"Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. This year—I’ve got it badly. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. " He paused, and not without malice. “Both.
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