Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. Why ain’t you gorn? Seems to me I had ought to arrest you. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire.
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