffs, tight breeches to the ankle buttoned to the middle of the thigh, and top-boots; a rather low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat sat somewhat cocked on his head. His hair was long, without powder, and tied a little way down the back in a sort of tail..

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He glanced around in search of the boy. "Why, bless my soul, he's gone!" he exclaimed. "There's a youngster you'll need to watch close, teacher," he said grimly. "Yes, sir," answered Paul, who was not sailor enough to say, "Ay, ay, sir," which should have been his speech. Meanwhile Lucy Acton watched and waited on the quarterdeck of the Aurora. The hour was about half-past four. The breeze was sinking with the sun; it still blew with weight enough to keep the sails of the three ships steady. But the dance of the sea was growing languid, the rolling foam of the breaking head was wanting in brilliance of flash and friskiness of somersault; the blue of the deep was darkening, and spread in violet shot with light blue and purple gleams to the margin of[Pg 443] the reflected glory of the sun where the lines of light steeped into the richer colour. Nobody stood. Anson was on the point of jumping to his feet and telling who had brought the sulphur into the room but, on second thought, sat still. The teacher had asked who had put it in the stove. Certainly it had not been Fatty Watland, because he had gone on an errand for the teacher long before the fire was started..