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Every hour that I was not in school, found me down at the wharves watching the loading and the unloading, listening to the talk of sailormen and the rousing chanteys.
CAPTAIN SERENO ARMSTRONG
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“Weel, young lad, an’ what might ye be after?”
The voice of the man at the drafting table brought me back with a start. A flavor of the hielands hung about his speech, like a smell of heather blown across a moor. I saw a stocky man, ruddy colored, with thick, black hair growing after its own impulse. His mouth was firm, even stern; his eyes direct and piercing; his chin square and deep-cleft.
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