“There’s one thing certain,” said my uncle, Naboth Perkins, banging his fist on the table for emphasis. “If we don’t manage get a cargo in ten days we’ll up anchor an’ quit this bloomin’ island.” My father the skipper, leaning back in his easy-chair with his legs—one of them cork—stretched upon the table and his pipe in his mouth, nodded assent as he replied:…
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