Commodore Junk — page 81: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

14 COMMODORE JUNK. ““Mary’s too clever,” he whispered back. ‘She’s well hidden, and will not stir.” “Tf that Irish beast raises his musket I must go at him,” whispered Abel, who was trembling from head to foot. “Hold up, man, She heer’d every word, and won't stir.” ‘Silence, there. No talking!” cried the overseer. ‘Let the poor divils taik, sor,” said the soldier. ‘ Faix, it’s bad enough to put chains on their legs ; don’t put anny on their tongues,” “Tf I get you down,” thought Abel, “I won’t kill you, for that.” “ Against orders,” said the overseer, good-humouredly, ‘Well, can you see anything stirring?” “‘ Not yet, sor; but I hope I shall. Bedad, I’d be glad of a bit o’ sport, for it’s dhry work always carrying a gun about widout having a shot.” “Yes; but when you do get a shot, it’s at big game, Dinny.” ‘“Yis, sor, but then it’s very seldom,” said the sentry, with a roguish twinkle of the eye. “T can’t bear this much longer, Bart,” whispered Abel. ‘When I say Vow / rush at them both with your hoe.” ‘Wait till he’s going to shoot, then,” growled Bart. The overseer bent down, and, sheltering himself beneath the tree, placed his hands out in the sunshine, one holding a roughly rolled cigar, the other a burning-glass, with which he soon focussed the vivid white spot of heat which made the end of the cigar begin to smoke, the tiny spark being drawn into incandescence by application to the man’s lips, while the pleasant odour of the burning leaf arose. ‘Sure, an’ that’s an illigant way of getting a light, sor,” said the sentry. Gomichbooksnco