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Updated: May 5, 2025
You let that wood alone, or you'll pick it up again!" Perdosa sprang at him with a screech. Pulz was small but nimble, and understood rough and tumble fighting. He met Perdosa's rush with two swift blows a short arm jab and an upper-cut. Then they clinched, and in a moment were rolling over and over just beyond the wash of the surf. The row waked the Nigger from his sullen abstraction.
I stood stock still for a moment, during which the only sounds audible were the singing of the winds through the rigging, the wash of the sea, and the small, sharp click of Perdosa's instrument as he worked at the chest. Presently I could see better.
For some unknown reason all my old apprehensions, my sense of impending disaster, had returned to me strengthened. In the firelight the Nigger's sullen face looked sinister, Pulz's nervous white countenance looked vicious. Thrackles' heavy, bulldog expression was threatening, Perdosa's Mexican cast fit for knife work in the back.
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