That night she found a ship bound to sail for the heathen nation called America. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. When he begins to notice things, I want you to trap his interest, to amuse him, keep his thoughts from reverting to his misfortunes.
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