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Updated: May 17, 2025
You've nigh stove me all up." "I am sorry, Mr. Salters. I came to sea on account of nervous dyspepsia. You advised me, I think." "You an' your nervis dyspepsy be drowned in the Whale-hole," roared Uncle Salters, a fat and tubby little man. "You're comin' down on me agin. Did ye say forty-two or forty-five?" "I've forgotten, Mr. Salters. Let's count." "Don't see as it could be forty-five.
Dad's deeper'n the Whale-hole." Even as he spoke some one fired a pistol on the We're Here, and a potato-basket was run up in the fore-rigging. "What did I say, naow? That's the call fer the whole crowd. Dad's onter something, er he'd never break fishin' this time o' day. Reel up, Harve, an' we'll pull back."
A few days later he was out with Manuel on what should have been forty-fathom bottom, but the whole length of the roding ran out, and still the anchor found nothing, and Harvey grew mortally afraid, for that his last touch with earth was lost. "Whale-hole," said Manuel, hauling in. "That is good joke on Disko.
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