"Yes, sir," said McClintock, as he sat down; "that's South Sea stuff, that yarn of yours. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage.
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