Under the Big Dipper

down in your nice little cottage at Bournemouth, draw your pension, trim your apple trees, read your old friend Marryat, chat with Mrs. Pollard and curse the Liberal Party; and I—I could write my memoirs, raise tulips and roses and blooded sheep, sneer at the Radicals and Progressives, and criticize the weak policy of the Hapsburgs! What fun we could have, Hein?”

“Your Excellency, I guess we both do what we believe to be our duty. Neither of us is good at idling, I think, and our work is our life. Some day I might do as you say—but I hope that day is a long way off,” with a merry chuckle.

A crunching sound against the ship’s side and the pilot’s dingy pulled by two powerful negroes had come alongside. With the pilot two other figures were visible in the dim light. The nimble, old, beturbaned Arab pilot, with broad red sash around his ample waist, swung himself aboard, the two men following him.

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