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Updated: June 22, 2025
"What's the matter with you?" growled Bostock; "too drunk to move?" "No-o-o-o!" roared the beachcomber. "I fell down these cursed stairs and broke both my legs." "Oh, that's it, is it?" said Bostock, coolly. "I was wondering what was the matter. Well, it'll keep you quiet for a bit." "You send down the doctor, I tell you." "He can't come, and if he could he wouldn't.
"Tell 'em if cookey tries to get away, mumkull." "Iss. Mumkull," and the black darted forward, to return with the remaining ten, all grinning, to seat themselves in a row, spear in hand, upon the starboard bulwarks, staring hard at Bostock, who tried to appear perfectly calm and composed; but his face twitched a little. "They'd better not try to mumkull me," he whispered to Carey.
"Don't you be feared about that," said the old fellow, nodding his head sideways; "but come along o' me on deck. I've saved this here on purpose for you to see." "Pah! How nasty!" cried the boy, as Bostock brought forward an iron bucket containing the internal parts of the pigeons. "Don't look very nice, but I thought I'd save it till you come." "What for?" "Come and see.
"I don't half like it," muttered Bostock. "That there boy's too wentersome. S'pose they got hungry they most always are and took it into their heads to make a fire. Ugh! They aren't to be trusted, but I b'leeve they all like him and would be precious sorry when they got back and Old King Cole asked where he was.
And Adam thereupon went into an elaborate account of Florence Bostock and Ralph Martin. He left out nothing, not even that Ralph had a wart on his chin, and had once broken a leg; nor that Florence had once been nearly drowned in a swimming-bath in London. It was the same afternoon.
"Course I do, my lad. I see you." "But you don't know how horribly tiresome it is," cried Carey, who was growing more and more exasperated. "Look here, haven't you promised me time after time that you'd have a fishing-line ready for me so that I could hold it when the tide came in and get a few fish?" "To be sure I did," said Bostock, coolly. "Then why don't you do it?"
I think we ought to say, `Look here, my fine fellow, two can play at that game o' yours, and get a tin o' powder, put a bit o' touch paper through the neck, set light to it, and chuck it down the stairs and blow him to smithereens first." "And explode the magazine ourselves if there is one?" cried Carey. "Well, I ham blessed!" cried Bostock. "I never thought o' that!
The only thing which seemed repellent to Carey was the growing heap of pearl shells, and the work upon which Bostock was engaged, which the boy looked upon with disgust. "Bah!" he exclaimed at last; "you're a regular oyster butcher, Bob. It's horribly messy." "Don't you call things by ugly names, Master Carey," said the old man, stolidly.
At the first blow there was a crash of glass, followed by a revolver shot from the bottom of the stairs, when Bostock dropped the axe and seized and cocked his gun. "The old un's at it, sir. Look out; maybe he's coming out." "Fire at him if he fires at us," said Carey, excitedly. "I'm a-going to fire at him, sir, afore he does," said the old sailor, sturdily. "See my swelled head, sir?"
I trot about my house my dear little house that you've made so nice for me. I do my marketing, and I go out to tea with the parson's wife, or the doctor's wife, or Mrs. Bostock, or Mrs. Grainger." "I didn't know you went to the Graingers." He thought that was not very loyal of Elise. "You must go somewhere." "Well?" "And in the evenings we play bridge." "Who plays bridge?" "Mr. Hawtrey, or Mr.
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