CHAPTER XXI. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. "Captain," he cried, in a voice of the bitterest anguish, "have these dogs again hunted you down? If you hadn't been so unlucky, I should have been with you before to-morrow night. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. " "Try the cellar, Captain," said Blueskin, stamping upon a large board in the ground.
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