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Scott, Michael, 1789-1835

"Tom Cringle's Log"


"My God," said he, "I have broken my tooth with that confounded hard
biscuit--terrible--really: ah!"--and he screwed up his face, as if he
had been eating sourcrout, or had heard of the death of a dear friend.
"Poo," quoth Aaron, "any comb maker will furnish you forth as good as
new; those grinders you brag of are not your own, Gelid, you know that."
"Indeed, Aaron, my dear, I know nothing of the kind; but this I know,
that I have broken a most lovely white front tooth, ah!"
"Oh, you be hanged," said Aaron; "why, you have been bechopped any time
these ten years, I know."
The time wore on, and it might have been half past seven when we went on
deck.
It was a very dark night--Tailtackle had the watch. "Any thing in
sight, Mr Tailtackle?"
"Why, no, sir; but I have just asked your steward for your night glass,
as, once or twice--but it is so thick--Pray, sir, how far are we off the
Hole in the Wall?"
"Why, sixty miles at the least."
The Hole in the Wall is a very remarkable rock in the Crooked Island
Passage, greatly resembling, as the name betokens, a wall breached by
the sea, or by battering cannon, which rises abruptly out of the water,
to a height of forty feet.
"Then," quoth Tailtackle sharply, "there must be a sail close aboard of
us, to windward there."
"Where?" said I. "Quick, send for my night--glass."
"I have it here in my hand, sir."
"Let me see"--and I peered through it until my eyes ached again.


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