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"Is that your opinion, sir?" Captain Weaver asked the Admiral. Old Harry O'Dule's dream was about to be realised, Stanhope had assured him that he would see to it that he should play his whistle beneath Ireland's skies before another autumn dawned. "Have you seen him?" she shouted. "What you think of him, Maurice?".

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The story was to Captain Acton's taste, and he laughed with enjoyment. "Ay, that must be," exclaimed the Admiral, "even though Heaven should rain French men-of-war." Whilst they waited for the arrival of the frigate's surgeon, Captain Acton asked Paul some questions which the hunchback answered as though when the examination was over the Captain would send him to be hanged forthwith at the yard-arm. In an agony of impatience the Admiral awaited the arrival of the medical man, who, considering that there was a space of blown and running sea for the boat to cross and re-cross, returned with Mr Fellowes in a space of time that was the expression of the habitual and disciplined promptitude of everything in which time finds a place, that is carried on aboard a British man-of-war. "Are we now?" Landon rubbed his hands and smacked his lips in anticipation. "You're goin' to stay and help clean up on 'em, Billy?".