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Updated: May 31, 2025
Over the limp legs, up the great chest, the wave swept greedily; but the badger-grey head stayed above the flood. Then the water withdrew, blind and baffled. Kit lowered the grey head. "Thank ee," grunted the old man, and seemed to sleep. Kit made no answer. He was watching the sea with dreadful anxiety. Was it coming up? Was it going down? Were there to be more of those smothering floods?
It was so huge, so blank, so incomprehensible. It fell from heaven. Was it the skirt of God? Then he saw the dark crest miles overhead, and knew it for a cliff. He was right beneath it, and swinging towards it. Suddenly he became aware of a badger-grey head bobbing beside him on the spar. "Hullo, sir!" he gasped. A voice spluttered, "Pockets sprung a leak! tailor! ruffian!"
Out poked his badger-grey head from under his man, much as the boy had often seen a ferret from beneath the body of a disembowelled rabbit. "So fur so good," grunted the old man, crawling out on hands and knees, the scent-bottle between his teeth. "How's things forrad?" Forward the deck was all but clear. The remnant of the boarders, jammed up in the bows, were being hammered to death.
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