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Calls at once began for well-known orators at the bar and upon the hustings. "Ewing," "Fifer," "Rowell," "Prince," "Lillard," "Phillips," "Kerrick," "Weldon," were heard from the crowd in rapid succession. It was like "calling spirits from the vasty deep."
Kerrick; "he was assistant master at a private school in Scotland, but it had to be given up when when things changed; so many of the boys left the country. He came out to an uncle who has a small estate eight miles from here, and three days in the week he rides over to teach my boys, and three days he goes to another family living in the opposite direction. To- day he is due to come here.
"There is no harm in going to look at the animal," he said. Mrs. Kerrick sat at a little teak-wood table in the verandah of a low- pitched teak-built house that stood on the steep slope of a brown hillside.
You are mistaking me for someone else." "Sorry," Ogilvy murmured. "My mistake! Thought you were Bill Kerrick, who used to be a partner of mine. I'm expecting him on this boat, and he's the speaking image of you." Bryce nodded and passed on, hailed a taxicab, and was driven to the San Francisco office of his company. Five minutes later the door opened and Buck Ogilvy entered.
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