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Penn doubled up, gasping among the fish, Manuel bowed back and forth to supple himself, and Long Jack leaned over the bulwarks. The cook appeared, noiseless as a black shadow, collected a mass of backbones and heads, and retreated. "Blood-ends for breakfast an' head-chowder," said Long Jack, smacking his lips. "Knife oh!" repeated Uncle Salters, waving the flat, curved splitter's weapon.
She was gone home long before he put out the store lights and turned out the last lingering idler, for Cap'n Abe preferred to cook for himself. He declared the Widow Gallup did not know how to make a decent chowder, anyway; and as for lobscouse, or the proper frying of a mess of "blood-ends," she was all at sea.
He found two boys in two tumbled heaps side by side on the main hatch, so deeply asleep that he actually rolled them to their berths. It was the forty-fathom slumber that clears the soul and eye and heart, and sends you to breakfast ravening. They emptied a big tin dish of juicy fragments of fish the blood-ends the cook had collected overnight.
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