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Scott, Michael, 1789-1835

"Tom Cringle's Log"

The very best butter I
have ever eaten out of Ireland--now, some of that avocado pear--and as
for biscuit, Leman never came up to it. I say, man,--hillo, where are
you?--rouse ye out of your brown study, man."
"Did you hear that, Mr Cringle?"
"Hear what?--I heard nothing," rejoined I; "but hand me over that land
crab.--Thank you, and you may send the spawl of that creeping thing
along with it; that guana. I had a dislike to eating a lizard at first,
but I have got over it somehow;--and a slice of ham, a small taste of
the unclean beast, Obed--peach--fed, I'll warrant."
There was a pause. The report of a great gun came booming along,
reverberated from side to side of the lagoon, the echoes growing shorter
and shorter, and weaker and weaker, until they growled themselves asleep
in a hollow rumble like distant thunder.
"Ha, ha! Dick Casket for a thousand! Old Blowhard has stuck in your
skirts, Master Obed--but Lord help me, man! let us finish our breakfast;
he won't be here this half hour."
I expected to see mine host's forehead lowering like a thunder cloud
from my ill--timed funning; but to my surprise, his countenance
exhibited more amenity than I thought had been in the nature of the
beast, as he replied,--
"Why, lieutenant, the felucca put to sea last night, to keep a bright
look--out at the mouth of our cove here. I suppose that is him
overhauling some vessel."
"It may be so;--hush! there's another gun--Two!"
Obed changed countenance at the double report.


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