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still in London, I send this in double to both places. The ship is
bought and fitted. She lies at anchor, ready for sea. You never
imagined a sweeter schooner--a child might sail her--two hundred
tons; name,
Hispaniola. I got her through my old friend, Blandly,
who has proved himself throughout the most surprising trump. The
admirable fellow literally slaved in my interest, and so, I may say,
did everyone in Bristol, as soon as they got wind of the port we sailed
for--treasure, I mean.

“Redruth,” said I, interrupting the letter, “Dr. Livesey will not
like that. The squire has been talking, after all.”

“Well, who’s a better right?” growled the gamekeeper. “A
pretty rum go if squire ain’t to talk for Dr. Livesey, I should think.”

At that I gave up all attempts at commentary and read straight

Blandly himself found the Hispaniola, and by the most admirable
management got her for the merest trifle. There is a class of men in
Bristol monstrously prejudiced against Blandly. They go the length of
declaring that this honest creature would do anything for money,
that the
Hispaniola belonged to him, and that he sold it me absurdly
high--the most transparent calumnies. None of them dare, however,
to deny the merits of the ship.

So far there was not a hitch. The workpeople, to be sure--riggers
and what not--were most annoyingly slow; but time cured that. It was
the crew that troubled me.

I wished a round score of men--in case of natives, buccaneers, or
the odious French--and I had the worry of the deuce itself to find so
much as half a dozen, till the most remarkable stroke of fortune

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