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Updated: June 16, 2025
What'll it be? Name it an' he'll fetch it." So immediately and variously did the passengers respond that every article was called for. "Just one of you choose," the steward advised. "The rest of you pick 'm out." "Slipper," said Captain Duncan, selected by acclamation. "One or both?" Daughtry asked. "Both."
Cooky replied, in tones so like Daughtry's as to startle him. "You son of a gun," Daughtry repeated, cuddling his cheek and ear against the cockatoo's feathered and crested head. "And some folks thinks it's only folks that count in this world." Still the whale delayed, and, with the ocean washing their toes on the level deck, Daughtry ordered the boat lowered away.
Jackson," the captain ordered, his voice already stronger as he recovered from the shock of his collision with the helmsman. "Keep right on sounding. Here she comes again, and the schooner ain't built that'd stand such hammering." By this time Daughtry had Michael tucked under one arm, his free arm ready to anticipate the next crash by swinging on to the rigging.
Give me the dog, and I'll say no more about the cat." "Seein' you believe what you believe, then you'd be for compoundin' the felony," Daughtry retorted, the habitual obstinate tightening of his brows showing which way his will set.
No first-class ship's steward can exist without possessing a more than average measure of executive ability. Dag Daughtry was a first-class ship's steward.
Placing a savoury, nose- tantalising bit of meat or cheese on the edge of the bunk on a level with Michael's nose, Daughtry would simply say, "No can." Nor would Michael touch the food till he received the welcome, "Can do."
But I want reason all hands can see. I want him make me smash him, so that all hands say, 'Hurrah, Captain, you done right. Then you get the job, Daughtry."
Again, in the course of turning to look at Kwaque, his eyes rested an instant on the lion-lines of Daughtry's brow. "Rheumatism is still the great mystery," Doctor Emory said, returning to Daughtry as if deflected by the thought. "It's almost individual, there are so many varieties of it. Each man has a kind of his own. Any numbness?" Daughtry laboriously wiggled his little finger.
Dag Daughtry drank a seventh quart as he listened, so carried away was he by the sombre sense of romance of this dark jungle event wherein men killed even strangers because a pig was dead.
But, remembering his own affliction, he released the old man so abruptly as to drop him violently into the chair. "My word, sir," said Daughtry. "You must 'a' ben havin' a time of it. Here, you fella Kwaque, this fella wringin' wet. You fella take 'm off shoe stop along him."
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