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"What's the matter, don't you want him?" asked his mother. "I thought maybe you'd like to have him, seein's you're such cronies an' there must be some good in him in spite of his looks. I could have them partridges that Joe Scraff sent over roasted with bacon strips across 'em, an' baked potatoes, an' maybe I might boil an apple dumplin'." "Well, what is it, then? Who sent you? Come now, out with it quick, or I'll take a tarred rope-end to you." "Oh, Acton," exclaimed the Admiral, "nothing that you can say could approach what I feel, could express what I suffer.".

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"But Dad don't need it," Jim declared. "He's rich now." She caught her hat from a peg, opened the door, and Ringdo gamboled out before her. Down the path to the gate they sped and out into the tree-hedged road. Already the frost-pinched leaves, crimson-veined and golden, were being swung to earth by a soft wind that promised snow. With Ringdo galloping clumsily beside her Erie went down the road, trilling a snatch of a song. 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. "But what is to be hoped for in a place like this? Here are no industries; there is nothing doing, you cannot turn smacksman or start as a pilot.".