‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. Marine Insurance.
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