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In a few moments Mascola had located the flag-ship and the Fuor d'Italia lay snorting angrily by the Richard's side. "I want to see the boss," demanded the Italian. Gregory leaned over the rail and focused his flash-light on Mascola. "What do you want?" he called. Mascola blinked under the bright rays. Seated beside him was another man who leaned closer into the shadow of the fishing-boat.
When Bandrist and Mascola reached the Fuor d'Italia, the Italian kicked the dory adrift as the two men climbed aboard. "Pull the hook," he cried, "while I start the motor." "No," Bandrist whispered. "You'd be a fool to do that. The cave was filled with revenue men. That means there's a cutter lying in around here somewhere. Perhaps at the goose-neck. She would spot you in a minute with her search.
e qui fu la mia mente sì ristretta dentro da sè, che di fuor non venia cosa che fosse allor da lei recetta." Certainly, in those moments of exaltation that art can give, it is easy to believe that we have been possessed by an emotion that comes from the world of reality.
The gray linoleum was dyed red with his blood. As she watched him, his extended fingers twitched convulsively. He was still breathing. But that was all. Seizing the rail of the Fuor d'Italia she began to work the Richard around the hull of the other craft. She dared not start the motor. The propeller might cut the men in the water to shreds.
Michelangelo is always pressing forward from the outward beauty il bel del fuor che agli occhi piace to apprehend the unseen beauty; trascenda nella forma universale that abstract form of beauty, about which the Platonists reason.
Above the roar of his own exhaust he heard his name called in a peremptory hail. The hot blood surged to his face and he stepped on the throttle. He had no time to talk. He must spot the position of the cannery boats and give his men instructions how to break through. The Fuor d'Italia bounded away with a sullen roar.
Jerking his body backward, he lunged downward into the sea, dragging his antagonist with him. As Gregory and Mascola fell to the water, Dickie Lang drew her automatic and covering the cockpit of the Fuor d'Italia with her flash-light, peered cautiously over the rail. Upon the floor of the launch sprawled the figure of a man. His face was turned away from her.
When the Bennington entered Crescent Bay followed by the Richard towing the Fuor d'Italia, excitement was rife at Legonia. And as the boats came to anchor off the Golden Rule Cannery a large crowd of curious village-folk collected on the dock. The consensus of opinion, in Silvanus Rock's absence, was expressed by the local postmaster.
Without doubt he had him covered with his revolver. Fuming with impotent rage, the Italian growled: "Well, you're the boss. It's up to you." As he struggled to his feet he made up his mind to get square with the islander. Again resuming his oars, he rowed steadily until Bandrist gave the order to start the motor. The Fuor d'Italia leaped forward and the cool sea air fanned Mascola's flaming face.
Flattening his body against the slimy fish, Gregory wriggled foot by foot in the direction of the big rock which sheltered Mascola. The game was up. Bandrist emptied his revolver in the direction of the advancing deputies and drew cautiously away from Mascola. The Fuor d'Italia lay at anchor in the cove beyond the goose-neck.
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