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Updated: May 11, 2025
Human beings, for him, were either the objects of scandalous gossip or else recipients of narrow strips of paper, with proper bill-heads stating the name of his hotel "W. Schomberg, proprietor, accounts settled weekly." So in the clean-shaven, extremely thin face hanging over the mail-boat's rail Schomberg saw only the face of a possible "account."
"'Twas like the mail-boat's whistle, zur," he answered, "but 'twas sort o' hoarser." "Why, lad," said the skipper, "the mail-boat's not handy by two hundred miles! 'Twas but the wind." But he scratched his head in a puzzled way. "Ay, maybe, zur," Jacky replied, still alert for a sound from the sea, "but 'twas not like the wind." Skipper Tommy held up his hand.
For there, awaiting him, stood Lieutenant Tibbetts in the glory of his raiment helmet sparkling white, steel hilt of sword a-glitter, khaki uniform, spotless and well-fitting. "Everything is all right, sir," said Bones, saluting, and Hamilton thought he detected a gruffer and more robust note in the tone. "Mail-boat's just in, sir," Bones went on with unusual fierceness.
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