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Updated: June 24, 2025
You're lookin' better'n we expected, and I tell you Hunston's mighty glad to see you up and about again." Varney marveled how he had ever formed such a mean opinion of the clerk, whom he now saw to be a decidedly likable young man. "Thank you thank you! It's a wonderful little city Hunston wonderful! Try a few of these cigars that's right; fill your pocket.
"Why, they'd as lief draw a cutlass over his weasand, as they'd smash a ship's biscuit." Hunston's pale face grew crimson at these words. "That's good," he said; "they're men of spirit." "That they are." "And the rest of the crew; what do they say of it?" "Why, they are all up about it; all to a man. So if you have a good thing to offer, I'll undertake to say as they'll volunteer to a man."
He dexterously dodged the blow, and whirling round secured a hold upon Hunston's collar that peculiar grip which is the specialty of men who have been in the force. Hunston struggled desperately to get free. In vain. Do what he would, he found himself being trotted along to save himself from strangulation. Not only was it physically painful.
Little did he think that the doctor's words were meant to produce the exact effect which they had. The doctor's speech sank deeply into Hunston's mind, and he brooded day and night. But although it did not affect his health, it certainly had a most unwholesome effect upon his mind, and the result of this soon made itself manifest. That same afternoon the two boys and their tutor were on deck.
Having primed Joe Basalt up in his lesson, they marched off to Hunston's cabin, and Joe entered, while Harkaway, Dick Harvey, and Jefferson took up a position near where they could overhear what was going on within. "Well, shipmate," said Basalt, "how goes it?" Hunston was lying on his side, holding a damp towel to his damaged eye. He only turned round, and grunted some few ungracious words.
"Let us fix a sum on them," said Toro, "so that their parents and friends may release them if they wish." This was approved of by one and all of his hearers. There was only a single dissentient voice. This was Hunston's. "If you attempt to temporise," he said, "you will be beaten, for sure." "Why?" "Beaten by whom?" "Harkaway." "Bah!" "Such is my experience of him," returned Hunston.
The face, too, with the deathly hue of the grave upon it. It was young Jack's face, but looking to Hunston's frightened eyes pale as death. Hunston stared; his optics dilated and appeared ready to start from their sockets. He gasped, made an effort to articulate, and then his senses forsook him, and he became unconscious. An explanation of the foregoing is scarcely necessary, we believe.
He threw his stick into the woods and slunk away, toward the town. A loud yell from behind brought his heart to his throat, and he broke into a wild, lumbering run. In the new-made study of his Remsen road cottage, Ferris Stanhope, Hunston's returned celebrity, sat under a green-shaded lamp and frowned down at a sheaf of his own neat manuscript.
The work of the dead Robert Emmerson remained as before, an inscrutable mystery. It remained the silent executor of its creator's vengeance. Slowly, yet surely fulfilling the blood-stained legend on the steel arm. Hunston's infirmity had told in many ways. He had sunk to be a mere nonentity in the band.
She had a will: for it was she who had baited J. Pinkney Hare with sociology and politics to abandon the law in New York, at which he was doing rather well, and follow her to Hunston. This was when her husband, a member of Hunston's oldest family for there was aristocracy in the town had left her widowed the year of their marriage.
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