He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. White men and natives dealt conveniently at Copeley's. "Captain," he cried, in a voice of the bitterest anguish, "have these dogs again hunted you down? If you hadn't been so unlucky, I should have been with you before to-morrow night. Purney's hand-writing," said Jack, advancing, "and can at once decide whether this is a forgery or not.
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