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Updated: June 8, 2025
As Lydia's attention wavered, "Oh, there's not a particle of use in trying to make out what they're saying. They just go on and on." Rankin was addressing himself to the doctor's back. "I don't, you know, see anything wicked in making a lot of chairs by machinery instead of a few by hand. I'm no handcraft faddist.
And so Jack Curtiss, Bill Bender and Hank Handcraft vanish for a time from the ken of the Boy Scouts, leaving behind them no regrets, except it be those of their parents who were for many months bowed down with the grief and humiliation of their boys' misdoings. "Ta-ra-ta-ra-ta! Ta-ra-ta-ra-ta! Ta-ra-ta-rata! Ta-ra-ta-a-a!"
"I remember now I heard some time ago that he was thick with that Hank Handcraft." "I don't know what ter do about it at this time uv ther night," went on the distressed captain, "an' I can't go round waking folks up ter get another boat." "Of course not," agreed Rob. "There's only one thing for you to do, captain, and that is to put up here to-night, and in the morning we'll see what we can do."
"Why, old Hank Handcraft come out in that crazy launch uv his and guv it ter me," rejoined the captain. "I ought ter hev told yer that in the first place, but I was all took aback and canvas a-shiver when yer tole me yer never wrote it." "Hank Handcraft," repeated Rob. "He's that queer old fellow that lives in a hut away down the beach?" "Yes, and a bad character, too," replied the captain.
As they hastened along, Rob explained to the others in more detail the nature of their mission, but though they were as much mystified by the sudden summons of Captain Hudgins as Rob and the captain himself, they could hit upon no plausible explanation for it. It was a little over half an hour before they reached the dilapidated hut where old Handcraft, a beach-comber, made his dwelling place.
What I mean is that we are liable to get into serious trouble if we keep on this way. I saw Hank Handcraft the other day, and I can tell you he's in no very amiable mood. He wants his money for the other night, he says, and he intimated that if he didn't get it he'd make things hot for us." "He'd better not," glowered Bill Bender, looking up from his paper.
In the meantime on a small island in the Upper Inlet a strange conference was taking place. Three youths whom our readers will recognize as Jack Curtiss, Bill Bender and Sam Redding; were in earnest consultation with the unkempt and unsavory individual whom we know as Hank Handcraft, the beach-comber.
Heard was not in the Russian mood. He would take what he called "a day off" from social duties. Slipping his field glasses into his pocket, he rambled upwards by now familiar paths, past white farmhouses nestling in a riot of greenery; till he reached the barer regions. The vines were more sparsely cultivated here, and soon all trace of human handcraft was at an end.
Perhaps instead of smiling contemptuously we should take a moral to heart. The amount of time, money, eyesight and handcraft expended among ourselves on letter writing so-called is simply appalling. Was it not Napoleon who said that all letters if left unanswered for a month answered themselves?
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