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Updated: May 3, 2025
Howland was inclined to have him thrown overboard at once, but the better counsel of the Captain prevailed. "Very well," growled the ruffled owner, "have your fling." Admiral Congosto was a pompous Spaniard, obese, with bristling brows and moustaches, who wrinkled his forehead and winked his eyes constantly. "So," he said, with unctuous dignity, as Dan met him at the rail, "the Capitan?"
Admiral Congosto had no sooner raised his glass for the first toast than the two iron bulkhead doors slid together with a clang, followed by the rasp of bolts flying home. The Admiral of the fleet and his lords commanders were hopelessly imprisoned amid the luxury of saloon surroundings, as hopelessly imprisoned as though they had been shut into the darkness of the lower hold.
Howland desires me to say that it is his wish that the friendly relations between his officers and those of the navy of San Blanco shall never wane. There will, in short, be a dinner in half an hour to the officers of the fleet." "A dinnaire!" Congosto sprang forward and embraced his prospective host, and five minutes later was speeding to his ship, the bearer of glad news.
But that was out of the question, considering those aboard. As the chug of the engines died out and the cough of the exhaust hit the glooming air and the clumsy black hull slid to a gurgling standstill, a gig was lowered from the El Toro, the flag-ship, and the officer, Admiral Congosto, was soon stumbling up the gangway of the freighter. Mr.
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