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Barney Blake, The Boy Privateer

Barney Blake, The Boy Privateer

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Chapter 1 I'm the son of a sea-cook, was weaned on salt water, reared on sea-biscuit, and am thirsty for prize-money.

Word Count: 1224    |    Released on: 06/12/2017

fat fist. "Boatswain, enter him on the books as Barney Blake, son of a sea-cook; give him a cutlass and two pistols,

left him, was anything but in acc

ony, encouragingly, as we a

e entire forecastle. His words, upon this occasion

on for three year. All I got ter say is, treat him well, or some o' yer'll git a eye so black yer own mother won't know yer, unless she's a black woman with a sore head: for he's as lively on his pi

gusto with which it was received by my future messmates rendered it poor p

ered one hundred and twenty-five men, all told, and were a

ck) and half a score of Irishmen. Each one was a character, but to describe each separately, and do him justice, would alone requ

gh a trumpet, and brave as steel. Next in importance to these worthies was, perhaps, Dicky Drake, the butt of the whole crew. He was a green chap from somewhere dow

e Virginia swamps, who went by the name of Snollygoster. I verily believe he was

e was said to have felled an ox by a single blow of his fist. He was as good-humored a fellow as ever lived, and stood any amount of practical joking. The queerest inconsistency in his character was his peaceable disposition. Although no one could accuse him of downright cowardice, he was as timid as a hare and would go a long way out

to another of the crew. This was a boy, and a very pretty little fellow to boot, named Willie Warner. They had both shipped at Philadelphia, and there was a thread of mystery between them, which was quite incomprehensible. They would associate together almost entirely, and would frequently c

de that old fellow's jaw was somewhat marvelous. He was a regular old spool, and had only to open his mouth to let out the longest and wildest lies on record, this or the other side of the Equator. Many a night, I can tell you, did we sit, gaping, round

hese descriptions, or ou

shall be all ready for the story, with royals spread, ri

ick and thin. He was a Scotchman-one of your low-browed, lantern-jawed, gaunt-boned, mean-livered Scotchmen-a regular Sawney all over, from the top of his red head to the sole of his bunioned feet. He h

t at Portland, masted at Bangor, and rigged at Boston, with an armament the best that money could procure. She was also a ver

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