Law of a land with
rivers of gold and mountains of silver, the sum of its wealth astounding
the world.
What's to be done about it?
Nothing.
Better drag a dozen helpless Samanthy Norths from their homes, their
suckling babes in their arms, and any number of gray-haired old men from
their cabins, than waive one jot or tittle of so just a code; and
lose--the tax on whiskey.
CAP'N BOB OF THE SCREAMER
Captain Bob Brandt dropped in to-day, looking brown and ruddy, and
filling my office with, a breeze and freshness that seemed to have
followed him all the way in from the sea.
"Just in, Captain?" I cried, springing to my feet, my fingers closing
round his--no more welcome visitor than Captain Bob ever pushes open my
office door.
"Yes--Teutonic."
"Where did you pick her up--Fire Island?"
"No; 'bout hundred miles off Montauk."
Captain Bob has been a Sandy Hook pilot for some years back.
"How was the weather?" I had a chair ready for him now and was lifting
the lid of my desk in search of a box of cigars.
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