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"Jist oder side of de bluff. Ver' close to de bushes. Queek! queek! vite! mon garcon, you is so drefful slow." The latter part of this sentence was addressed to Hawkswing, who was quietly putting on his wolf-skin. Although too slow for the hasty spirit of Gibault, the Indian was quick enough for all useful purposes.
Bateese was no longer grinning. He stood back and pointed at the food. "You eat queek. An' when you have finish' I tell you somet'ing!" Now that he saw the luscious bit of whitefish before him, Carrigan was possessed of the hungering emptiness of three days and nights. As he ate, he observed that Bateese was performing curious duties.
Much sailing in all weathers in the keen air of the northern lakes had ruined Captain McTavish's voice, which, at best, had never been intended for any part but a high soprano. And now it was almost inaudible with anger. It ill became the dignity of a sea captain to be thus publicly berated in the presence of his passengers. "If ye'd whisht ye're noise," he screamed, "I'd be movin' queek enough.
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