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Updated: June 2, 2025
When Cappy signed his telegrams with the company name it was always a sure indication he had discharged his cargo of sentiment and gotten down to business once more. "A little creosoted piling now and then is bully for the best of men," he cackled. "For a month of Sundays that man Peasley will curse me as far as he can smell the Retriever. Oh, well!
The second mate and the cook quit the minute they discovered it was to be another cargo of creosoted piling; and now that I am fired Mr. Murphy has concluded that he might as well quit also. Will stick by ship, however, until you send my successor; meantime loading continues as usual." "Well, that's what the man Peasley says!" Cappy snapped. "Murphy's quit, eh? Well, I guess Mr.
The ground divides itself into three sections the red clay north of Axim; the sands, whose green-grown upper levels are fitted to support iron-pot sleepers; and the Avin valley, which debouches upon the left bank of the Ancobra. The first and the last divisions are safe for creosoted wood. My friend Mr.
Murphy hadn't received my telegram when Peasley sent this message. It'll take more than a cargo of creosoted piling to keep Murphy out of the master's cabin when he hears from me." The stenographer entered with another telegram. "Ah!" Cappy remarked, and rubbed his hands together in pleased anticipation. "I dare say this is from Mr. Murphy."
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