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Updated: May 26, 2025
"I'm Wilyum Stryker, Capt'n Stryker, marster and 'arf-owner of this wessel, and wot I says 'ere is law. We don't carry no passengers. D'ye understand me?" aggressively. "There ain't no pusson nymed Calendar aboard the Allytheer, an' never was, an' never will be!" "What name did you say?" Kirkwood inquired. "This ship?
Bishop Wilyum Doane hath an abiding place at Albany, N. Y., a village on the Hudson where the peons of the political bosses most do congregate to leg for bribes. In his recent annual address to the clergy the Bish. lamented bitterly that the American "jingo" was provoking dear patient Christian England to put on her war-paint. "The English press," quoth he, "has been most patient."
My nyme's Stryker, Capt'n Wilyum Stryker.... Wot's the row? Lookin' for a friend?" he demanded suddenly, as Kirkwood's attention wandered. For the memory of the errand that had brought him into the hands of Captain William Stryker had come to the young man very suddenly; and his eager eyes were swiftly roving not along the decks but the wide world besides, for sight or sign of his heart's desire.
"WILYUM!.....Wilyum!.....WILYUM!" It was mine host of the Ferry Inn at Cook-ham who was calling, and at the top of his voice and a big-chested voice it was the sound leaping into crescendo as the object of his search remained hidden. Then he turned to me: "He's somewheres 'round the boat house you can't miss him there's too much of him!"
"There's no hope, I suppose?" The elder waterman shook his head. "'Carn't sye.... Might be round nex' bend might be passin' Purfleet.... 'Point is me an' young Wilyum 'ere carn't do no more 'n we 'as. We be wore out." "Yes," Kirkwood assented, disconsolate, "You've certainly earned your pay." Then hope revived; he was very young in heart, you know. "Can't you suggest something?
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